King Coal

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For a moment or two the man continued to glare at Hal; but it appeared
that he, like Bud Adams, had been given instructions. He turned abruptly
and strode back into the office.

Hal stood for a bit, until he had made sure of his composure. After
which he strolled over towards the scales. A difficulty had occurred to
him for the first time--that he did not know anything about the working
of coal-scales.

But he was given no time to learn. The tipple-boss reappeared. "Get out
of here, fellow!" said he.

"But you invited me in," remarked Hal, mildly.

"Well, now I invite you out again."

And so the protestant resumed his vigil at the mandarin's palace-gates.

SECTION 13.

When the quitting-whistle blew, Mike Sikoria came quickly to join Hal
and hear what had happened. Mike was exultant, for several new men had
come up to him and offered to join the check-weighman movement. The old
fellow was not sure whether this was owing to his own eloquence as a
propagandist, or to the fine young American buddy he had; but in either
case he was equally proud. He gave Hal a note which had been slipped
into his hand, and which Hal recognised as coming from Tom Olson. The
organiser reported that every one in the camp was talking
check-weighman, and so from a propaganda standpoint they could count
their move a success, no matter what the bosses might do. He added that
Hal should have a number of men stay with him that night, so as to have
witnesses if the company tried to "pull off anything." "And be careful
of the new men," he added; "one or two of them are sure to be spies."

Hal and Mike discussed their programme for the second night. Neither of
them were keen for sleeping out again--the old Slovak because of his
bones, and Hal because he saw there were now several spies following
them about. At Reminitsky's, he spoke to some of those who had offered
their support, and asked them if they would be willing to spend the
night with him in Edstrom's cabin. Not one shrank from this test of
sincerity; they all got their blankets, and repaired to the place, where
Hal lighted the lamp and held an impromptu check-weighman meeting--and
incidentally entertained himself with a spy-hunt!

One of the new-comers was a Pole named Wojecicowski; this, on top of
Zamierowski, caused Hal to give up all effort to call the Poles by their
names. "Woji" was an earnest little man, with a pathetic, tired face. He
explained his presence by the statement that he was sick of being
robbed; he would pay his share for a check-weighman, and if they fired
him, all right, he would move on, and to hell with them. After which
declaration he rolled up in a blanket and went to snoring on the floor
of the cabin. That did not seem to be exactly the conduct of a spy.

Another was an Italian, named Farenzena; a dark-browed and
sinister-looking fellow, who might have served as a villain in any
melodrama. He sat against the wall and talked in guttural tones, and Hal
regarded him with deep suspicion. It was not easy to understand his
English, but finally Hal managed to make out the story he was
telling--that he was in love with a "fanciulla," and that the
"fanciulla" was playing with him. He had about made up his mind that she
was a coquette, and not worth bothering with, so he did not care any
curses if they sent him down the canyon. "Don't fight for fanciulla,
fight for check-weighman!" he concluded, with a growl.

Another volunteer was a Greek labourer, a talkative young chap who had
sat with Hal at lunch-time, and had given his name as Apostolikas. He
entered into fluent conversation with Hal, explaining how much
interested he was in the check-weighman plan; he wanted to know just
what they were going to do, what chance of success they thought they
had, who had started the movement and who was in it. Hal's replies took
the form of little sermons on working-class solidarity. Each time the
man would start to "pump" him, Hal would explain the importance of the
present issue to the miners, how they must stand by one another and make
sacrifices for the good of all. After he had talked abstract theories
for half an hour, Apostolikas gave up and moved on to Mike Sikoria, who,
having been given a wink by Hal, talked about "scabs," and the dreadful
things that honest workingmen would do to them. When finally the Greek
grew tired again, and lay down on the floor, Hal moved over to Old Mike
and whispered that the first name of Apostolikas must be Judas!

SECTION 14.

Old Mike went to sleep quickly; but Hal had not worked for several days,
and had exciting thoughts to keep him awake. He had been lying quiet for
a couple of hours, when he became aware that some one was moving in the
room. There was a lamp burning dimly, and through half-closed eyes he
made out one of the men lifting himself to a sitting position. At first
he could not be sure which one it was, but finally he recognised the
Greek.

Hal lay motionless, and after a minute or so he stole another look and
saw the man crouching and listening, his hands still on the floor.
Through half opened eye-lids Hal continued to steal glimpses, while the
other rose and tip-toed towards him, stepping carefully over the
sleeping forms.

Hal did his best to simulate the breathing of sleep: no easy matter,
with the man stooping over him, and a knife-thrust as one of the
possibilities of the situation. He took the chance, however; and after
what seemed an age, he felt the man's fingers lightly touch his side.
They moved down to his coat-pocket.

"Going to search me!" thought Hal; and waited, expecting the hand to
travel to other pockets. But after what seemed an interminable period,
he realised that Apostolikas had risen again, and was stepping back to
his place. In a minute more he had lain down, and all was still in the
cabin.

Hal's hand moved to the pocket, and his fingers slid inside. They
touched something, which he recognised instantly as a roll of bills.

"I see!" thought he. "A frame-up!" And he laughed to himself, his mind
going back to early boyhood--to a dilapidated trunk in the attic of his
home, containing story-books that his father had owned. He could see
them now, with their worn brown covers and crude pictures: "The Luck and
Pluck Series," by Horatio Alger; "Live or Die," "Rough and Ready," etc.
How he had thrilled over the story of the country-boy who comes to the
city, and meets the villain who robs his employer's cash-drawer and
drops the key of it into the hero's pocket! Evidently some one connected
with the General Fuel Company had read Horatio Alger!

Hal realised that he could not be too quick about getting those bills
out of his pocket. He thought of returning them to "Judas," but decided
that he would save them for Edstrom, who was likely to need money before
long. He gave the Greek half an hour to go to sleep, then with his
pocket-knife he gently picked out a hole in the cinders of the floor and
buried the money as best he could. After which he wormed his way to
another place, and lay thinking.

SECTION 15.

Would they wait until morning, or would they come soon? He was inclined
to the latter guess, so he was only slightly startled when, an hour or
two later, he heard the knob of the cabin-door turned. A moment later
came a crash and the door was burst open, with the shoulder of a heavy
man behind it.

The room was in confusion in a second. Men sprang to their feet, crying
out; others sat up bewildered, still half asleep. The room was bright
from an electric torch in the hands of one of the invaders. "There's the
fellow!" cried a voice, which Hal instantly recognised as belonging to
Jeff Cotton, the camp-marshal. "Stick 'em up, there! You, Joe Smith!"
Hal did not wait to see the glint of the marshal's revolver.

There followed a silence. As this drama was being staged for the benefit
of the other men, it was necessary to give them time to get thoroughly
awake, and to get their eyes used to the light. Meantime Hal stood, his
hands in the air. Behind the torch he could make out the faces of the
marshal, Bud Adams, Alec Stone, Jake Predovich, and two or three others.

"Now, men," said Cotton, at last, "you are some of the fellows that want
a check-weighman. And this is the man you chose. Is that right?"

There was no answer.

"I'm going to show you the kind of fellow he is. He came to Mr. Stone
here and offered to sell you out."

"It's a lie, men," said Hal, quietly.

"He took some money from Mr. Stone to sell you out!" insisted the
marshal.

"It's a lie," said Hal, again.

"He's got that money now!" cried the other.

And Hal cried, in turn, "They are trying to frame something on me, boys!
Don't let them fool you!"

"Shut up," commanded the marshal; then, to the men, "I'll show you. I
think he's got that money on him now. Jake, search him."

The store-clerk advanced.

"Watch out, boys!" exclaimed Hal. "They will put something in my
pockets." And then to Old Mike, who had started angrily forward, "It's
all right, Mike! Let them alone!"

"Jake, take off your coat," ordered Cotton. "Roll up your sleeves. Show
your hands."

It was for all the world like the performance of a prestidigitator. The
little Jew took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves above his elbows.
He exhibited his hands to the audience, turning them this way and that;
then, keeping them out in front of him, he came slowly towards Hal, like
a hypnotist about to put him to sleep.

"Watch him!" said Cotton. "He's got that money on him, I know."

"Look sharp!" cried Hal. "If it isn't there, they'll put it there."

"Keep your hands up, young fellow," commanded the marshal. "Keep back
from him there!" This last to Mike Sikoria and the other spectators, who
were pressing nearer, peering over one another's shoulders.

It was all very serious at the time, but afterwards, when Hal recalled
the scene, he laughed over the grotesque figure of Predovich searching
his pockets while keeping as far away from him as possible, so that
every one might know that the money had actually come out of Hal's
pocket. The searcher put his hands first in the inside pockets, then in
the pockets of Hal's shirt. Time was needed to build up this climax!

"Turn around," commanded Cotton; and Hal turned, and the Jew went
through his trouser-pockets. He took out in turn Hal's watch, his comb
and mirror, his handkerchief; after examining them and holding them up,
he dropped them onto the floor. There was a breathless hush when he came
to Hal's purse, and proceeded to open it. Thanks to the greed of the
company, there was nothing in the purse but some small change. Predovich
closed it and dropped it to the floor.

"Wait now! He's not through!" cried the master of ceremonies. "He's got
that money somewhere, boys! Did you look in his side-pockets, Jake?"

"Not yet," said Jake.

"Look sharp!" cried the marshal; and every one craned forward eagerly,
while Predovich stooped down on one knee, and put his hand into one coat
pocket and then into the other.

He took his hand out again, and the look of dismay upon his face was so
obvious that Hal could hardly keep from laughing. "It ain't dere!" he
declared.

"What?" cried Cotton, and they stared at each other. "By God, he's got
rid of it!"

"There's no money on me, boys!" proclaimed Hal. "It's a job they are
trying to put over on us."

"He's hid it!" shouted the marshal. "Find it, Jake!"

Then Predovich began to search again, swiftly, and with less
circumstance. He was not thinking so much about the spectators now, as
about all that good money gone for nothing! He made Hal take off his
coat, and ripped open the lining; he unbuttoned the trousers and felt
inside; he thrust his fingers down inside Hal's shoes.

But there was no money, and the searchers were at a standstill. "He took
twenty-five dollars from Mr. Stone to sell you out!" declared the
marshal. "He's managed to get rid of it somehow."

"Boys," cried Hal, "they sent a spy in here, and told him to put money
on me." He was looking at Apostolikas as he spoke; he saw the man start
and shrink back.

"That's him! He's a scab!" cried Old Mike. "He's got the money on him, I
bet!" And he made a move towards the Greek.

So the camp-marshal realised suddenly that it was time to ring down the
curtain on this drama. "That's enough of this foolishness," he declared.
"Bring that fellow along here!" And in a flash a couple of the party had
seized Hal's wrists, and a third had grabbed him by the collar of his
shirt. Before the miners had time to realise what was happening, they
had rushed their prisoner out of the cabin.

The quarter of an hour which followed was an uncomfortable one for the
would-be check-weighman. Outside, in the darkness, the camp-marshal was
free to give vent to his rage, and so was Alec Stone. They poured out
curses upon him, and kicked him and cuffed him as they went along. One
of the men who held his wrists twisted his arm, until he cried out with
pain; then they cursed him harder, and bade him hold his mouth. Down the
dark and silent street they went swiftly, and into the camp-marshal's
office, and upstairs to the room which served as the North Valley jail.
Hal was glad enough when they left him here, slamming the iron door
behind them.

SECTION 16.

It had been a crude and stupid plot, yet Hal realised that it was
adapted to the intelligence of the men for whom it was intended. But for
the accident that he had stayed awake, they would have found the money
on him, and next morning the whole camp would have heard that he had
sold out. Of course his immediate friends, the members of the committee,
would not have believed it; but the mass of the workers would have
believed it, and so the purpose of Tom Olson's visit to North Valley
would have been balked. Throughout the experiences which were to come to
him, Hal retained his vivid impression of that adventure; it served to
him as a symbol of many things. Just as the bosses had tried to bedevil
him, to destroy his influence with his followers, so later on he saw
them trying to bedevil the labour-movement, to confuse the intelligence
of the whole country.

Now Hal was in jail. He went to the window and tried the bars--but found
that they had been made for such trials. Then he groped his way about in
the darkness, examining his prison, which proved to be a steel cage
built inside the walls of an ordinary room. In one corner was a bench,
and in another corner another bench, somewhat broader, with a mattress
upon it. Hal had read a little about jails--enough to cause him to avoid
this mattress. He sat upon the bare bench, and began to think.

It is a fact that there is a peculiar psychology incidental to being in
jail; just as there is a peculiar psychology incidental to straining
your back and breaking your hands loading coal-cars in a five foot vein;
and another, and quite different psychology, produced by living at ease
off the labours of coal-miners. In a jail, you have first of all the
sense of being an animal; the animal side of your being is emphasised,
the animal passions of hatred and fear are called into prominence, and
if you are to escape being dominated by them, it can only be by intense
and concentrated effort of the mind. So, if you are a thinking man, you
do a great deal of thinking in a jail; the days are long, and the nights
still longer--you have time for all the thoughts you can have.

The bench was hard, and seemed to grow harder. There was no position in
which it could be made to grow soft. Hal got up and paced about, then he
lay down for a while, then got up and walked again; and all the while he
thought, and all the while the jail-psychology was being impressed upon
his mind.

First, he thought about his immediate problem. What were they going to
do to him? The obvious thing would be to put him out of camp, and so be
done with him; but would they rest content with that, in their
irritation at the trick he had played? Hal had heard vaguely of that
native American institution, the "third degree," but had never had
occasion to think of it as a possibility in his own life. What a
difference it made, to think of it in that way!

Hal had told Tom Olson that he would not pledge himself to organise a
union, but that he would pledge himself to get a check-weighman; and
Olson had laughed, and seemed quite content--apparently assuming that it
would come to the same thing. And now, it rather seemed that Olson had
known what he was talking about. For Hal found his thoughts no longer
troubled with fears of labour union domination and walking delegate
tyranny; on the contrary, he became suddenly willing for the people of
North Valley to have a union, and to be as tyrannical as they knew how!
And in this change, though Hal had no idea of it, he was repeating an
experience common among reformers; many of whom begin as mild and
benevolent advocates of some obvious bit of justice, and under the
operation of the jail-psychology are made into blazing and determined
revolutionists. "Eternal spirit of the chainless mind," says Byron.
"Greatest in dungeons Liberty thou art!"

The poet goes on to add that "When thy sons to fetters are confined--"
then "Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind." And just as it was in
Chillon, so it seemed to be in North Valley. Dawn came, and Hal stood at
the window of his cell, and heard the whistle blow and saw the workers
going to their tasks, the toil-bent, pallid faced creatures of the
underworld, like a file of baboons in the half-light. He waved his hand
to them, and they stopped and stared, and then waved back; he realised
that every one of those men must be thinking about his imprisonment, and
the reason for it--and so the jail-psychology was being communicated to
them. If any of them cherished distrust of unions, or doubt of the need
of organisation in North Valley--that distrust and that doubt were being
dissipated!

--There was only one thing discouraging about the matter, as Hal thought
it over. Why should the bosses have left him here in plain sight, when
they might so easily have put him into an automobile, and whisked him
down to Pedro before daylight? Was it a sign of the contempt they felt
for their slaves? Did they count upon the sight of the prisoner in the
window to produce fear instead of resentment? And might it not be that
they understood their workers better than the would-be check-weighman?
He recalled Mary Burke's pessimism about them, and anxiety gnawed at his
soul; and--such is the operation of the jail-psychology--he fought
against this anxiety. He hated the company for its cynicism, he clenched
his hands and set his teeth, desiring to teach the bosses a lesson, to
prove to them that their workers were not slaves, but men!

SECTION 17.

Toward the middle of the morning, Hal heard footsteps in the corridor
outside, and a man whom he did not know opened the barred door and set
down a pitcher of water and a tin plate with a hunk of bread on it. When
he started to leave, Hal spoke: "Just a minute, please."

The other frowned at him.

"Can you give me any idea how long I am to stay in here?"

"I cannot," said the man.

"If I'm to be locked up," said Hal, "I've certainly a right to know what
is the charge against me."

"Go to blazes!" said the other, and slammed the door and went down the
corridor.

Hal went to the window again, and passed the time watching the people
who went by. Groups of ragged children gathered, looking up at him,
grinning and making signs--until some one appeared below and ordered
them away.

As time passed, Hal became hungry. The taste of bread, eaten alone,
becomes speedily monotonous, and the taste of water does not relieve it;
nevertheless, Hal munched the bread, and drank the water, and wished for
more.

The day dragged by; and late in the afternoon the keeper came again,
with another hunk of bread and another pitcher of water. "Listen a
moment," said Hal, as the man was turning away.

"I got nothin' to say to you," said the other.

"I have something to say to you," pleaded Hal. "I have read in a book--I
forget where, but it was written by some doctor--that white bread does
not contain the elements necessary to the sustaining of the human body."

"Go on!" growled the jailer. "What yer givin' us?"

"I mean," explained Hal, "a diet of bread and water is not what I'd
choose to live on."

"What would yer choose?"

The tone suggested that the question was a rhetorical one; but Hal took
it in good faith. "If I could have some beefsteak and mashed potatoes--"

The door of the cell closed with a slam whose echoes drowned out the
rest of that imaginary menu. And so once more Hal sat on the hard bench,
and munched his hunk of bread, and thought jail-thoughts.

When the quitting-whistle blew, he stood at the window, and saw the
groups of his friends once again, and got their covert signals of
encouragement. Then darkness fell, and another long vigil began.

It was late; Hal had no means of telling how late, save that all the
lights in the camps were out. He made up his mind that he was in for the
night, and had settled himself on the floor with his arm for a pillow,
and had dozed off to sleep, when suddenly there came a scraping sound
against the bars of his window. He sat up with a start, and heard
another sound, unmistakably the rustling of paper. He sprang to the
window, where by the faint light of the stars he could make out
something dangling. He caught at it; it seemed to be an ordinary
note-book, such as stenographers use, tied on the end of a pole.

Hal looked out, but could see no one. He caught hold of the pole and
jerked it, as a signal; and then he heard a whisper which he recognised
instantly as Rovetta's. "Hello! Listen. Write your name hundred times in
book. I come back. Understand?"

The command was a sufficiently puzzling one, but Hal realised that this
was no time for explanations. He answered, "Yes," and broke the string
and took the notebook. There was a pencil attached, with a piece of
cloth wrapped round the point to protect it.

The pole was withdrawn, and Hal sat on the bench, and began to write,
three or four times on a page, "Joe Smith--Joe Smith--Joe Smith." It is
not hard to write "Joe Smith," even in darkness, and so, while his hand
moved, Hal's mind was busy with this mystery. It was fairly to be
assumed that his committee did not want his autograph to distribute for
a souvenir; they must want it for some vital purpose, to meet some new
move of the bosses. The answer to this riddle was not slow in coming:
having failed in their effort to find money on him, the bosses had
framed up a letter, which they were exhibiting as having been written by
the would-be check-weigh-man. His friends wanted his signature to
disprove the authenticity of the letter.

Hal wrote a free and rapid hand, with a generous flourish; he felt sure
it would be different from Alec Stone's idea of a working-boy's scrawl.
His pencil flew on and on--"Joe Smith--Joe Smith--" page after page,
until he was sure that he had written a signature for every miner in the
camp, and was beginning on the buddies. Then, hearing a whistle outside,
he stopped and sprang to the window.

"Throw it!" whispered a voice; and Hal threw it. He saw a form vanish up
the street, after which all was quiet again. He listened for a while, to
see if he had roused his jailer; then he lay down on the bench--and
thought more jail-thoughts!

SECTION 18.

Morning came, and the mine-whistle blew, and Hal stood at the window
again. This time he noticed that some of the miners on their way to work
had little strips of paper in their hands, which strips they waved
conspicuously for him to see. Old Mike Sikoria came along, having a
whole bunch of strips in his hands, which he was distributing to all who
would take them. Doubtless he had been warned to proceed secretly, but
the excitement of the occasion had been too much for him; he capered
about like a young spring lamb, and waved the strips at Hal in plain
sight of all the world.

Such indiscreet behaviour met the return it invited. As Hal watched, he
saw a stocky figure come striding round the corner, confronting the
startled old Slovak. It was Bud Adams, the mine-guard, and his hard
fists were clenched, and his whole body gathered for a blow. Mike saw
him, and was as if suddenly struck with paralysis; his toil-bent
shoulders sunk together, and his hands fell to his sides--his fingers
opening, and his precious strips of paper fluttering to the ground. Mike
stared at Bud like a fascinated rabbit, making no move to protect
himself.

Hal clutched the bars, with an impulse to leap to his friend's defence.
But the expected blow did not fall; the mine-guard contented himself
with glaring ferociously, and giving an order to the old man. Mike
stooped and picked up the papers--the process taking him some time, as
he was unable or unwilling to take his eyes off the mine-guard's. When
he got them all in his hands, there came another order, and he gave them
up to Bud. After which he fell back a step, and the other followed, his
fists still clenched, and a blow seeming about to leap from him every
moment. Mike receded another step, and then another--so the two of them
backed out of sight around the corner. Men who had been witnesses of
this little drama turned and slunk off, and Hal was given no clue as to
its outcome.

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