To Him That Hath

R >> Ralph Connor >> To Him That Hath


This morning the reports he had just received convinced him that a
strike with his workers would not long be delayed. "If I only knew what
they really wanted," he bitterly mused. "It cannot be wages. Their wages
are two or three times what they were before the war--shop conditions
are all that could be desired--the Lord knows I have spent enough in
this welfare stuff and all that sort of thing during these hard times.
I have heard of no real grievances. I am sick of it all. I guess I am
growing too old for this sort of thing."

There was a tap at the door and his son appeared, with a cheery
greeting.

"Come in, Jack," said his father, "I believe you are the very man I
want."

"Hello, Dad. You look as if you were in trouble."

"Well," replied his father with a keen look at him, "I think I may
return the compliment."

"Well, yes, but perhaps I should not bother you. You have all you can
carry."

"All I can carry," echoed Maitland, picking up the reports from his
desk and handing them to his son, who glanced over them. "Things are not
going well at the mills. No, you needn't tell me. You know I never ask
you for any confidences about your brother unionists."

"Right you are, Dad. You have always played the game."

"Well, I must confess this is beyond me. Everywhere on the men's faces
I catch that beastly look of distrust and suspicion. I hate to work with
men like that. And very obviously, trouble is brewing, but what it is,
frankly, it is beyond me to know."

"Well, it is hardly a secret any longer," said Jack. "Trouble is coming,
Dad, though what form it shall take I am not in a position to say. Union
discipline is a fierce thing. The rank and file are not taken into
the confidence of the leaders. Policies are decided upon in the secret
councils of the Great Ones and handed down to us to adopt. Of course, it
is open to any man to criticise, and I am bound to say that the rankers
exercise that privilege with considerable zest. All the same, however,
it is difficult to overturn an administration, hard to upset established
order. The thing that is, is the thing that ought to be. Rejection of an
administration policy demands revolution."

"Well," said his father, taking the sheets from Jack's hand, "we needn't
go to meet the trouble. Now, let us have yours. What is your particular
grief?"

"Tony," said Jack shortly.

"Tony?" echoed his father in dismay. "Heaven help us! And what now has
come to Tony? Though I must confess I have been expecting this for some
time. It had to come."

"It is a long story, Dad, and I shan't worry you with the details. As
you know, after leaving us, Tony went from one job to another with the
curve steadily downwards. For the last few months, I gather, he has
been living on his wits, helped out by generous contributions from his
sister's wages. Finally he was given a subordinate position under
'The Great War Veterans' who have really been very decent to him. This
position involved the handling of funds--no great amount. Then it was
the old story--gambling and drinking--the loss of all control--desperate
straits--hoping to recoup his losses--and you know the rest."

"Embezzlement?" asked Maitland.

"Yes, embezzlement," said Jack. "Tony is not a thief. He didn't
deliberately steal, you understand."

"Jack," said his father, sharply, "get that out of your head. There is
no such distinction in law or in fact. Stealing is stealing, whatever
the motive behind it, whatever the plan governing it, by whatever name
called."

"I didn't really mean anything else, Dad. Tony did the thing, at any
rate, and the cops were on his trail. He got into hiding, sent an S. O.
S. to his sister. Annette, driven to desperation, came to me with her
story the night of the Match. She was awfully cut up, poor girl. I had
to leave the dance and go right off to Toronto. Too late for the train,
I drove straight through,--ghastly roads,--found Tony, fetched him back,
and up till yesterday he has been hiding in his own home. Meantime,
I managed to get things fixed up--paid his debts, the prosecution is
withdrawn and now he wants,--or, rather, he doesn't want but needs, a
job."

Maitland listened with a grave face. "Then the little girl was right,
after all," he said.

"Meaning?"

"Patricia," said his father. "She told me a long story of a terrible
accident to Tony that had called you away to Toronto. I must say it was
rather incoherent."

"But who told her? I swear not a soul knew but his people and myself,"
said Jack.

"Strange how things get out," said his father. "Well, where is Tony
now?"

"Here, in the outer office."

"But," said Maitland, desperately, "where can we place him? He is
impossible in any position--dangerous in the office, useless as a
foreman, doubtful and uncertain as a workman."

"One thing is quite certain," said Jack decidedly, "he must be under
discipline. He is useless on his own. I thought that perhaps he might
work beside me. I could keep an eye on him. Tony has nothing in him
to work with. I should like to hear old Matheson on him--the Reverend
Murdo, I mean. That is a great theme of his--'To the man who has nothing
you can give nothing.'"

"Matheson?" said Maitland. "A chum of yours, I understand. Radical, eh?"

"A very decent sort, father," replied Jack. "I have been doing a little
economics with him during the winter. His radicalism is of a sound type,
I think. He is a regular bear at economics and he is even better at the
humanity business, the brother-man stuff. He is really sound there."

"I can guess what you mean," said his father, "though I don't quite
catch on to all your jargon. But I confess that I suspect there is a
whole lot of nonsense associated with these theories."

"You will pardon me, Dad," said Jack, "if I suggest that your education
is really not yet complete."

"Whose is?" inquired his father, curtly.

"But about Tony," continued Jack, "I wish I had him in a gang under me.
I would work him, or break his neck."

His father sat silently pondering for some minutes. Then, as if making
a sudden resolve, he said: "Jack, I have been wanting to speak with
you about something for some weeks. I have come to a place where it is
imperative that I get some relief from my load. You see, I am carrying
the whole burden of management practically alone. I look after the
financing, the markets, I keep an eye on production and even upon the
factory management. In normal conditions I could manage to get along,
but in these critical days, when every department calls for close,
constant and sane supervision, I feel that I must have relief. If I
could be relieved of the job of shop management, I could give myself
to the other departments where the situation at present is extremely
critical. I want a manager, Jack. Why not take the job? Now," he
continued, holding up his hand, as his son was about to speak, "listen
for a moment or two. I have said the situation is serious. Let me
explain that. The financing of this business in the present crisis
requires a man's full time and energy. Markets, credits, collections,
all demand the very closest attention."

Jack glanced at his father's face. For the first time he noticed how
deep-cut were the lines that indicated care, anxiety and worry. A sudden
remorse seized him.

"I am awfully sorry, sir," he said, "I have not been of much help to
you."

Maitland waved his hand as if dismissing the suggestion. "Now you know
nothing of the financial side, but you do know men and you can handle
them. You proved that in the war, and, in another way, you proved that
during this recent athletic contest. I followed that very closely and I
say without hesitation that it was a remarkably fine bit of work and the
reactions were of the best. Jack, I believe that you would make a great
manager if you gave yourself to it, and thought it worth while. Now,
listen to me." Thereupon the father proceeded to lay before his son the
immediately pressing problems in the business--the financial obligations
already assumed, the heavy accumulation of stock for which there were no
markets, the increasing costs in production with no hope of relief, but
rather every expectation of added burdens in this direction.

As he listened to his father, Jack was appalled with what he considered
the overwhelmingly disastrous situation in which the business was
placed. At the same time he saw his father in a new light. This silent,
stern, reserved man assumed a role of hero in his eyes, facing desperate
odds and silently fighting a lonely and doubtful battle. The son was
smitten with a sense of his own futility. In him was born a desire and
a resolve to stand beside his father in this conflict and if the battle
went against them, to share in the defeat.

"Dad," cried his son impulsively, "I am a rotter. I have been of no help
to you, but only a burden. I had no idea the situation was so serious."
Remorse and alarm showed in his tone.

"Don't misunderstand me," said his father. "This is new to you and
appears more serious than it is. There is really no ground, or little
ground, for anxiety or alarm. Let me give you the other side." Then he
proceeded to set forth the resources of the business, the extent of
his credit, his plans to meet the present situation and to prepare for
possible emergencies. "We are not at the wall yet, by any means, Jack,"
he said, his voice ringing out with a resolute courage. "But I am bound
to say that if any sudden or untoward combination of circumstances, a
strike, for instance, should arise, disaster might follow."

Jack's heart sank still lower. He was practically certain that a
strike was imminent. Although without any official confirmation of his
suspicions, he had kept his eyes and ears opened and he was convinced
that trouble was unavoidable. As his father continued to set forth his
plans, his admiration for him grew. He brought to bear upon the problems
with which he was grappling a clear head, wide knowledge and steady
courage. He was a general, planning a campaign in the face of serious
odds. He recalled a saying of his old Commander-in-Chief in France: "War
is a business and will be won by the application of business principles
and business methods. Given a body of fighting men such as I command,
the thing becomes a problem of transportation, organization, reserve,
insurance. War is a business and will be won by fighting men directed or
governed by business principles." He was filled with regret that he had
not given himself more during these last months to the study of these
principles. The prospect of a fight against impending disaster touched
his imagination and stimulated him like a bugle call.

"I see what you want, father," he said. "You want to have some good N.
C. O.'s. The N. C. O. is the backbone of the army," he quoted with a
grin.

"N. C. O?" echoed his father. He was not sufficiently versed in military
affairs to catch the full meaning of the army rag.

"What I mean is," said Jack, "that no matter how able a military
commander is, he must have efficient subordinates to carry on. No
Colonel can do his own company and platoon work."

His father nodded: "You've got it, Jack. I want a manager to whom I can
entrust a policy without ever having to think of it again. I don't want
a man who gets on top of the load, but one who gets under it."

"You want a good adjutant, father, and a sergeant-major."

"I suppose so," said the father, "although your military terms are
a little beyond me. After all, the thing is simple enough. On the
management side, we want increase in production, which means decrease in
production costs, and this means better organization of the work and the
workers."

Jack nodded and after a moment, said: "May I add, sir, one thing more?"

"Yes," said his father.

"Team play," said Jack. "That is my specialty, you know. Individualism
in a game may be spectacularly attractive, but it doesn't get the goal."

"Team play," said his father. "Co-operation, I suppose you mean. My dear
boy, this is no time for experimentation in profit-sharing schemes, if
that is what you are after. Anyway, the history of profiteering schemes
as I have read it is not such as to warrant entire confidence in their
soundness. You cannot change the economic system overnight."

"That is true enough, Dad," said his son, "and perhaps I am a fool. But
I remember, and you remember, what everybody said, and especially what
the experts said, about the military methods and tactics before the war.
You say you cannot change the economic system overnight, and yet the
whole military system was changed practically overnight. In almost every
particular, there was a complete revolution. Cavalry, fortress defences,
high explosives, the proper place for machine guns, field tactics,
in fact, the whole business was radically changed. And if we hadn't
changed, they would be speaking German in the schools of England, like
enough, by this time."

"Jack, you may be right," said his father, with a touch of impatience,
"but I don't want to be worried just now. It is easy enough for your
friend, Matheson, and other academic industrial directors, to suggest
experiments with other people's money. If we could only get production,
I would not mind very much what wages we had to pay. But I confess when
industrial strife is added to my other burdens, it is almost more than I
can bear."

"I am awfully sorry, Dad," replied his son. "I have no wish to worry
you, but how are you going to get production? Everybody says it has
fallen off terribly during and since the war. How are you going to bring
it up? Not by the pay envelope, I venture to say, and that is why I
suggested team play. And I am not thinking about co-operative schemes
of management, either. Some way must be found to interest the fellows in
their job, in the work itself, as distinct from the financial returns.
Unless the chaps are interested in the game, they won't get the goals."

"My boy," said his father wearily, "that old interest in work is gone.
That old pride in work which we used to feel when I was at the job
myself, is gone. We have a different kind of workman nowadays."

"Dad, don't believe that," said Jack. "Remember the same thing was said
before the war. We used to hear all about that decadent race stuff. The
war proved it to be all rot. The race is as fine as ever it was. Our
history never produced finer fighting men."

"You may be right," said his father. "If we could only get rid of these
cursed agitators."

"There again, Dad, if you will excuse me, I believe you are mistaken.
I have been working with these men for the last nine months, I have
attended very regularly the meetings of their unions and I have studied
the whole situation with great care. The union is a great institution. I
am for it heart and soul. It is soundly and solidly democratic, and the
agitators cut very little figure. I size up the whole lot about this
way: Fifty per cent of the men are steady-going fellows with ambition to
climb; twenty-five per cent are content to grub along for the day's pay
and with no great ambition worrying them. Of the remainder, ten per
cent are sincere and convinced reformers, more or less half-baked
intellectuals; ten per cent love the sound of their own voices, hate
work and want to live by their jaw, five per cent only are unscrupulous
and selfish agitators. But, Dad, believe me, fire-brands may light
fires, but solid fagots only can keep fires going. You cannot make
conflagrations out of torches alone."

"That is Matheson, I suppose," said his father, smiling at him.

"Well, I own up. I have got a lot of stuff from Matheson. All the same I
believe I have fairly sized up the labour situation."

"Boy, boy," said his father, "I am tired of it all. I believe with some
team play you and I could make it go. Alone, I am not so sure. Will you
take the job?"

There was silence between them for a few minutes. Then Jack answered
slowly: "I am not sure of myself at all, Dad, but I can see you must
have someone and I am willing to try the planing mill."

"Thank you, boy," said his father, stretching his hand quickly across
the table, "I will back you up and won't worry you. Within reasonable
limits I will give you a free hand."

"I know you will, Dad," said Jack, "and of course I have been in the
army long enough to know the difference between the O. C. and the
sergeant-major."

"Now, what about Tony?" inquired Maitland, reverting suddenly to what
both felt to be a painful and perplexing problem. "What are we to do
with him?"

"I will take him on," said Jack. "I suppose I must."

"He will be a heavy handicap to you, boy. Is there no other way?"

"I see no other way," Jack replied. "I will give him a trial. Shall I
bring him in?"

"Bring him in."

In a minute or two Jack returned with Tony. As Maitland's eyes fell upon
him, he could not prevent a start of shocked surprise.

"Why, Tony!" he exclaimed. "What in all the world is wrong with you? You
are ill." Trembling, pale, obviously unstrung, Tony stood before him,
his shifty eyes darting now at one face, then at the other, his hands
restless, his whole appearance suggesting an imminent nervous collapse.
"Why, Tony, boy, what is wrong with you?" repeated Maitland. The kindly
tone proved too much for Tony's self-control. He gulped, choked, and
stood speechless, his eyes cast down to the floor.

"Sit down, Tony," said Maitland. "Give him a chair, Jack."

But Jack said, "He doesn't need a chair. He is not here for a visit. You
wanted to say something to him, did you not?" Jack's dry, matter-of-fact
and slightly contemptuous tone had an instant and extraordinary effect
upon the wretched man beside him.

Instantly, Tony stiffened up. His head went back, he cast a swift glance
at Jack's face, whose smile, slightly quizzical, slightly contemptuous,
appeared to bite into his vitals. A hot flame of colour swept his pale
and pasty face.

"I want a job, sir," he said, in a tone low and fierce, looking straight
at Mr. Maitland.

Maitland, taking his cue from his son, replied in a quiet voice: "Can
you hold a job?"

"God knows," said Tony.

"He does," replied Maitland, "but what about you?"

Tony stood for a few moments saying nothing, darting uncertain glances
now and then at Jack, on whose face still lingered the smile which Tony
found so disturbing.

"If you want work," continued Mr. Maitland, "and want to make it go,
Tony, you can go with Jack. He will give it to you."

"Jack!" exclaimed Tony. His face was a study. Uncertainty, fear, hope,
disappointment were all there.

"Yes, Jack," said Mr. Maitland. "He is manager in these works now."

Tony threw back his head and laughed. "I guess I will have to work,
then," he said.

"You just bet you will, Tony," replied Jack. "Come along, we will go."

"Where?"

"I am taking you home. See you to-night, sir," Jack added, nodding to
his father.

The two young men passed out together to the car.

"Yes, Tony," said Jack, "I have taken over your job."

"My job? What do you mean by that?" asked Tony, bitter and sullen in
face and tone.

"I am the new manager of the planing mill. Dad had you slated for that
position, but you hadn't manager-timber in you."

Tony's answer was an oath, deep and heartfelt.

"Yes," continued Jack, "manager-timber is rare and slow-growing stuff,
Tony."

Again Tony swore but kept silence, and so remained till they had reached
his home. Together they walked into the living room. There they found
Annette, and with her McNish. Both rose upon their entrance, McNish
showing some slight confusion, and assuming the attitude of a bulldog on
guard, Annette vividly eager, expectant, anxious.

"Well," she cried, her hands going fluttering to her bosom.

"I have got a job, Annette," said Tony, with a short laugh. "Here is my
boss."

For a moment the others stood looking at Jack, surprised into motionless
silence.

"I tell you, he is the new manager," repeated Tony, "and he is my boss."

"What does he mean, Jack?" cried the girl, coming forward to Maitland
with a quick, impulsive movement.

"Just what he says, Annette. I am the new manager of the planing mill
and I have given Tony a job."

Again there fell a silence. Into the eyes of the bulldog McNish there
shot a strange gleam of something that seemed almost like pleasure. In
those brief moments of silence life was readjusting itself with them
all. Maitland had passed from the rank and file of the workers into the
class of those who direct and control their work. Bred as they were and
trained as they were in the democratic atmosphere of Canada, they were
immediately conscious of the shifting of values.

Annette was the first to break silence. "I wish I could thank you," she
said, "but I cannot. I cannot." The girl's face had changed. The eager
light had faded from her dark eyes, her hands dropped quietly to her
side. "But I am sure you know," she added after a pause, "how very, very
grateful I am, how grateful we all are, Mr. Maitland."

"Annette," said Jack severely, "drop that 'Mr.' stuff. I was your friend
yesterday. Am I any less your friend to-day? True enough, I am Tony's
boss, but Tony is my friend--that is, if he wants to have it so. You
must believe this, Annette."

He offered her his hand. With a sudden impulse she took it in both of
hers and held it hard against her breast, her eyes meanwhile burning
into his with a look of adoration, open and unashamed. She apparently
forgot the others in the room.

"Jack," she cried, her voice thrilling with passion, "I don't care what
you are. I don't care what you think. I will never, never forget what
you have done for me."

Maitland flung a swift glance at McNish and was startled at the look of
rage, of agonised rage, that convulsed his face.

"My dear Annette," he said, with a light laugh, "don't make too much of
it. I was glad to help Tony and you. Why shouldn't I help old friends?"

As he was speaking they heard the sound of a door closing and looking
about, Jack found that McNish had gone, to be followed by Tony a moment
or two later.

"Oh, never mind him," cried Annette, answering Jack's look of surprise.
"He has to go to work. And it doesn't matter in the least."

Jack was vaguely disturbed by McNish's sudden disappearance.

"But, Annette," he said, "I don't want McNish to think that I--that
you--"

"What?" She leaned toward him, her face all glowing with warm and eager
light, her eyes aflame, her bosom heaving. "What, Jack?" she whispered.
"What does it matter what he thinks?"

He put out his hands. With a quick, light step she was close to him, her
face lifted up in passionate surrender. Swiftly Jack's arms went around
her and he drew her toward him.

"Annette, dear," he said, and his voice was quiet and kind, too kind.
"You are a dear girl and a good girl, and I am glad to have helped you
and shall always be glad to help you."

The door opened and Tony slipped into the room. With passionate
violence, Annette threw away the encircling arms.

"Ah!" she cried, a sob catching her voice. "You--you shame me. No--I
shame myself." Rigid, with head flung back, she stood before him, her
eyes ablaze with passionate anger, her hands clenched tight. She had
flung herself at him and had been rejected.

"What the devil is this?" cried Tony, striding toward them. "What is he
doing to you, Annette?"

"He?" cried Annette, her breath coming in sobs. "To me? Nothing! Keep
out of it, Tony." She pushed him fiercely aside. "He has done nothing!
No! No! Nothing but what is good and kind. Ah! kind. Yes, kind." Her
voice rose shrill in scorn of herself and of him. "Oh, yes, he is kind."
She laughed wildly, then broke into passionate tears. She turned from
them and fled to her room, leaving the two men looking at each other.

"Poor child," said Jack, the first to recover speech. "She is quite all
in. She has had two hard weeks of it."

"Two hard weeks," repeated Tony, his eyes glaring. "What is the matter
with my sister? What have you done to her?" His voice was like the growl
of a savage dog.

"Don't be a confounded fool, Tony," replied Jack. "You ought to know
what is the matter with your sister. You have had something to do with
it. And now your job is to see if you can make it up to her. To-morrow
morning, at seven o'clock, remember," he said curtly, and, turning on
his heel, he passed out.

It seemed to Jack as he drove home that life had suddenly become a
tangle of perplexities and complications. First there was Annette. He
was genuinely distressed as he thought of the scene through which they
had just passed. That he himself had anything to do with her state of
mind did not occur to him.

"Poor little girl," he said to himself, "she really needs a change of
some sort, a complete rest. We must find some way of helping her. She
will be all right in a day or two." With which he dismissed the subject.

Then there was McNish. McNish was a sore puzzle to him. He had come
to regard the Scotchman with a feeling of sincere friendliness. He
remembered gratefully his ready and efficient help against the attacks
of the radical element among his fellow workmen. On several occasions
he, with the Reverend Murdo Matheson, had foregathered in the McNish
home to discuss economic problems over a quiet pipe. He was always
conscious of a reserve deepening at times to a sullenness in McNish's
manner, the cause of which he could not certainly discover. That McNish
was possessed of a mentality of more than ordinary power there was
no manner of doubt. Jack had often listened with amazement to his
argumentation with the Reverend Murdo, against whom he proved over and
over again his ability to hold his own, the minister's superiority as
a trained logician being more than counterbalanced by his antagonist's
practical experience.