The Way of the Strong
- -
- 100%
- +
The first part of his journey was quite uneventful. But at the first important town at which the train stopped several passengers boarded the car. Among them was a man with closely trimmed iron gray hair, and quick, searching eyes that closely scanned the faces of each person in the car.
His stare was not wholly rude. It was the searching glance of a man who is accustomed to studying his fellows, who never fails to do so at any opportunity. He took a corner seat just across the aisle of the car, and on the level immediately in front of Frank. He sat turned so that the whole view of the car came within his focus. Nor was it a matter of more than moments before Frank's cropped head came under his observation.
Frank felt that this was so, although he was studiously intent upon his paper, and, as the fixed contemplation remained, he chafed under it. For some time he endured it, hoping that, the man's curiosity satisfied, he would turn away. But nothing of the sort happened. The stranger's interest became riveted.
Frank felt himself grow hot with resentment. He determined to put an end to it by the simple process of staring the man out of countenance. To this end he looked up sharply, and with anything but a friendly expression in his cold eyes. As their eyes met there was something like a deliberate challenge in the exchange. The man made no attempt to withdraw his gaze, and Frank found himself looking into a clean-shaven, keen, determined face, lit by a pair of hard, satirical eyes.
Promptly the position became more than intolerable, and Frank was driven to a very natural verbal protest. He sprang from his seat and crossed the aisle. Leaning across the back of the stranger's seat he voiced his annoyance deliberately and coldly.
"It seems to me you'll probably know me when you see me again," he said, with angry sarcasm.
The stranger smiled amiably.
"Just depends when I meet you," he retorted, with a meaning glance at the close-cropped hair displayed under the brim of Frank's hat.
A sudden anger lit the boy's eyes at the taunt, and a violent protest leaped to his lips. But the stranger anticipated him.
"Say," he drawled, "sit right down – here. I wasn't meaning offence. What got me looking was you're so like – an old friend of mine. You brought the other on yourself. Won't you sit – right down?"
The stranger's manner was so disarmingly cordial that Frank's heat began to die down. Still, he had no intention of accepting the invitation.
"Maybe you didn't intend rudeness, but that isn't the point," he said deliberately. "I'm not the man to stand rudeness from – anybody."
"Sure," said the other calmly. "Guess that's how we all feel. Say, it's the queerest thing. Guess you're 'bout twenty or so. Just about his age. You're the dead image of – my friend, when he was your age. You got blue eyes and his were gray. It's the only spark of difference. Going up Toronto way?"
Frank nodded. He somehow felt he could do no less, without returning in cold silence to his seat. Somehow he felt that to do so would be churlish, in spite of the fact that he was the aggrieved.
The keen-eyed stranger recognized his advantage in obtaining the admission, and promptly followed it up. He indicated the seat beside him and persisted in his invitation.
"Best sit," he said, with a pleasant smile. "It's quite a long piece to Toronto. I'd a heap like to yarn with you."
The stranger was altogether too much for the simplicity of the other. Besides, there was nothing but amiability in his manner. Perhaps after all he had been hasty, Frank thought. He was so sensitive about the brand of the prison he carried about with him. The shame of it was always with him. Anyway, it could not hurt talking to this man, and it would help pass the time. He allowed himself to be persuaded, and half reluctantly dropped into the seat.
"Say, that's friendly," commented the stranger, with a sharp, sidelong glance at Frank's strong profile. "There's just one thing I got set against this country. It's a hell of a ways between cities. Maybe you don't get that across in England."
"I've never been in England," Frank admitted.
"Ah. Maybe States?"
Frank nodded. And the man laughed.
"The land of Freedom, Graft and Finance."
"Yes, it's an odd mixture," agreed Frank. "It's also a land of slavery. A queer contradiction, but nevertheless true. Three parts of the people are held in bondage to the other fourth, who represent Capital."
The stranger stirred and settled himself. He gazed keenly into his companion's face.
"Guess you were one of the 'three parts,' and found the fourth – oppressive."
Frank shifted his position uneasily. Then with a sudden curious abandonment he spread his hands out.
"Say," he cried, his cheeks flushing, "I don't know what makes me talk to you – a stranger. You're the first man who has wanted to speak to me since – I came out. I know you've spotted my cropped head, so what's the use of trying to deny it. Yes, I've found it, I suppose. But not in the States. Just right here in Canada, where things are much the same. I've just come out of Alston Penitentiary. I was sentenced wrongfully to five years, and now, at the end of one of them they've found out my innocence, and given me a free pardon – for not being guilty."
"A free pardon?" The stranger's eyes were reading his companion through and through.
"Yes, a free pardon for an offence I never committed," Frank went on, with bitter indignation. "It doesn't matter how or where it happened. But the whole thing was worked. I mean my trial, by a man of – well, one of the millionaire class – one of the other 'fourth.' Perhaps you'll understand now why I hated you staring at me."
The stranger nodded sympathetically.
"Guess I'm real sorry," he said.
Frank shook his head.
"It doesn't matter – now. It's done me good to tell – somebody. See." He drew out his prison discharge and showed it to his companion, who read it over carefully. "You don't need to take my word. That'll tell you all you need to know."
The other looked up.
"Frank Smith?" he said.
"Frank Burton's my name. I used the other so as to keep it from folks I didn't want to know about it."
"I see." The stranger was studying the clean cut of the ingenuous face beside him. "And now they'll know – I s'pose?"
"They've found out for themselves." The youngster's blue eyes were shadowed in gloom.
"Ah!" The other glanced out of the window a moment. "And – what are you going to do? Go back to – 'em?"
The gloomy blue eyes were turned away. Frank was staring introspectively down the aisle of the car.
"No," he said at last. "I'm not going back to them." Then he sat up and looked at his companion earnestly. "To go back would mean to become one of the other 'fourth.' The ranks of the submerged three-quarters is my future. I've learned a lot in the last twelve months. Say, have you ever been inside a prison."
The stranger's sharp eyes lit with a brief smile. It was not a really pleasant face with its narrow eyes; nor was it a pleasant smile. He shook his head.
"I've seen 'em – from the outside. I'm not yearning to get a peek inside."
Frank looked disappointed.
"It's a pity," he said. "You see, you won't understand just how I see things. Do you know, the prisons are just full to overflowing with folks who'd be free to-day – if it weren't for the existence of that other 'fourth'? Oh, I don't mean they've been deliberately put away by the wealthy folk. I'm just learning that one of the greatest causes of all crime, is that, under present conditions, there isn't enough to go round."
The stranger's smile had become more encouraging.
"And the cure for it is – Socialism, eh?"
Frank started. Then he nodded.
"I suppose that's what folks would call it. I call it Brotherhood and Equality."
"Go a step further," said the other. "It's that 'fourth,' we are talking about, who get rich and live on the efforts of the worker whom they sweat and crush into the very ground over which their automobiles roll. Put it in plain words, man. It is the worker, the poor wretch that just manages to scrape existence by grinding toil, who feeds the rich and makes possible the degrading luxury of their lives. And when the first hope of youth gets swamped by the grind of their labors, and they see their equally wretched wives and hungry children going without the barest necessities of life, and before them lies nothing but the dreary road of incessant toil, with no earthly chance of bettering themselves, then they grow desperate, and help to fill those hells of despair we call penitentiaries. That's what you've realized in prison."
Frank stared at the man. The force of his manner was such as to carry absolute conviction of his personal feelings upon this matter, feelings which also lay so deep in the heart of the ex-convict. He wondered at the strange chance which had brought him into contact with a man who shared these new feelings and beliefs of his. Could it be – ?
"You believe that way, too?" he asked eagerly.
At that moment a waiter from the dining-car entered the coach.
"First call for dinner! First call for dinner!" He passed down the car issuing his invitation in high, nasal tones.
The stranger fumbled in his waistcoat pockets, and, as the waiter passed, he produced his card, and held it out toward his companion.
"Say," he observed, lapsing once more into his more genial manner. "Guess you'll be yearning for a billet when you get along to Toronto. Just keep that by you, and when you're needing one, come and look me up. We're always needing recruits for our work. I'll take it kindly if you'll eat with me right now."
Frank took the card and read the name on it —
MR. AUSTIN LEYBURN,2012 Mordaunt Avenue, Toronto, OntPresident of the Agricultural Helpers' Society of CanadaGen. Sec. Bonded RailroadersAsst. – Gen. Sec. Associated Freighters' CombineCHAPTER V
A YOUNG GIRL'S PURPOSE
With her determined little chin thrust into the palm of her hand, and her elbow propped upon the window ledge of the railroad car, Phyllis made a delightful picture of country simplicity. She was dressed in a plain gown of some soft, dark blue material, and flung back from her shoulders was a heavy, plaid-lined cape, a garment she had borrowed for the journey. On the seat in front of her was a well-worn suit case of cheap compressed cane. It had evidently seen much service, though such service could hardly have been given in the city world toward which she was speeding. Reposing on top of this was her black felt hat. Here, again, her western farm upbringing was evidenced. It was a mixture, contrived out of a man's prairie hat into something of that modern product affected by young girls, beneath which its wearer reveals little but nose and chin. It was Phyllis's "best," and she rather liked it.
But she was quite unconscious of the country brand she bore. She was at all times unconscious of herself, in spite of her youth. Yet she attracted a good deal of notice among her fellow-passengers.
A commercial drummer had vainly striven for hours to attract her attention, his florid face set ready at a moment's notice to wreath itself into an engaging smile, should she chance to glance in his direction.
Then, too, a youth, in the company of an elderly female relative, had gone through a severe process of neck wringing, several seats in front of her, in the vain hope that her interest in the absurd fields of wheat through which they were passing might abate in his favor.
Besides these it was a curious fact that this particular car demanded so much attention from the train crew. One official bore down on her, and, with unusual courtesy, asked her if he should open a window near her to cool the air. Having achieved his purpose of receiving smiling thanks, he added a few remarks, passed on, and another came along and threatened pleasantly to close it, as he was sure she was in a draught. A third brought her a pillow and refused to take money for it, the significance of which left her wholly unconscious.
But the guard. Well, the guard seemed to have nothing in the world to do but examine her ticket. The railroad officials certainly did their very best for her.
Through it all, the girl's whole interest seemed to lay in the wonderful cloth of gold spread over the world through which they were passing. That and its trimmings in the shape of farm houses, small settlements, townships just starting, verdant bluffs and gleaming rivers, all of which glided swiftly by, a delightful panorama before her wondering eyes, as the transcontinental mail swept across the prairie lands upon its east-bound journey.
It was all fresh to her, but none of it was new. She had been brought up in a corner of this very wheat world, so she knew it all. Sometimes it was grander and looked more prosperous, sometimes it was smaller and poorer. But the method of it was always the same.
Still, she was traveling abroad for the first time in her young life, and she wanted to see everything there was to see. Thus, she had traveled for more than two whole days, nor had she yet exhausted the resources of Canada's great granary. Indian Head, Moosejaw, Regina, Moosemin, Brandon, all these places, miles and miles apart, had vanished into the dim distance behind her, but still the cloth of golden wheat remained, as she knew it would remain until Winnipeg was reached.
Funds had not permitted her the luxury of a "sleeper," so she had faced the discomforts of long days and longer nights in the ordinary day car. But with her heart set upon a definite purpose such things were no real hardships to Phyllis. Just now her one desire in life was to reach Winnipeg, so nothing else mattered.
It was nearly noon when the conductor of the train entered the car for perhaps the tenth time that morning. Phyllis saw him moving down the aisle, and, from force of habit, got her ticket ready. But the amiable man spared her this time. He hurried along toward her, and, with the sigh of an overworked man, dropped into the seat beside her suit case.
"Guess you'll soon be in Winnipeg, now," he observed, having learned her anxiety to reach her destination some twenty or thirty visits to her before.
Phyllis smiled, and her whole face lit up. The conductor grinned his pleasure at the sight.
"I'm so glad," the girl sighed. "Still, I've had a real pleasant journey," she added quickly. "You folks have been very kind to me."
The man's delight was written all over his face.
"Why, that's good of you. But 'tain't just nothin'. Gals travelin' on their lonesome, it ain't all pie for 'em. We just like to do our best – when they ain't on the grouch."
Phyllis had abandoned her study of the view.
"I haven't been a grouch, have I?" she demanded.
"Never in your life. Say – you couldn't grouch. 'Tain't your nature."
Phyllis became aware of the "drummer." His grin was in full blast. But she quickly ignored him.
"I s'pose you know Winnipeg well?" she hazarded to her companion, with some eagerness.
"Live there," the man replied, comprehensively.
"Ah, I'm glad. Maybe you know Grand Avenue?"
The man's eyes opened wide.
"Sure I know Grand Avenoo. That's where the big fellers live. All small houses. Sort o' Fifth Avenoo, Noo York." Then he grinned. "Say, you ain't figurin' on a hotel in Grand Avenoo?"
Phyllis flushed.
"Oh, no," she disclaimed hurriedly. "I just want to get there to – to see a lady who lives there."
The conductor nodded his understanding.
"Sure," he said. "Service. Domestic."
Phyllis's flush deepened.
"Oh, no," she cried. "I'm – I'm just on a visit."
The conductor realized his mistake, and tried to glide over the fence.
"If you were to tell me the part of Grand Avenoo you're needing, maybe I could give you the right surface car to take."
"That would be very kind," Phyllis said earnestly. Then her dark brows drew together perplexedly. "It's rather difficult," she went on. "You see, I don't really know just whereabouts Mrs. Hendrie lives."
"Mrs. Hendrie, d'you say, miss? Mrs. Alexander Hendrie?"
"Yes, yes. That's the lady," Phyllis cried eagerly. "Do you know where her house is?"
"Gee!"
"What did you say? I didn't – "
"Beg pardon, miss – I – I just said 'Gee!'" The man rose from his seat rather hurriedly. "You see, I didn't just figure you were goin' to Mrs. Alexander Hendrie. You see, Mr. Hendrie is just about the biggest man in the country, and – well – "
Phyllis laughed.
"And it seemed queer me going to see them. Of course it does," she went on, to help the man's confusion. "But if you'll tell me best how to find Grand Avenue, why, you'll be doing me a real kindness, just one more."
The girl's tact had prompt effect.
"I'll sure be most pleased miss," the conductor said, with some emphasis on the last word. "You just go right out of the booking hall at the depot, and get on to the first Main Street car you see. It'll take you along up to Grand. Just give word to the ticket man, an' he'll see you get off right. We'll be in in less than two hours. We're plumb on time."
He moved away quickly, and Phyllis vaguely understood that his going had something to do with the fact that she was going to see the wife of one of the biggest men in the country. But she quite missed the necessity for the railroader's exchange of attitude.
Grand Avenue was bathed in sunlight when Phyllis stepped off the car and looked about her. Automobiles and pair-horse carriages sped upon their dazzling ways down the great wide road with a speed and frequency that, for some moments, left the country girl almost dazed. Her unaccustomed eyes were wide and wondering, and she clung to her cane suit case as though for support against the overwhelming tide of traffic.
After a while, either the stream slackened, or her nerves became more accustomed, for she made a dash for the sidewalk, and reached safety once more. Then further dismay attacked her. She gazed along at the great detached mansions, which lined the avenue, and the sight gave her understanding of the train conductor's suggestion that she was about to enter domestic service. It was in one of these splendid palaces, she thought, that Mrs. Hendrie lived, and probably one of the biggest. For a moment she looked down at her suit case as though she hated it.
Her weakness, however, was quickly passed. She remembered the object of her visit, and clenched her small white teeth. All she cared for in the world was at stake in this desperate visit, and nothing should daunt her.
A large policeman was passing. Noting the girl's evident hesitation he slackened his pace. He was a genially rubicund specimen of the force, and inspired confidence. Phyllis promptly set her suit case down, drew a letter from her pocket-book and went up to him.
"Will you tell me in which direction that number is, sir?" she inquired, awed by the man's authority as she held up the address for his inspection.
The officer's bulging eyes surveyed her from head to foot. That "sir" had tickled his vanity, and he approved of her.
"One thousand and one?" he said. "Why, that's Alexander Hendrie's house. Right here behind you – er – miss. That's Mr. Hendrie's house."
Phyllis thanked him warmly. Then she went back to her suit case, picked it up, and made for the house with a rapidly beating heart. It was almost as if everything had been made especially easy for her, and, in spite of her growing nervousness, she was very thankful.
The house was well back from the road. It was approached by a short, unenclosed carriage sweep, lined on each side by smooth turf, dotted with shrubs and young trees. The air of wealth was conveyed in the splendidly kept condition of everything rather than any ostentatious display. The house itself was a modern production of decorative architecture, built of massive, beautifully cut gray stone. The entrance door was beneath a glass and wrought-iron shelter, which stretched out across the drive and was supported on massive wrought-iron columns of exquisite design.
It was not without many heart quakings that Phyllis ascended the white marble steps and pressed the great button of the electric bell. Nor were these lessened when the door was opened with magical abruptness, and she found herself gazing up at the liveried footman in wonder and dismay.
The man's cold survey of her was disheartening. Plainly as looks could speak, he regarded her visit as an impertinent intrusion, while he waited for her to speak.
It was a critical moment, and Phyllis knew it. The situation demanded all her courage. Assuming a decision which quite belied her real feelings, she endeavored to overawe the man, quite forgetful of the strange hat and stranger costume she was arrayed in; to say nothing of the deplorable suit case.
"I want to see Mrs. Hendrie," she demanded shortly.
The man's reply was slow in coming. He devoured her with eyes which plainly conveyed a definite and contemptuous refusal.
"Can't be done," he said at last, and prepared to close the door.
But Phyllis had not traveled all these hundreds of miles to be defeated by a mere footman.
"Oh, yes, it can," she declared tartly. "And you'll do best if you remember that you're speaking to a lady. Mrs. Hendrie is expecting me. Please to tell her Miss Phyllis Raysun is here – from Gleber."
The absurd dignity of this quaint figure was not without its effect. The man's manner underwent a slight change, but he still remained barring the way. At his sign a boy in uniform stepped forward from some dark corner where he had been lurking unseen by Phyllis. He stood ready with a silver tray in his hand.
"Inquire if Mrs. Hendrie is at home," said the footman loftily. "If she is, will she receive Miss – er – Phyllis Raysun?"
The boy remained with his tray held out. Phyllis was at a loss. Then she nodded.
"Yes. That's right," she said, failing to understand the silent demand for a card.
With a smile, which somehow added further to the girl's angry feelings, the youth hurried away. But the man still kept her waiting on the step.
Without knowing what she ought to have expected, Phyllis felt that she was being treated shamefully. She knew that these liveried underlings were treating her as if she were some undesirable tramp. It was quite infuriating. But with so much at stake she felt it safest not to display too much resentment, so she choked back her indignation and accepted the affront.
Then quite suddenly a wonderful change came upon the scene. A change that was evidently utterly unexpected by the churlish man-servant.
There was a sound of rustling skirts hurrying downstairs. Then some one brushed the man aside and seized Phyllis's two ungloved hands, one of which still held the deplorable suit case.
"My dear, my dear, however did you get here?"
It was Monica. Then she turned angrily upon the discomforted footman as she drew the girl into the house.
"How dare you keep this lady standing out on the door-step? How dare you? It's an outrage. It is an outrage I won't permit in my house. I never heard of such a thing."
Then she turned upon the scared-faced boy, waiting just behind her.
"Tell the housekeeper I wish to see her in the library in an hour's time." Then, in a moment, she was back again to Phyllis. "Come along, dear. Come up to my room, and get your things off. Henson will see to your grip."
But Phyllis clung to the suit case, which she was growing to hate more and more every moment. She was sure now that it had had something to do with the rude treatment she had been subjected to.
"But I – I can carry it, M – Mrs. Hendrie," she cried, the inevitable "mam" nearly slipping out in spite of her best efforts.
Monica laughed. She remembered how she, herself, had felt once upon a time facing an army of servants.
"Very well, dear," she said gently, "but come along."
She took the bewildered girl by the arm, and hurried her through the great entrance hall. Then up the wide staircase, and, having left the sharp-eared servants well behind, opened out a battery of eager questions.
"How ever did you get here all by yourself from that little far-away farm of yours?" she demanded. "How – how dared you attempt such a thing, my dear?" she went on, with genuine concern. "You shouldn't have done it. You really shouldn't, without letting me know, so that I could have arranged for your comfort."