27. CHAPTER XXVII
I
THE strike which turned Zenith into two belligerent camps;
white and red, began late in September with a walk-out of
telephone girls and linemen, in protest against a reduction of
wages. The newly formed union of dairy-products workers
went out, partly in sympathy and partly in demand for a
forty-four hour week. They were followed by the truck-drivers'
union. Industry was tied up, and the whole city was
nervous with talk of a trolley strike, a printers' strike, a general
strike. Furious citizens, trying to get telephone calls
through strike-breaking girls, danced helplessly. Every truck
that made its way from the factories to the freight-stations
was guarded by a policeman, trying to look stoical beside the
scab driver. A line of fifty trucks from the Zenith Steel and
Machinery Company was attacked by strikers-rushing out
from the sidewalk, pulling drivers from the seats, smashing
carburetors and commutators, while telephone girls cheered
from the walk, and small boys heaved bricks.
The National Guard was ordered out. Colonel Nixon, who
in private life was Mr. Caleb Nixon, secretary of the Pullmore
Tractor Company, put on a long khaki coat and stalked
through crowds, a .44 automatic in hand. Even Babbitt's
friend, Clarence Drum the shoe merchant—a round and merry
man who told stories at the Athletic Club, and who strangely
resembled a Victorian pug-dog—was to be seen as a waddling
but ferocious captain, with his belt tight about his comfortable
little belly, and his round little mouth petulant as he piped
to chattering groups on corners. "Move on there now! I
can't have any of this loitering!''
Every newspaper in the city, save one, was against the
strikers. When mobs raided the news-stands, at each was
stationed a militiaman, a young, embarrassed citizen-soldier
with eye-glasses, bookkeeper or grocery-clerk in private life,
trying to look dangerous while small boys yelped, "Get onto
de tin soldier!'' and striking truck-drivers inquired tenderly,
"Say, Joe, when I was fighting in France, was you in camp
in the States or was you doing Swede exercises in the
Y. M. C. A.? Be careful of that bayonet, now, or you'll
cut yourself!''
There was no one in Zenith who talked of anything but the
strike, and no one who did not take sides. You were either a
courageous friend of Labor, or you were a fearless supporter
of the Rights of Property; and in either case you were belligerent,
and ready to disown any friend who did not hate
the enemy.
A condensed-milk plant was set afire—each side charged
it to the other—and the city was hysterical.
And Babbitt chose this time to be publicly liberal.
He belonged to the sound, sane, right-thinking wing, and
at first he agreed that the Crooked Agitators ought to be shot.
He was sorry when his friend, Seneca Doane, defended arrested
strikers, and he thought of going to Doane and explaining
about these agitators, but when he read a broadside alleging
that even on their former wages the telephone girls had been
hungry, he was troubled. "All lies and fake figures,'' he said,
but in a doubtful croak.
For the Sunday after, the Chatham Road Presbyterian
Church announced a sermon by Dr. John Jennison Drew on
"How the Saviour Would End Strikes.'' Babbitt had been
negligent about church-going lately, but he went to the
service, hopeful that Dr. Drew really did have the information
as to what the divine powers thought about strikes. Beside
Babbitt in the large, curving, glossy, velvet-upholstered
pew was Chum Frink.
Frink whispered, "Hope the doc gives the strikers hell!
Ordinarily, I don't believe in a preacher butting into political
matters—let him stick to straight religion and save souls, and
not stir up a lot of discussion—but at a time like this, I do
think he ought to stand right up and bawl out those plug-uglies
to a fare-you-well!''
"Yes—well—'' said Babbitt.
The Rev. Dr. Drew, his rustic bang flopping with the intensity
of his poetic and sociologic ardor, trumpeted:
"During the untoward series of industrial dislocations which
have—let us be courageous and admit it boldly—throttled
the business life of our fair city these past days, there has
been a great deal of loose talk about scientific prevention of
scientific—scientific! Now, let me tell you that
the most
unscientific thing in the world is science! Take the attacks
on the established fundamentals of the Christian creed which
were so popular with the `scientists' a generation ago. Oh,
yes, they were mighty fellows, and great poo-bahs of criticism!
They were going to destroy the church; they were
going to prove the world was created and has been brought to
its extraordinary level of morality and civilization by blind
chance. Yet the church stands just as firmly to-day as ever,
and the only answer a Christian pastor needs make to the long-haired
opponents of his simple faith is just a pitying smile!
"And now these same `scientists' want to replace the natural
condition of free competition by crazy systems which, no
matter by what high-sounding names they are called, are nothing
but a despotic paternalism. Naturally, I'm not criticizing
labor courts, injunctions against men proven to be striking
unjustly, or those excellent unions in which the men and the
boss get together. But I certainly am criticizing the systems
in which the free and fluid motivation of independent labor is
to be replaced by cooked-up wage-scales and minimum salaries
and government commissions and labor federations and all
that poppycock.
"What is not generally understood is that this whole industrial
matter isn't a question of economics. It's essentially
and only a matter of Love, and of the practical application of
the Christian religion! Imagine a factory—instead of committees
of workmen alienating the boss, the boss goes among
them smiling, and they smile back, the elder brother and the
younger. Brothers, that's what they must be, loving brothers,
and then strikes would be as inconceivable as hatred in the
home!''
It was at this point that Babbitt muttered, "Oh, rot!''
"Huh?'' said Chum Frink.
"He doesn't know what he's talking about. It's just as
clear as mud. It doesn't mean a darn thing.''
"Maybe, but—''
Frink looked at him doubtfully, through all the service kept
glancing at him doubtfully, till Babbitt was nervous.
II
The strikers had announced a parade for Tuesday morning,
but Colonel Nixon had forbidden it, the newspapers said.
When Babbitt drove west from his office at ten that morning
he saw a drove of shabby men heading toward the tangled,
dirty district beyond Court House Square. He hated them,
because they were poor, because they made him feel insecure
"Damn loafers! Wouldn't be common workmen if they had
any pep,'' he complained. He wondered if there was going
to be a riot. He drove toward the starting-point of the
parade, a triangle of limp and faded grass known as Moore
Street Park, and halted his car.
The park and streets were buzzing with strikers, young men
in blue denim shirts, old men with caps. Through them,
keeping them stirred like a boiling pot, moved the militiamen.
Babbitt could hear the soldiers' monotonous orders: "Keep
moving—move on, 'bo—keep your feet warm!'' Babbitt admired
their stolid good temper. The crowd shouted, "Tin
soldiers,'' and "Dirty dogs—servants of the capitalists!'' but
the militiamen grinned and answered only, "Sure, that's right.
Keep moving, Billy!''
Babbitt thrilled over the citizen-soldiers, hated the scoundrels
who were obstructing the pleasant ways of prosperity,
admired Colonel Nixon's striding contempt for the crowd; and
as Captain Clarence Drum, that rather puffing shoe-dealer,
came raging by, Babbitt respectfully clamored, "Great work,
Captain! Don't let 'em march!'' He watched the strikers
filing from the park. Many of them bore posters with "They
can't stop our peacefully walking.'' The militiamen tore away
the posters, but the strikers fell in behind their leaders and
straggled off, a thin unimpressive trickle between steel-glinting
lines of soldiers. Babbitt saw with disappointment that there
wasn't going to be any violence, nothing interesting at all.
Then he gasped.
Among the marchers, beside a bulky young workman, was
Seneca Doane, smiling, content. In front of him was Professor
Brockbank, head of the history department in the State University,
an old man and white-bearded, known to come from
a distinguished Massachusetts family.
"Why, gosh,'' Babbitt marveled, "a swell like him in with
the strikers? And good ole Senny Doane! They're fools to
get mixed up with this bunch. They're parlor socialists! But
they have got nerve. And nothing in it for them, not a cent!
And—I don't know 's all the strikers look like
such tough
nuts. Look just about like anybody else to me!''
The militiamen were turning the parade down a side street.
"They got just as much right to march as anybody else!
They own the streets as much as Clarence Drum or the American
Legion does!'' Babbitt grumbled. "Of course, they're
—they're a bad element, but— Oh, rats!''
At the Athletic Club, Babbitt was silent during lunch, while
the others fretted, "I don't know what the world's coming to,''
or solaced their spirits with "kidding.''
Captain Clarence Drum came swinging by, splendid in
khaki.
"How's it going, Captain?'' inquired Vergil Gunch.
"Oh, we got 'em stopped. We worked 'em off on side streets
and separated 'em and they got discouraged and went home.''
"Fine work. No violence.''
"Fine work nothing!'' groaned Mr. Drum. "If I had my
way, there'd be a whole lot of violence, and I'd start it, and
then the whole thing would be over. I don't believe in standing
back and wet-nursing these fellows and letting the disturbances
drag on. I tell you these strikers are nothing in
God's world but a lot of bomb-throwing socialists and thugs,
and the only way to handle 'em is with a club! That's what
I'd do; beat up the whole lot of 'em!''
Babbitt heard himself saying, "Oh, rats, Clarence, they look
just about like you and me, and I certainly didn't notice any
bombs.''
Drum complained, "Oh, you didn't, eh? Well, maybe you'd
like to take charge of the strike! Just tell Colonel Nixon
what innocents the strikers are! He'd be glad to hear about
it!'' Drum strode on, while all the table stared at Babbitt.
"What's the idea? Do you want us to give those hell-hounds
love and kisses, or what?'' said Orville Jones.
"Do you defend a lot of hoodlums that are trying to take
the bread and butter away from our families?'' raged Professor
Pumphrey.
Vergil Gunch intimidatingly said nothing. He put on sternness
like a mask; his jaw was hard, his bristly short hair
seemed cruel, his silence was a ferocious thunder. While the
others assured Babbitt that they must have misunderstood
him, Gunch looked as though he had understood only too well.
Like a robed judge he listened to Babbitt's stammering:
"No, sure; course they're a bunch of toughs. But I just
mean— Strikes me it's bad policy to talk about clubbing
'em. Cabe Nixon doesn't. He's got the fine Italian hand.
And that's why he's colonel. Clarence Drum is jealous of
him.''
"Well,'' said Professor Pumphrey, "you hurt Clarence's
feelings, George. He's been out there all morning getting hot
and dusty, and no wonder he wants to beat the tar out of
those sons of guns!''
Gunch said nothing, and watched; and Babbitt knew that
he was being watched.
III
As he was leaving the club Babbitt heard Chum Frink protesting
to Gunch, "—don't know what's got into him. Last
Sunday Doc Drew preached a corking sermon about decency
in business and Babbitt kicked about that, too. Near 's I
can figure out—''
Babbitt was vaguely frightened.
IV
He saw a crowd listening to a man who was talking from
the rostrum of a kitchen-chair. He stopped his car. From
newspaper pictures he knew that the speaker must be the
notorious freelance preacher, Beecher Ingram, of whom Seneca
Doane had spoken. Ingram was a gaunt man with flamboyant
hair, weather-beaten cheeks, and worried eyes. He was
pleading:
"—if those telephone girls can hold out, living on one meal
a day, doing their own washing, starving and smiling, you
big hulking men ought to be able—''
Babbitt saw that from the sidewalk Vergil Gunch was watching
him. In vague disquiet he started the car and mechanically
drove on, while Gunch's hostile eyes seemed to
follow him all the way.
V
"There's a lot of these fellows,'' Babbitt was complaining to
his wife, "that think if workmen go on strike they're a regular
bunch of fiends. Now, of course, it's a fight between sound
business and the destructive element, and we got to lick the
stuffin's out of 'em when they challenge us, but doggoned if
I see why we can't fight like gentlemen and not go calling
'em dirty dogs and saying they ought to be shot down.''
"Why, George,'' she said placidly, "I thought you always
insisted that all strikers ought to be put in jail.''
"I never did! Well, I mean— Some of 'em, of course.
Irresponsible leaders. But I mean a fellow ought to be broad-minded
and liberal about things like—''
"But dearie, I thought you always said these so-called `liberal'
people were the worst of—''
"Rats! Woman never can understand the different definitions
of a word. Depends on how you mean it. And it don't
pay to be too cocksure about anything. Now, these strikers:
Honest, they're not such bad people. Just foolish. They don't
understand the complications of merchandizing and profit, the
way we business men do, but sometimes I think they're about
like the rest of us, and no more hogs for wages than we are
for profits.''
"George! If people were to hear you talk like that—of course
I know you; I remember what a wild crazy boy you
were;
I know you don't mean a word you say—but if people that
didn't understand you were to hear you talking, they'd think
you were a regular socialist!''
"What do I care what anybody thinks? And let me tell
you right now—I want you to distinctly understand I never
was a wild crazy kid, and when I say a thing, I mean it, and
I stand by it and— Honest, do you think people would think
I was too liberal if I just said the strikers were decent?''
"Of course they would. But don't worry, dear; I know you
don't mean a word of it. Time to trot up to bed now. Have
you enough covers for to-night?''
On the sleeping-porch he puzzled, "She doesn't understand
me. Hardly understand myself. Why can't I take things
easy, way I used to?
"Wish I could go out to Senny Doane's house and talk
things over with him. No! Suppose Verg Gunch saw me
going in there!
"Wish I knew some really smart woman, and nice, that
would see what I'm trying to get at, and let me talk to her
and— I wonder if Myra's right? Could the fellows think
I've gone nutty just because I'm broad-minded and liberal?
Way Verg looked at me—''