HELEN OF THE OLD HOUSE

BY HAROLD BELL WRIGHT

1921

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE

THE INTERPRETER

CHAPTER

I. THE HUT ON THE CLIFF

II. LITTLE MAGGIE'S PRINCESS LADY

III. THE INTERPRETER

IV. PETER MARTIN AT HOME

V. ADAM WARD'S ESTATE

VI. ON THE OLD ROAD

VII. THE HIDDEN THING

VIII. WHILE THE PEOPLE SLEEP

IX. THE MILL

X. CONCERNING THE NEW MANAGER

XI. COMRADES

XII. TWO SIDES OF A QUESTION

BOOK TWO

THE TWO HELENS

XIII. THE AWAKENING

XIV. THE WAY BACK

XV. AT THE OLD HOUSE

XVI. HER OWN PEOPLE

XVII. IN THE NIGHT

BOOK THREE

THE STRIKE

XVIII. THE GATHERING STORM

XIX. ADAM WARD'S WORK

XX. THE PEOPLE'S AMERICA

XXI. PETER MARTIN'S PROBLEM

XXII. OLD FRIENDS

XXIII. A LAST CHANCE

XXIV. THE FLATS

XXV. McIVER's OPPORTUNITY

XXVI. AT THE CALL OF THE WHISTLE

XXVII. JAKE VODELL'S MISTAKE

XXVIII. THE MOB AND THE MILL

XXIX. CONTRACTS

BOOK FOUR

THE OLD HOUSE

XXX. "JEST LIKE THE INTERPRETER SAID"

BOOK I

THE INTERPRETER

"_Take up our quarrel with the foe:To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields_. "

CHAPTER I

THE HUT ON THE CLIFF

No well informed resident of Millsburgh, when referring to theprincipal industry of his little manufacturing city, ever says "themills"--it is always "the Mill. "

The reason for this common habit of mind is that one mill soovershadows all others, and so dominates the industrial and civic lifeof this community, that in the people's thought it stands for all. 

The philosopher who keeps the cigar stand on the corner of CongressStreet and Ward Avenue explained it very clearly when he answered aninquiring stranger, "You just can't think Millsburgh without thinkin'mills; an' you can't think mills without thinkin' _the_ Mill. "

As he turned from the cash register to throw his customer's change onthe scratched top of the glass show case, the philosopher added with agrin that was a curious blend of admiration, contempt and envy, "An'you just can't think the Mill without thinkin' Adam Ward. "

That grin was another distinguishing mark of the well informed residentof Millsburgh. Always, in those days, when the citizens mentioned theowner of the Mill, their faces took on that curious half-laughingexpression of mingled admiration, contempt and envy. 

But it has come to pass that in these days when the people speak ofAdam Ward they do not smile. When they speak of Adam Ward's daughter, Helen, they smile, indeed, but with quite a different meaning. 

The history of Millsburgh is not essentially different from that of athousand other cities of its class. 

Born of the natural resources of the hills and forests, the first rudemill was located on that wide sweeping bend of the river. About thisindustrial beginning a settlement gathered. As the farm lands of thevalley were developed, the railroad came, bringing more mills. And sothe town grew up around its smoky heart. 

It was in those earlier days that Adam Ward, a workman then, patentedand introduced the new process. It was the new process, together withits owner's native genius for "getting on, " that, in time, made Adamthe owner of the Mill. And, finally, it was this combination of Adamand the new process that gave this one mill dominion over all others. 

As the Mill increased in size, importance and power, and the town grewinto the city, Adam Ward's material possessions were multiplied manytimes. 

Then came the year of this story. 

It was midsummer. The green, wooded hills that form the southernboundary of the valley seemed to be painted on shimmering gauze. Thegrainfields on the lowlands across the river were shining gold. But theslate-colored dust from the unpaved streets of that section ofMillsburgh known locally as the "Flats" covered the wretched houses, the dilapidated fences, the hovels and shanties, and everything animateor inanimate with a thick coating of dingy gray powder. Shut in as itis between a long curving line of cliffs on the south and a row of tallbuildings on the river bank, the place was untouched by the refreshingbreeze that stirred the trees on the hillside above. The hot, dust-filled atmosphere was vibrant with the dull, droning voice of theMill. From the forest of tall stacks the smoke went up in slow, twisting columns to stain the clean blue sky with a heavy cloud ofdirty brown. 

The deep-toned whistle of the Mill had barely called the workmen fromtheir dinner pails and baskets when two children came along the roadthat for some distance follows close to the base of that high wall ofcliffs. By their ragged, nondescript clothing which, to say the least, was scant enough to afford them comfort and freedom of limb, and by thedirt, that covered them from the crowns of their bare, unkempt heads tothe bottoms of their bare, unwashed feet, it was easy to identify thechildren as belonging to that untidy community. 

One was a sturdy boy of eight or nine neglected years. On his ratherheavy, freckled face and in his sharp blue eyes there was, already, alook of hardness that is not good to see in the countenance of a child. The other, his sister, was two years younger--a thin wisp of a girl, with tiny stooping shoulders, as though, even in her babyhood, she hadfound a burden too heavy. With her tired little face and grave, questioning eyes she looked at the world as if she were wondering, wistfully, why it should bother to be so unkind to such a helpless miteof humanity. 

As they came down the worn road, side by side they chose withexperienced care those wheel ruts where the black dust lay thickestand, in solemn earnestness, plowed the hot tracks with their bare feet, as if their one mission in life were to add the largest possible cloudof powdered dirt to the already murky atmosphere of the vicinity. 

Suddenly they stood still. 

For a long, silent moment they gazed at a rickety old wooden stairwaythat, at this point in the unbroken line of cliffs, climbs zigzag upthe face of the rock-buttressed wall. Then, as if moved by a commonimpulse, they faced each other. The quick fire of adventure kindled inthe eyes of the boy as he met the girl's look of understanding. 

"Let's go up--stump yer, " he said, with a daredevil grin. 

"Huh, yer wouldn't dast. "

Womanlike, she was hoping that he would "dast" and, with the trueinstinct of her sex, she chose unerringly the one way to bring aboutthe realization of her hope. 

Her companion met the challenge like a man. With a swaggering show ofcourage, he went to the stairway and climbed boldly up--six full steps. Then he paused and looked down, "I don't dast, don't I?"

From the lower step she spurred his faltering spirit, "Dare yer--dareyer--dare yer. "

He came reluctantly down two steps, "Will yer go up if I do?"

She nodded, "Uh-huh--but yer gotter go first. "

He looked doubtfully up at the edge of the cliff so far above them. "Shucks, " he said, with conviction, "ain't nobody up there 'cept oldInterpreter, an' that dummy, Billy Rand. I know 'cause Skinny Davis an'Chuck Wilson, they told me. They was up--old Interpreter, he can't donothin' to nobody--he ain't got no legs. "

Gravely she considered with him the possible dangers of the proposedadventure. "Billy Rand has got legs. "

"He can't hear nothin', though--can't talk neither, " said the leader ofthe expedition. "An' besides maybe he ain't there--we might catch himout. What d'yer say? Will we chance it?"

She looked up doubtfully toward the unknown land above. "I dunno, willwe?"

"Skinny an' Chuck, they said the Interpreter give 'em cookies--an' told'em stories too. "

"Cookies, Gee! Go ahead--I'm a-comin'. "

That tiny house high on the cliff at the head of the old, zigzagstairway, up which the children now climbed with many doubtful stopsand questioning fears, is a landmark of interest not only to Millsburghbut to the country people for miles around. 

Perched on the perilous brink of that curving wall of rocks, with itslow, irregular, patched and weather-beaten roof, and its rough-boardedand storm-beaten walls half hidden in a tangle of vines and bushes, thelittle hut looks, from a distance, as though it might once have beenthe strange habitation of some gigantic winged creature of prehistoricages. The place may be reached from a seldom-used road that leads alongthe steep hillside, a quarter of a mile back from the edge of theprecipice, but the principal connecting link between the queerhabitation and the world is that flight of rickety wooden steps. 

Taking advantage of an irregularity in the line of cliffs, the upperlanding of the stairway is placed at the side of the hut. In the rear, a small garden is protected from the uncultivated life of the hillsideby a fence of close-set pickets. Across the front of the curiousstructure, well out on the projecting point of rocks, and reached onlythrough the interior, a wide, strongly railed porch overhangs the sheerwall like a balcony. 

With fast-beating hearts, the two small adventurers gained the top ofthe stairway. Cautiously they looked about--listening, conferring inwhispers, ready for instant, headlong retreat. 

The tall grasses and flowering weeds on the hillside nodded sleepily inthe sunlight. A bird perched on a near-by bush watched them with brighteyes for a moment, then fearlessly sought the shade of the vines thatscreened the side of the hut. Save the distant, droning, moaning voiceof the Mill, there was no sound. 

Calling up the last reserves of their courage, the children creptsoftly along the board walk that connects the landing of the stairwaywith the rude dwelling. Once again they paused to look and listen. Then, timidly, they took the last cautious steps and stood in the opendoorway. With big, wondering eyes they stared into the room. 

It was a rather large room, with a low-beamed ceiling of unfinishedpine boards and gray, rough-plastered walls, and wide windows. Agreen-shaded student lamp with a pile of magazines and papers on thetable caught their curious eyes, and they gazed in awe at the longshelves of books against the wall. Opposite the entrance where theystood they saw a strongly made workbench. And beneath this bench andpiled in that corner of the room were baskets--dozens of them--ofseveral shapes and sizes; while brackets and shelves above were filledwith the materials of which the baskets were woven. There was verylittle furniture. The floors were bare, the windows without hangings. It was all so different from anything that these children of the Flatshad ever seen that they felt their adventure assuming proportions. 

For what seemed a long time, the boy and the girl stood there, hesitating, on the threshold, expecting something--anything--to happen. Then the lad ventured a bold step or two into the room. His sisterfollowed timidly. 

They were facing hungrily toward an open door that led, evidently, tothe kitchen, when a deep voice from somewhere behind them said, "How doyou do?"

Startled nearly out of their small wits, the adventurers whirled toescape, but the voice halted them with, "Don't go. You came to see me, didn't you?"

The voice, though so deep and strong, was unmistakably kind andgentle--quite the gentlest voice, in fact, that these children had everheard. 

Hesitatingly, they went again into the room, and now, turning theirbacks upon the culinary end of the apartment, they saw, through thedoorway opening on to the balcony porch, a man seated in a wheel chair. In his lap he held a half-finished basket. 

For a little while the man regarded them with grave, smiling eyes asthough, understanding their fears, he would give them time to gaincourage. Then he said, gently, "Won't you come out here on the porchand visit with me?"

The boy and the girl exchanged questioning looks. 

"Come on, " said the man, encouragingly. 

Perhaps the sight of that wheel chair recalled to the boy's mind thereports of his friends, Skinny and Chuck. Perhaps it was something inthe man himself that appealed to the unerring instincts of the child. The doubt and hesitation in the urchin's freckled face suddenly gaveway to a look of reckless daring and he marched forward with theswaggering air of an infant bravado. Shyly the little girl followed. 

Invariably one's first impression of that man in the wheel chair was athought of the tremendous physical strength and vitality that must oncehave been his. But the great trunk, with its mighty shoulders andmassive arms, that in the years past had marked him in the multitude, was little more than a framework now. His head with its silvery whitehair and beard--save that in his countenance there was a look of morevenerable age--reminded one of the sculptor Rodin. These details of theman's physical appearance held one's thoughts but for a moment. Onelook into the calm depths of those dark eyes that were filled with suchan indescribable mingling of pathetic courage, of patient fortitude, and of sorrowful authority, and one so instantly felt the dominantspiritual and mental personality of this man that all else about himwas forgotten. 

Squaring himself before his host, the boy said, aggressively, "I knowwho _yer_ are. Yer are the Interpreter. I know 'cause yer ain't got nolegs. "

"Yes, " returned the old basket maker, still smiling, "I am theInterpreter. At least, " he continued, "that is what the people callme. " Then, as he regarded the general appearance of the children, andnoted particularly the tired face and pathetic eyes of the little girl, his smile was lost in a look of brooding sorrow and his deep voice wassad and gentle, as he added, "But some things I find very hard tointerpret. "

The girl, with a shy smile, went a little nearer. 

The boy, with his eyes fixed upon the covering that in spite of theheat of the day hid the man in the wheel chair from his waist down, said with the cruel insistency of childhood, "Ain't yer got nolegs--honest, now, ain't yer?"

The Interpreter laughed understandingly. Placing the unfinished basketon a low table that held his tools and the material for his work withinreach of his hand, he threw aside the light shawl. "See!" he said. 

For a moment the children gazed, breathlessly, at those shrunken andtwisted limbs that resembled the limbs of a strong man no more than theempty, flapping sleeves of a scarecrow resemble the arms of a livinghuman body. 

"They are legs all right, " said the Interpreter, still smiling, "butthey're not much good, are they? Do you think you could beat me in arace?"

"Gee!" exclaimed the boy. 

Two bright tears rolled down the thin, dirty cheeks of the littlegirl's tired face, and she turned to look away over the dirty Flats, the smoke-grimed mills, and the golden fields of grain in the sunshinyvalley, to something that she seemed to see in the far distant sky. 

With a quick movement the Interpreter again hid his useless limbs. 

"And now don't you think you might tell me about yourselves? What isyour name, my boy?"

"I'm Bobby Whaley, " answered the lad. "She's my sister, Maggie. "

"Oh, yes, " said the Interpreter. "Your father is Sam Whaley. He worksin the Mill. "

"Uh-huh, some of the time he works--when there ain't no strikes nernothin'. "

The Interpreter, with his eyes on that dark cloud that hung above theforest of grim stacks, appeared to attach rather more importance toBobby's reply than the lad's simple words would justify. 

Then, looking gravely at Sam Whaley's son, he said, "And you will workin the Mill, too, I suppose, when you grow up?"

"I dunno, " returned the boy. "I ain't much stuck on work. An' dad, hesays it don't git yer nothin', nohow. "

"I see, " mused the Interpreter, and he seemed to see much more than layon the surface of the child's characteristic expression. 

The little girl was still gazing wistfully at the faraway line ofhills. 

As if struck by a sudden thought, the Interpreter asked, "Your fatheris working now, though, isn't he?"

"Uh-huh, just now he is. "

"I suppose then you are not hungry. "

At this wee Maggie turned quickly from contemplating the distanthorizon to consider the possible meaning in the man's remark. 

For a moment the children looked at each other. Then, as a grin ofanticipation spread itself over his freckled face, the boy exclaimed, "Hungry! Gosh! Mister Interpreter, we're allus hungry!"

For the first time the little girl spoke, in a thin, piping voice, "Skinny an' Chuck, they said yer give 'em cookies. Didn't they, Bobby?"

"Uh-huh, " agreed Bobby, hopefully. 

The man in the wheel chair laughed. "If you go into the house and lookin the bottom part of that cupboard near the kitchen door you will finda big jar and--"

But Bobby and Maggie had disappeared. 

The children had found the jar in the cupboard and, with their handsand their mouths filled with cookies, were gazing at each other inunbelieving wonder when the sound of a step on the bare floor of thekitchen startled them. One look through the open doorway and they fledwith headlong haste back to the porch, where they unhesitatingly soughtrefuge behind their friend ha the wheel chair. 

The object of their fears appeared a short moment behind them. 

"Oh, " said the Interpreter, reaching out to draw little Maggie withinthe protecting circle of his arm, "it is Billy Rand. You don't need tofear Billy. "

The man who stood looking kindly down upon them was fully as tall andheavy as the Interpreter had been in those years before the accidentthat condemned him to his chair. But Billy Rand lacked the commandingpresence that had once so distinguished his older friend and guardian. His age was somewhere between twenty and thirty; but his face was stillthe face of an overgrown and rather slow-witted child. 

Raising his hands, Billy Rand talked to the Interpreter in the signlanguage of the deaf and dumb. The Interpreter replied in the samemanner and, with a smiling nod to the children, Billy returned to thegarden in the rear of the house. 

Tiny Maggie's eyes were big with wonder. 

"Gee!" breathed Bobby. "He sure enough can't talk, can he?"

"No, " returned the Interpreter. "Poor Billy has never spoken a word. "

"Gee!" said Bobby again. "An' can't he hear nothin, ' neither?"

"No, Bobby, he has never heard a sound. "

Too awe-stricken even to repeat his favorite exclamation, the boymunched his cooky in silence, while Maggie, enjoying her share of theold basket maker's hospitality, snuggled a little closer to the wheelof the big chair. 

"Billy Rand, you see, " explained the Interpreter, "is my legs. "

Bobby laughed. "Funny legs, I'd say. "

"Yes, " agreed the Interpreter, "but very good legs just the same. Billyruns all sorts of errands for me--goes to town to sell our baskets andto bring home our groceries, helps about the house and does many thingsthat I can't do. He is hoeing the garden this afternoon. He comes inevery once in a while to ask if I want anything. He sleeps in a littleroom next to mine and sometimes in the night, when I am not restingwell, I hear him come to my bedside to see if I am all right. "

"An' yer keep him an' take care of him?" asked Bobby. 

"Yes, " returned the Interpreter, "I take care of Billy and Billy takescare of me. He has fine legs but not much of a--but cannot speak orhear. I can talk and hear and think but have no legs. So with myreasonably good head and his very good legs we make a fairly good man, you see. "

Bobby laughed aloud and even wee Maggie chuckled at the Interpreter'squaint explanation of himself and Billy Rand. 

"Funny kind of a man, " said Bobby. 

"Yes, " agreed the Interpreter, "but most of us men are funny in one wayor another--aren't we, Maggie?" He looked down into the upturned faceof that tiny wisp of humanity at his side. 

Maggie smiled gravely in answer. 

Very confident now in his superiority over the Interpreter, whose deafand dumb legs were safely out of sight in the garden back of the house, Bobby finished the last of his cookies, and began to explore. Accompanying his investigations with a running fire of questions, hefingered the unfinished basket and the tools and material on the table, examined the wheel chair, and went from end to end of the balconyporch. Hanging over the railing, he looked down from every possibleangle upon the rocks, the stairway and the dusty road below. Exhausting, at last, the possibilities of the immediate vicinity, heturned his inquiring gaze upon the more distant landscape. 

"Gee! Yer can see a lot from here, can't yer?"

"Yes, " returned the Interpreter, gravely, "you can certainly see a lot. And do you know, Bobby, it is strange, but what you see depends almostwholly on what you are?"

The boy turned his freckled face toward the Interpreter. "Huh?"

"I mean, " explained the Interpreter, "that different people seedifferent things. Some who come to visit me can see nothing but theMill over there; some see only the Flats down below; others see thestores and offices; others look at nothing but the different houses onthe hillsides; still others can see nothing but the farms. It is funny, but that's the way it is with people, Bobby. "

"Aw--what are yer givin' us?" returned Bobby, and, with an unmistakablysuperior air, he faced again toward the scene before them. "I can seethe whole darned thing--I can. "

The Interpreter laughed. "And that, " he said, "is exactly what everyone says, Bobby. But, after all, they don't see the whole darnedthing--they only think they do. "

"Huh, " retorted the boy, scornfully, "I guess I can see the Mill, can'tI?--over there by the river--with the smoke a-rollin' out of herchimneys? Listen, I can hear her, too. "

Faintly, on a passing breath of air, came the heavy droning, moaningvoice of the Mill. 

"Yes, " agreed the Interpreter, with an odd note in his deep, kindlyvoice, "I can nearly always hear it. I was sure you would see theMill. "

"An' look-ee, look-ee, " shouted the boy, forgetting, in his quickexcitement, to maintain this superior air, "look-ee, Mag! Come here, quick. " With energetic gestures he beckoned his sister to his side. "Look-ee, right over there by that bunch of dust, see? It's ourhouse--where we live. That there's Tony's old place on the corner. An'there's the lot where us kids plays ball. Gee, yer could almost see momif she'd only come outside to talk to Missus Grafton er somethin'!"

From his wheel chair the Interpreter watched the children at the porchrailing. "Of course you would see your home, " he said, gravely. "TheMill first, and then the place where you live. Nearly every one seesthose things first. Now tell what else you see. "

"I see, I see--" The boy hesitated. There was so much to be seen fromthe Interpreter's balcony porch. 

The little girl's thin voice piped up with shrill eagerness, "Look atthe pretty yeller fields an' the green trees away over there across theriver, Bobby. Gee, but wouldn't yer just love to be over therean'--an'--roll 'round in the grass, an' pick flowers, an' everything?"

"Huh, " retorted Bobby. "Look-ee, that there's McIver's factory up theriver there. It's 'most as big as the Mill. An' see all the stores an'barber shops an' things downtown--an' look-ee, there's the courthousewhere the jail is an'--"

Maggie chimed in with, "An' all the steeples of the churches--an'everythin'. "

"An' right down there, " continued the boy, pointing more toward theeast where, at the edge of the Flats, the ground begins to rise towardthe higher slope of the hills, "in that there bunch of trees is wherePete Martin lives, an' Mary an' Captain Charlie. Look-ee, Mag, yer cansee the little white house a-showin' through the green leaves. "

"You know the Martins, do you?" asked the Interpreter. 

"You bet we do, " returned Bobby, without taking his gaze from the scenebefore him, while Maggie confirmed her brother's words by turning tolook shyly at her new-found friend. "Pete and Charlie they work in theMill. Charlie he was a captain in the war. He's one of the head guys inour union now. Mary she used to give us stuff to eat when dad wasa-strikin' the last time. "

"An' look-ee, " continued the boy, "right there next to the Martins' yercan see the old house where Adam Ward used to live before the Mill madehim rich an' he moved to his big place up on the hill. I know 'cause Iheard dad an' another man talkin' 'bout it onct. Ain't nobody lives inthe old house now. She's all tumbled down with windows broke an'everything. I wonder--" He paused to search the hillside to the east. "Yep, " he shouted, pointing, "there she is--there's the castle--there'swhere old Adam an' his folks lives now. Some place to live I'd say. Gee, but wouldn't I like to put a chunk o' danermite er somethin' underthere! I'd blow the whole darned thing into nothin' at all an that olddevil Adam with it. I'd--"

Little Maggie caught her warlike brother's arm. "But, Bobby--Bobby, yerwouldn't dast to do that, yer know yer wouldn't!"

"Huh, " returned the boy, scornfully. "I'd show yer if I had a chanct. "

"But, Bobby, yer'd maybe kill the beautiful princess lady if yer was toblow up the castle an' every-thin'. "

"Aw shucks, " returned the boy, shaking off his sister's hand with manlyimpatience. "Couldn't I wait 'til she was away somewheres else 'fore Itouched it off? An', anyway, what if yer wonderful princess lady _was_to git hurt, I guess she's one of 'em, ain't she?"

Poor Maggie, almost in tears, was considering this doubtful reassurancewhen Bobby suddenly pointed again toward that pretentious estate on thehillside, and cried in quick excitement: "Look-ee, Mag, there's aautermobile a-comin' out from the castle, right now--see? She's a-goin'down the hill toward town. Who'll yer bet it is? Old Adam Wardhis-self, heh?"

Little Maggie's face brightened joyously. "Maybe it's the princesslady, Bobby. "

"And who is this that you call the princess lady, Maggie?" asked theInterpreter. 

Bobby answered for his sister. "Aw, she means old Adam's daughter. She's allus a-callin' her that an' a-makin' up stories about her. "

"Oh, so you know Miss Helen Ward, too, do you?" The Interpreter wassurprised. 

The boy turned his back on the landscape as though it held nothing moreof interest to him. "Naw, we've just seen her, that's all. "

Stealing timidly back to the side of the wheel chair, the little girllooked wistfully up into the Interpreter's face. "Do yer--do yer knowthe princess lady what lives in the castle?" she asked. 

The old basket maker, smiling down at her, answered, "Yes, dear, I haveknown your princess lady ever since she was a tiny baby--much smallerthan you. And did you know, Maggie, that she was born in the old housedown there, next door to Charlie and Mary Martin?"

"An'--an' did she live there when she was--when she was as big as me?"

Bobby interrupted with an important "Huh, I know her brother John is aboss in the Mill. He was in the war, too, with Captain Charlie. Did helive in the old house when he was a kid?"

"Yes. "

"An'--an' when the princess lady was little like me, an' lived in theold house, did yer play with her?" asked Maggie. 

The Interpreter laughed softly. "Yes, indeed, often. You see I workedin the Mill, too, in those days, Maggie, with her father and PeterMartin and--"

"That was when yer had yer real, sure-nuff legs, wasn't it?" the boyinterrupted. 

"Yes, Bobby. And every Sunday, almost, I used to be at the old housewhere the little princess lady lived, or at the Martin home next door, and Helen and John and Charlie and Mary and I would always have suchgood times together. "

Little Maggie's face shone with appreciative interest. "An' did yertell them fairy stories sometimes?"

"Sometimes. "

The little girl sighed and tried to get still closer to the man in thewheel chair. "I like fairies, don't yer?"

"Indeed, I do, " he answered heartily. 

"Skinny and Chuck, they said yer tol' _them_ stories, too. "

The Interpreter laughed quietly. "I expect perhaps I did. "

"I don't suppose yer know any fairy stories right now, do yer?"

"Let me see, " said the Interpreter, seeming to think very hard. "Why, yes, I believe I do know one. It starts out like this: Once upon a timethere was a most beautiful princess, just like your princess lady, wholived in a most wonderful palace. Isn't that the way for a fairy storyto begin?"

"Uh-huh, that's the way. An' then what happened?"

With a great show of indifference the boy drew near and stretchedhimself on the floor on the other side of the old basket maker's chair. 

"Well, this beautiful princess in the story, perhaps because she was sobeautiful herself, loved more than anything else in all the world tohave lots and lots of jewels. You know what jewels are, don't you?"

"Uh-huh, the princess lady she has 'em--heaps of 'em. I seen her onctclose, when she was a-gettin' into her autermobile, in front of one ofthem big stores. "

"Well, " continued the story-teller, "it was strange, but with all herdiamonds and pearls and rubies and things there was _one_ jewel thatthe princess did _not_ have. And, of course, she wanted that oneparticular gem more than all the others. That is the way it almostalways is, you know. "

"Huh, " grunted Bobby. 

"What was that there jewel she wanted?" asked Maggie. 

"It was called the jewel of happiness, " answered the Interpreter, "because whoever possessed it was sure to be always as happy as happycould be. And so, you see, because she did not have that particularjewel the princess did not have as good times as such a beautifulprincess, living in such a wonderful palace, with so many lovelythings, really ought to have. 

"But because this princess' heart was kind, a fairy appeared to her onenight, and told her that if she would go down to the shore of the greatsea that was not far from the castle, and look carefully among therocks and in the sand and dirt, she would find the jewel of happiness. Then the fairy disappeared--poof! just like that. "

Little Maggie squirmed with thrills of delight. "Some story, I'd say. An' then what happened?"

"Why, of course, the very next day the princess went to walk on theseashore, just as the fairy had told her. And, sure enough, among therocks and in the sand and dirt, she found hundreds and hundreds ofbright, shiny jewels. And she picked them up, and picked them up, andpicked them up, until she just couldn't carry another one. Then shebegan to throw away the smaller ones that she had picked up at first, and to hunt for larger ones to take instead. And then, all at once, right there beside her, was a poor, ragged and crooked old woman, andthe old woman was picking up the ugly, dirt-colored pebbles that theprincess would not touch. 

"'What are you doing, mother?' asked the beautiful princess, whoseheart was kind. 

"And the crooked old woman answered, 'I am gathering jewels ofhappiness on the shore of the sea of life. '

"'But those ugly, dirty pebbles are not jewels, mother, ' said the lady. 'See, these are the jewels of happiness. ' And she showed the poor, ignorant old woman the bright, shiny stones that she had gathered. 

"And the crooked old crone looked at the princess and laughed--acurious, creepy, crawly, crooked laugh. 

"Then the old woman offered to the princess one of the ugly, dirt-colored pebbles that she had gathered. 'Take this, my dear, ' shecroaked, 'and wear it, and you shall see that I am right--that this isthe jewel of happiness. '

"Now the beautiful princess did not want to wear that ugly, dirt-colored stone--no princess would, you know. But, nevertheless, because her heart was kind and she saw that the poor, crooked old womanwould feel very bad if her gift was not accepted, she took the dull, common pebble and put it with the bright, shiny jewels that she hadgathered. 

"And that very night the fairy appeared to the princess again. 

"'Did you do as I told you?' the fairy asked. 'Did you look for thejewel of happiness on the shore of the sea of life?'

"'Oh, yes, ' cried the princess. 'And see what a world of lovely ones Ifound!'

"The fairy looked at all the pretty, shiny stones that the princess hadgathered. 'And what is this?' the fairy asked, pointing to the ugly, dirt-colored pebble. 

"'Oh, that, ' replied the princess, hanging her head inembarrassment, --'that is nothing but a worthless pebble. A poor oldwoman gave it to me to wear because she thinks it is beautiful. '

"'But you will not wear the ugly thing, will you?' asked the fairy. 'Think how every one would point at you, and laugh, and call youstrange and foolish. '

"'I know, ' answered the princess, sadly, 'but I must wear it because Ipromised, and because if I did not and the poor old lady should see mewithout it, she would be so very, very unhappy. '

"And, would you believe it, no sooner had the beautiful princess saidthose words than the fairy disappeared--poof! just like that! And rightthere, on the identical spot where she had been, was that old raggedand crooked woman. 

"'Oh!' cried the princess. 

"And the old woman laughed her curious, creepy, crawly, crooked laugh. 'Don't be afraid, my dear, ' she said, 'you shall have your jewel ofhappiness. But look!' She pointed a long, skinny, crooked finger at theshiny jewels on the table and there, right before the princess' eyes, they were all at once nothing but lumps of worthless dirt. 

"'Oh!' screamed the princess again. 'All my lovely jewels ofhappiness!'

"'But look, ' said the old woman again, and once more pointed with herskinny finger. And would you believe it, the princess saw that ugly, dirt-colored pebble turn into the most wonderfully splendid jewel thatever was--the true jewel of happiness. 

"And so, " concluded the Interpreter, "the beautiful princess whoseheart was kind lived happy ever after. "

Little Maggie clapped her thin hands with delight. 

"Gee, " said Bobby, "wish I knowed where that there place was. I'd getme enough of them there jewel things to swap for a autermobile an'a--an' a flyin' machine. "

"If you keep your eyes open, Bobby, " answered the old basket maker, "you will find the place all right. Only, " he added, looking awaytoward the big house on the hill, "you must be very careful not to makethe mistake that the princess lady is making--I mean, " he correctedhimself with a smile, "you must be careful not to pick up only thebright and shiny pebbles as the princess in the story did. "

"Huh--I guess I'd know better'n that, " retorted the boy. "Come on, Mag, we gotter go. "

"You will come to see me again, won't you?" asked the Interpreter, asthe children stood on the threshold. "You have legs, you know, that caneasily bring you. "

"Yer bet we'll come, " said Bobby, "won't we, Mag?"

The little girl, looking back at the man in the wheel chair, smiled. 

 * * * * *

For some time after the children had gone the Interpreter sat verystill. His dark eyes were fixed upon the Mill with its tall, grimstacks and the columns of smoke that twisted upward to form thatovershadowing cloud. The voices of the children, as they started downthe stairway to the dusty road and to their wretched home in the Flats, came to him muffled and indistinct from under the cliff. 

Perhaps the man in the wheel chair was thinking of the days whenMaggie's princess lady was a little girl and lived in the old housenext door to Mary and Charlie Martin. Perhaps his mind still dwelt onthe fairy story and the princess who found her jewel of happiness. Itmay have been that he was listening to the droning, moaning voice ofthe Mill, as one listens to the distant roar of the surf on a dangerouscoast. 

With a weary movement he took the unfinished basket from the table andbegan to work. But it was not his basket making that caused theweariness of the Interpreter--it was not his work that put the light ofsorrow in his dark eyes. 

 * * * * *

As Bobby and Maggie went leisurely down the zigzag steps, proud ofthe tremendous success of their adventure, the boy paused several timesto execute an inspirational "stunt" that would in some degree expresshis triumphant emotions. 

"Gee!" he exulted. "Wait 'til I see Skinny and Chuck an' the rest ofthe gang! Gee, won't I tell 'em! Just yer wait. I'll knock 'em dead. Gee!"

On the bottom step they deliberately seated themselves as if they hadsuddenly found the duty of leaving the charmed vicinity of that hut onthe cliff above impossible. 

Suddenly, from around the curve in the road followed by a whirlingcloud of dust, came an automobile. It was a big car, very imposing withits shiny black body, its gleaming metal, and its liveried chauffeur. 

The children gazed in open-mouthed wonder. The car drew nearer, andthey saw, behind the dignified personality at the wheel, a lady whomight well have been the beautiful princess of the Interpreter's fairytale. 

Little Maggie caught her brother's arm. "Bobby! It's--it's _her_--it'sthe princess lady herself. "

"Gee!" gasped the boy. "She's a slowin' down--what d'yer--"

The automobile stopped not thirty feet from where the children sat onthe lower step of the old stairway. Springing to the ground, thechauffeur, with the dignity of a prime minister, opened the door. 

But the princess lady sat motionless in her car. With an expression ofquestioning disapproval she looked at the Interpreter's friends on thatlower step of the Interpreter's stairway. 

CHAPTER II

LITTLE MAGGIE'S PRINCESS LADY

By nine out of ten of the Millsburgh people, the Interpreter would bedescribed as a strange character. But the judge once said to thecigar-store philosopher, when that worthy had so spoken of the oldbasket maker, "Sir, the Interpreter is more than a character; he is aconviction, a conscience, an institution. "

It was about the time when the patents on the new process were issuedthat the Interpreter--or Wallace Gordon, as he was then known--appearedfrom no one knows where, and went to work in the Mill. Because of thestranger's distinguished appearance, his evident culture, and hisslightly foreign air, there were many who sought curiously to learn hishistory. But Wallace Gordon's history remained as it, indeed, remainsstill, an unopened book. Within a few months his ability to speakseveral of the various languages spoken by the immigrants who weredrawn to the manufacturing city caused his fellow workers to call himthe Interpreter. 

Working at the same bench in the Mill with Adam Ward and Peter Martin, the Interpreter naturally saw much of the two families that, in thosedays, lived such close neighbors. Sober, hard working, modest in hisneeds, he acquired, during his first year in the Mill, that little plotof ground on the edge of the cliff, and built the tiny hut with itszigzag stairway. But often on a Sunday or a holiday, or for an hour ofthe long evenings after work, this man who was so alone in the worldwould seek companionship in the homes of his two workmen friends. Thefour children, who were so much together that their mothers used to saylaughingly they could scarcely tell which were Wards and which wereMartins, claimed the Interpreter as their own. With his never-failingfund of stories, his ultimate acquaintance with the fairies, his readyunderstanding of their childish interests, and his joyous comradeshipin their sports, he won his own peculiar place in their hearts. 

It was during the second year of his residence in Millsburgh that headopted the deaf and dumb orphan boy, Billy Rand. 

That such a workman should become a leader among his fellow workers wasinevitable. More and more his advice and counsel were sought by thosewho toiled under the black cloud that rolled up in ever-increasingvolumes from the roaring furnaces. 

The accident which so nearly cost him his life occurred soon after thenew process had taken Adam from his bench to a desk in the office ofthe Mill. Helen and John were away at school. At the hospital theyasked him about his people. He smiled grimly and shook his head. Whenthe surgeons were finally through with him, and it was known that hewould live but could never stand on his feet again, he was still silentas to his family and his life before he came to the Mill. So theycarried him around by the road on the hillside to his little hut on thetop of the cliff where, with Billy Rand to help him, he made basketsand lived with his books, which he purchased as he could from time totime during the more profitable periods of his industry. 

As the years passed and the Mill, under Adam Ward's hand, grew inimportance, Millsburgh experienced the usual trials of such industrialcenters. Periodic labor wars alternated with times of industrial peace. Months of prosperity were followed by months of "hard times, " and wantwas in turn succeeded by plenty. When the community was at work themore intelligent and thrifty among those who toiled with their handsand the more conservative of those who labored in business were able toput by in store enough to tide them over the next period of idlenessand consequent business depression. 

From his hut on the cliff the Interpreter watched it all withnever-failing interest and sympathy. Indeed, although he never left hiswork of basket making, the Interpreter was a part of it all. For moreand more the workers from the Mill, the shops and the factories, andthe workers from the offices and stores came to counsel with thiswhite-haired man in the wheel chair. 

The school years of John and Helen, the new home on the hill, and allthe changes brought by Adam Ward's material prosperity separated thetwo families that had once been so intimate. But, in spite of the wallthat the Mill owner had built between himself and his old workmencomrades, the children of Adam Ward and the children of Peter Martinstill held the Interpreter in their hearts. To the man condemned to hiswheel chair and his basket making, little Maggie's princess lady wasstill the Helen of the old house. 

Sam Whaley's children sitting on the lower step of the zigzag stairwaythat afternoon had no thought for the Interpreter's Helen of the oldhouse. Bobby's rapt attention was held by that imposing figure inuniform. Work in the Mill when he became a man! Not much! Not as longas there were automobiles like that to drive and clothes like those towear while driving them! Little Maggie's pathetically serious eyes sawonly the beautiful princess of the Interpreter's story--the princesswho lived in a wonderful palace and who because her heart was so kindwas told by the fairy how to find the jewel of happiness. Only thisprincess lady did not look as though she had found her jewel ofhappiness yet. But she would find it--the fairies would be sure to helpher because her heart was kind. How could any princess lady--sobeautiful, with such lovely clothes, and such a grand automobile, andsuch a wonderful servant--how could any princess lady like that helphaving a kind heart!

"Tom, send those dirty, impossible children away!"

The man touched his cap and turned to obey. 

Poor little Maggie could not believe. It was not what the lady said; itwas the tone of her voice, the expression of her face, that hurt so. The princess lady must be very unhappy, indeed, to look and speak likethat. And the tiny wisp of humanity, with her thin, stooping shouldersand her tired little face--dirty, half clothed and poorly fed--feltvery sorry because the beautiful lady in the automobile was not happy. 

But Bobby's emotions were of quite a different sort. Sam Whaley wouldhave been proud of his son had he seen the boy at that moment. Springing to his feet, the lad snarled with all the menacing hate hecould muster, "Drive us away, will yer! I'd just like to see yer try iton. These here are the Interpreter's steps. If the Interpreter lets uscome to see him, an' gives us cookies, an' tells us stories, I guesswe've got a right to set on his steps if we want to. "

"Go on wid ye--git out o' here, " said the man in livery. But Bobby'ssharp eyes saw what the lady in the automobile could not see--a faintsmile accompanied the chauffeur's attempt to obey his orders. 

"Go on yerself, " retorted the urchin, defiantly, "I'll go when I gitgood an' ready. Ain't no darned rich folks what thinks they's sogrand--with all their autermobiles, an' swell drivers, 'n' things--cantell _me_ what to do. I know her--she's old Adam Ward's daughter, sheis. An' she lives by grindin' the life out of us poor workin' folks, that's what she does; 'cause my dad and Jake Vodell they say so. Yertouch me an' yer'll see what'll happen to yer, when I tell JakeVodell. "

Unseen by his mistress, the smile on the servant's face grew morepronounced; and the small defender of the rights of the poor saw one ofthe man's blue Irish eyes close slowly in a deliberate wink of goodfellowship. In a voice too low to be heard distinctly in the automobilebehind him, he said, "Yer all right, kid, but fer the love o' God beatit before I have to lay hands on ye. " Then, louder, he added gruffly, "Get along wid ye or do ye want me to help ye?"

Bobby retreated in good order to a position of safety a little way downthe road where his sister was waiting for him. 

With decorous gravity the imposing chauffeur went back to his place atthe door of the automobile. 

"Gee!" exclaimed Bobby. "What do yer know about that! Old Adam Ward'sswell daughter a-goin' up to see the Interpreter. Gee!"

On the lower step of the zigzag stairway, with her hand on the railing, the young woman paused suddenly and turned about. To the watchingchildren she must have looked very much indeed like the beautifulprincess of the Interpreter's fairy tale. 

"Tom--" She hesitated and looked doubtfully toward the children. 

"Yes, Miss. "

"What was it that boy said about his rights?"

"He said, Miss, as how they had just been to visit the Interpreter an'the old man give 'em cookies, and so they thought they was privilegedto sit on his steps. "

A puzzled frown marred the really unusual loveliness of her face. "Butthat was not all he said, Tom. "

"No, Miss. "

She looked upward to the top of the cliff where one corner of theInterpreter's hut was just visible above the edge of the rock. Andthen, as the quick light of a smile drove away the trouble shadows, shesaid to the servant, "Tom, you will take those children for a ride inthe car. Take them wherever they wish to go, and return here for me. Ishall be ready in about an hour. "

The man gasped. "But, Miss, beggin' yer pardon, --the car--think av theupholsterin'--an' the dirt av thim little divils--beggin' yer pardon, but 'tis ruined the car will be--an' yer gowns! Please, Miss, I'll givethem a dollar an' 'twill do just as well--think av the car!"

"Never mind the car, Tom, do as I say, please. "

In spite of his training, a pleased smile stole over the Irish face ofthe chauffeur; and there was a note of ungrudging loyalty and honestaffection in his voice as he said, touching his cap, "Yes, Miss, I willhave the car here in an hour--thank ye, Miss. "

A moment later the young woman saw her car stop beside the wonderingchildren. With all his high-salaried dignity the chauffeur left thewheel and opened the door as if for royalty itself. 

The children stood as if petrified with wonder, although the boy wasstill a trifle belligerent and suspicious. 

In his best manner the chauffeur announced, "Miss Ward's compliments, Sir and Miss, an' she has ordered me to place her automobile at yerdisposal if ye would be so minded as to go for a bit of a pleasureride. "

"Oh!" gulped little Maggie. 

"Aw, what are yer givin' us!" said Bobby. 

The man's voice changed, but his manner was unaltered. "'Tis the truthI'm a-tellin' ye, kids, wid the lady herself back there a-watchin' tosee that I carry out her orders. So hop in, quick, and don't keep hera-waitin'. "

"Gee!" exclaimed the boy. 

Maggie looked at her brother doubtfully. "Dast we, Bobby? Dast we?"

"Dast we!--Huh! Who's afraid? I'll say we dast. "

Another second and they were in the car. The chauffeur gravely touchedhis cap. "An' where will I be drivin' ye, Sir?"

"Huh?"

"Where is it ye would like for to go?"

The two children looked at each other questioningly. Then a grin ofwild delight spread itself over the countenance of the boy and hefairly exploded with triumphant glee, "Gee! Mag, now's our chance. " Tothe man he said, eagerly, "Just you take us all 'round the Flats, mister, so's folks can see. An'--an', mind yer, toot that old horn goodan' loud, so as everybody'll know we're a-comin'. " As the automobilemoved away he beamed with proud satisfaction. "Some swells we are--heh?Skinny an' Chuck an' the gang'll be plumb crazy when they see us. Someclass, I'll tell the world. "

"Well, why not?" demanded the cigar-stand philosopher, when Tomdescribed that triumphant drive of Sam Whaley's children through theFlats. "Them kids was only doin' what we're all a-tryin' to do in oneway or another. "

The lawyer, who had stopped for a light, laughed. "I heard theInterpreter say once that 'to live on some sort of an elevation was tomost people one of the prime necessities of life. '"

"Sure, " agreed the philosopher, reaching for another box for thereal-estate agent, "I'll bet old Adam Ward himself is just as human asthe rest of us if you could only catch him at it. "

For some time after her car, with Bobby and Maggie, had disappeared inits cloud of dust, among the wretched buildings of the Flats, Helenstood there, on the lower step of the zigzag stairway, looking afterthem. She was thinking, or perhaps she was wondering a little atherself. She might even have been living again for the moment thoseold-house days when, with her brother and Mary and Charlie Martin, shehad played there on these same steps. 

Those old-house days had been joyous and carefree. Her school years, too, had been filled with delightful and satisfying activities. Afterher graduation she had been content with the gayeties and triumphs ofthe life to which she had been arbitrarily removed by her father andthe new process, and for which she had been educated. She had felt theneed of nothing more. Then came the war, and, in her brother'senlistment and in her work with the various departments of the womenforces at home, she had felt herself a part of the great worldmovement. But now when the victorious soldiers--brothers andsweethearts and husbands and friends--had returned, and the days ofexcited rejoicing were past, life had suddenly presented to her adifferent front. It would have been hard to find in all Millsburgh, notexcepting the most wretched home in the Flats, a more unhappy anddiscontented person than this young woman who was so unanimously heldto have everything in the world that any one could possibly desire. 

Slowly she turned to climb the zigzag stairway to the Interpreter'shut. 

CHAPTER III

THE INTERPRETER

The young woman announced her presence at the open door of the hut bycalling, "Are you there?"

The deep voice of the Interpreter answered, "Helen! Here I am, child--on the porch. Come!" As she passed swiftly through the house andappeared in the porch doorway, he added, "This is a happy surprise, indeed. I thought you were not expected home for another month. Itseems ages since you went away. "

She tried bravely to smile in response to the gladness in her oldfriend's greeting. "I had planned to stay another month, " she said, "but I--" She paused as if for some reason she found it hard to explainwhy she had returned to Millsburgh so long before the end of the summerseason. Then she continued slowly, as if remembering that she mustguard her words, "Brother wrote me that they were expecting seriouslabor troubles, and with father as he is--" Her voice broke and shefinished lamely, "Mother is _so_ worried and unhappy. I--I felt that Ireally ought not to be away. "

She turned quickly and went to stand at the porch railing, where shewatched the cloud of dust that marked the progress of Bobby and Maggiethrough the Flats. 

"I can't understand father's condition at all, " she said, presently, without looking at the Interpreter. "He is so--so--" Again she pausedas if she could not find courage to speak the thought that so disturbedher mind. 

From his wheel chair the Interpreter silently watched the young womanwho was so envied by the people. And because the white-haired oldbasket maker knew many things that were hidden from the multitude, hiseyes were as the eyes of the Master when He looked upon the rich youngruler whom He loved. 

Then, as if returning to a thought that had been interrupted by theunwelcome intrusion of a forbidden subject, Helen said, "I can'tunderstand how you tolerate such dirty, rude and vicious little animalsas those two children. "

The Interpreter smiled understandingly at the back of her very becomingand very correctly fashioned hat. "You met my little friends, did you?"

"I did, " she answered, with decided emphasis, "at the foot of yourstairs, and I was forced to listen to the young ruffian's very frankopinion of me and of all that he is taught to believe I represent. Iwonder _you_ did not hear. But I suppose you can guess what he wouldsay. "

"Yes, " said the man in the wheel chair, gently, "I can guess Bobby'sopinion of you, quite as accurately as Bobby guesses your opinion ofhim. "

At that she turned on him with a short laugh that was rather morebitter than mirthful. "Well, the little villain is guessing anotherguess just now. I sent Tom to take them for a ride in the car. "

"And why did you do that?"

She waited a little before she answered. "I don't know exactly. Perhapsit was your Helen of the old house that did it. She may have been alittle ashamed of me and wanted to make it up to them. I am afraid Ireally wasn't very kind at first. "

"I see, " said the Interpreter, gravely. 

"There might possibly have been the shade of another reason, " shecontinued, after a moment, and there was a hint of bitterness in hervoice now. 

"Yes?"

"Yes, it is conceivable, perhaps, that, in spite of the prevailingopinions of such people, even _I_ might have felt a wee bit sorry forthe poor kiddies--especially for the girl. She is such a tiny, tired-looking mite. "

The old basket maker was smiling now, as he said, "I have known for along time that there were _two_ Helens. Little Maggie, it seems, hasfound still another. "

"How interesting!"

"Yes, Maggie has discovered, somehow, that you are really a beautifulprincess, living on most intimate terms with the fairies. She willthink so more than ever now. "

The young woman laughed at this. "And the boy--what do you suppose _he_will think after his ride with Tom in the limousine?"

The Interpreter shook his head doubtfully. "Bobby will probably reservehis judgment for a while, on the possible chance of another ride inyour car. "

"Tell me about them, " said Helen. 

"Are you really interested?"

She flushed a little as she answered, "I am at least curious. "

"Why?"

"Perhaps because of your interest in them, " she retorted. "Who arethey?"

The Interpreter did not answer for a moment; then, with his dark eyesfixed on the heavy cloud of smoke that hung above the Mill andovershadowed the Flats, he said, slowly, "They are Sam Whaley'schildren. Their father works--when he works--in your father's Mill. Iknew both Sam and his wife before they were married. She was a brightgirl, with fine instincts for the best things of life and a capacityfor great happiness. Sam was a good worker in those days, and theirmarriage promised well. Then he became interested in the wrong sort ofwhat is called socialism, and began to associate with a certain elementthat does not value homes and children very highly. The man is honest, and fairly capable, up to a certain point; but there never was muchcapacity there for clear thinking. He is one of those who always followthe leader who yells the loudest and he mistakes vituperation forargument. He is strong on loyalty to class, but is not so particular ashe might be when it comes to choosing his class. And so, for severalyears now, in every little difference between the workmen and themanagement, Sam has been too ready to quit his job and let his wife andchildren go hungry for the good of the cause, while he vociferatesloudly against the cruelty of all who refuse to offer their families assacrifice on the altar of his particular and impracticable ideas. "

"And his wife--the mother of his children--the girl with fine instinctsfor the best things and a capacity for great happiness--what of her?"demanded Helen. 

The Interpreter pointed toward the Flats. "She lives down there, " hesaid, sadly. "You have seen her children. "

The young woman turned again to the porch railing and looked down onthe wretched dwellings of the Flats below. 

"It is strange, " she said, presently, as if speaking to herself, "butthat poor woman makes me think of mother. Mother is like that, isn'tshe? I mean, " she added, quickly, "in her instincts and in her capacityfor happiness. "

"Yes, " agreed the Interpreter, "your mother is like that. "

She faced him once more, to say thoughtfully, but with decisive warmth, "It is a shame the way such children--I mean the children of suchpeople as this man Whaley--are being educated in lawlessness. Thoseyoungsters are nothing less than juvenile anarchists. They will grow upa menace to our government, to society, to our homes, and to everythingthat is decent and right. They are taught to hate work. And they fairlyrevel in their hatred of every one and every thing that is not of theirown miserable class. "

There was a note of gentle authority in the Interpreter's deep voice, and in his dark eyes there was a look of patient sorrow, as he replied, "Yes, Helen, all that you say of our Bobbies and Maggies is true. Buthave you ever considered whether it might not be equally true of thechildren of wealth?"

"Is the possession of what we call wealth a crime?" the young womanasked, bitterly. "Is poverty _always_ such a virtue?"

The Interpreter answered, "I mean, child, that wealth which comesunearned from the industries of life--that wealth for which no serviceis rendered--for which no equivalent in human strength, mental orphysical, is returned. Are not the children of such conditions beingeducated in lawlessness when the influence of their money so oftenpermits them to break our laws with impunity? Are they not a menace toour government when they coerce and bribe our public servants to enactlaws and enforce measures that are for the advantage of a few favoredones and against the welfare of our people as a whole? Are they not amenace to society when they would limit the meaning of the very word totheir own select circles and cliques? Are they not a menace to ourhomes by the standards of morals that too often govern their dailyliving? For that hatred of class taught the Bobbies and Maggies of theFlats, Helen, these other children are taught an intolerance andcontempt for everything that is not of their class--an intolerance andcontempt that breed class hatred as surely as blow flies breedmaggots. "

For some time the silence was broken only by the dull, droning voice ofthe Mill. They listened as they would have listened to the first lowmoaning of the wind that might rise later into a destructive storm. 

The Interpreter spoke again. "Helen, this nation cannot tolerate onestandard of citizenship for one class and a totally different standardfor another. Whatever is right for the children of the hill, yonder, isright for the children of the Flats, down there. "

Helen asked, abruptly, "Is there any truth in all this talk aboutcoming trouble with the labor unions?"

The man in the wheel chair did not answer immediately. Then he replied, gravely, with another question, "And who is it that says there is goingto be trouble again, Helen?"

"John says everybody is expecting it. And Mr. McIver is so sure that heis already preparing for it at his factory. _He_ says it will be theworst industrial war that Millsburgh has ever experienced--that it mustbe a fight to the finish this time--that nothing but starvation willbring the working classes to their senses. "

"Yes, " agreed the Interpreter, thoughtfully, "McIver would say justthat. And many of our labor agitators would declare, in exactly thesame spirit, that nothing but the final and absolute downfall of theemployer class can ever end the struggle. I wonder what little Bobbyand Maggie Whaley and their mother would say if they could have theirway about it, Helen?"

Helen Ward's face flushed as she said in a low, deliberate voice, "Father agrees with Mr. McIver--you know how bitter he is against theunions?"

"Yes, I know. "

"But John says that Mr. McIver, with his talk of force and of starvinghelpless women and children, is as bad as this man Jake Vodell who hascome to Millsburgh to organize a strike. It is really brother'sattitude toward the workmen and their unions and his disagreement withMr. McIver's views that make father as--as he is. "

The Interpreter's voice was gentle as he asked, "Your father is notworse, is he, Helen? I have heard nothing. "

"Oh, no, " she returned, quickly. "That is--"

She hesitated, then continued, with careful exactness, "For a time heeven seemed much better. When I went away he was really almost like hisold self. But this labor situation and John's not seeing things exactlyas he does worries him. The doctors all agree, you know, that fathermust give up everything in the nature of business and have absolutemental rest; but he insists that in the face of this expected troublewith the workmen he dares not trust the management of the Mill whollyto John, because of what he calls brother's wild and impracticableideas. Everybody knows how father has given his life to building up theMill. And now, he--he--It is terrible the way he is about things. Poormother is almost beside herself. " The young woman's eyes filled and herlips trembled. 

The man in the wheel chair turned to the unfinished basket on the tablebeside him and handled his work aimlessly, as if in sorrow that he hadno word of comfort for her. 

When Adam Ward's daughter spoke again there was a curious note ofdefiance in her voice, but her eyes, when the Interpreter turned tolook at her, were fixed upon her old friend with an expression ofpainful anxiety and fear. "Of course his condition is all due to hisyears of hard work and to the mental and nervous strain of hisbusiness. It--it couldn't be anything else, could it?"

The Interpreter, who seemed to be watching the intricate and constantlychanging forms that the columns of smoke from the tall stacks wereshaping, apparently did not hear. 

"Don't--don't you think it is all because of his worry over the Mill?"

"Yes, Helen, " the Interpreter answered, at last, "I am sure yourfather's trouble all comes from the Mill. "

For a while she did not speak, but sat looking wistfully toward theclump of trees that shaded her birthplace and the white cottage wherePeter Martin lived with Charlie and Mary. 

Then she said, musingly, "How happy we all were in the old house, whenfather worked in the Mill with you and Uncle Pete, and you used to comefor Sunday dinner with us. Do you know, sometimes"--she hesitated as ifmaking a confession of which she was a little ashamed--"sometimes--thatis, since brother came home from France, I--I almost hate it. I think Ifeel just as mother does, only neither of us dares admit it--scarcelyeven to ourselves. "

"You almost hate what, Helen?"

"Oh, everything--the way we live, the people we know, the stupid thingsI am expected to do. It all seems so useless--so futile--so--so--such awaste of time. "

The Interpreter was studying her with kindly interest. 

"I never felt this way before brother went away. And during the wareverybody was so much excited and interested, helping in every way heor she could. But now--now that it is over and John is safely homeagain, I can't seem to get back into the old ways at all. Life seems tohave flattened out into a dull, monotonous round of nothing that reallymatters. "

The Interpreter spoke, thoughtfully, "Many people, I find, feel thatway these days, Helen. "

"As for brother, " she continued, "he is so changed that I simply can'tunderstand him at all. He is like a different man--just grinds away inthat dirty old Mill day after day, as if he were nothing more than acommon laborer who had to work or starve. In fact, " she finished withan air of triumph, "that is exactly what he says he is--simply alaborer like--like Charlie Martin and the rest of them. "

The Interpreter smiled. 

"It was all very well for John and Charlie Martin to be buddies, asthey call it, during the war, " she went on. "It was different overthere in France. But now that it is all over and they are home again, and Captain Martin has gone back to his old work in the Mill where Johnhas practically become the manager, there is no sense in brother'skeeping up the intimacy. Really I don't wonder that father is worriedalmost to death over it all. I suppose the next thing John will bechumming with this Jake Vodell himself. "

"I don't suppose you see much of your old friends the Martins thesedays, do you, Helen?" said the old basket maker, reflectively. 

She retorted quickly with an air, "Certainly not. "

"But I remember, in the old-house days, before you went away to school, you and Charlie Martin were--"

She interrupted him with "I was a silly child. I suppose every girl atabout that age has to have her foolish little romance. "

And the Interpreter saw that her cheeks were crimson. 

"A young girl's first love is not in the least silly or foolish, mydear, " he said. 

She made an effort to speak lightly. "Well, fortunately, mine did notlast long. "

"I know, " he returned, "but I thought perhaps because of the friendshipbetween John and the Captain--"

"I could scarcely see much of one of the common workmen in my father'smill, could I?" she asked, warmly. "I must admit, though, " she added, with an odd note in her voice, "that I admire his good sense in neveraccepting John's invitations to the house. "

And then, suddenly, to the consternation of her companion, her eyesfilled with tears. 

The Interpreter looked away toward the beautiful country beyond thesqualid Plats, the busy city, the smoke-clouded Mill. 

There was a sound of some one knocking at the front door of the hut. Through the living room Helen saw her chauffeur. 

"Yes, Tom, " she called, "I am coming. "

To the Interpreter she said, hurriedly, "I have really stayed longerthan I should. I promised mother that I would be home early. She is soworried about father, I do not like to leave her, but I felt that Imust see you. I--I haven't said at all the things I--wanted to say. Father--" She looked at the man in the wheel chair appealingly, as shehesitated again with the manner of one who feels compelled to speak, yet fears to betray a secret. "You feel sure, don't you, that father'scondition is nothing more than the natural result of his nervousbreakdown and his worry over business?"

The Interpreter thought how like the look in her eyes was to the lookin the eyes of timid little Maggie. And again he waited, beforeanswering, "Yes, Helen, I am sure that your father's trouble is allcaused by the Mill. Is there anything that I can do, child?"

"There is nothing that any one can do, I fear, " she returned, with alittle gesture of hopelessness. Then, avoiding the grave, kindly eyesof the old basket maker, she forced herself to say, in a tone that waslittle more than a whisper, "I sometimes think--at tines I am almostcompelled to believe that there _is_ something more--something thatwe--that no one knows about. " With sudden desperate earnestness shewent on with nervous haste as if she feared her momentary courage wouldfail. "I can't explain--but it is as if he were hiding something anddreaded every moment that it would be discovered. He is so--so afraid. Can it be possible that there is something that we do not know--somehidden thing?" And then, before the Interpreter could speak, sheexclaimed, with a forced laugh of embarrassment, "How silly of me totalk like this--you will think that I am going insane. "

When he was alone, the Interpreter turned again to his basket making. "Yes, Billy, " he said aloud as his deaf and dumb companion appeared inthe doorway a few minutes later, "yes, Billy, she will find her jewelof happiness. But it will not be easy, Billy--it will not be easy. "

To which, of course, Billy made no reply. And that--the Interpreteralways maintained--was one of the traits that made his companion such adelightful conversationalist. He invariably found your pet argumentsand theories unanswerable, and accepted your every assertion withoutquestion. 

Helen Ward could not feel that her father's condition--much as italarmed and distressed her--was, in itself, the reason of her ownunrest and discontent. She felt, rather, in a vague, instinctive way, that the source of her parent's trouble was somehow identical with thecause of her own unhappiness. But what was it that caused her father'saffliction and her own dissatisfied and restless mental state? Theyoung woman questioned herself in vain. 

Pausing at one of the turns in the stairway, she stood for some timelooking at the life that lay before her, as though wondering if theanswer to her questions might not be found somewhere in that familiarscene. 

But the Mill, with its smoking stacks and the steady song of itsindustry, had no meaning for her. The dingy, dust-veiled Flats spoke alanguage that she was not schooled to understand. The farms of thevalley beyond the river, so beautiful in their productiveness, were asmeaningless to her as the life on some unknown planet. To her the busycity with its varied interests was without significance. The many homeson the hillside held, for her, nothing. And yet as she looked she waspossessed of a curious feeling that everything in that world before hereyes was occupied with some definite purpose--was living to some fixedend--was a part of life--belonged to life. Below her, on the road atthe foot of the cliffs, an old negro with an ancient skeleton of ahorse and a shaky wreck of a wagon was making slow progress toward theFlats. To Helen, even this poor creature was going somewhere--to somedefinite place--on some definite mission. She felt strangely alone. 

In those years of the war Adam Ward's daughter, like many thousands ofher class, had been inevitably forced into a closer touch with lifethan she had ever known before. She had felt, as never before, thegreat oneness of humanity. She had sensed a little the thrilling powerof a great human purpose. Now it was as though life ignored her, passedher by. She felt left out, overlooked, forgotten. 

Slowly she went on down the zigzag stairway to her waiting automobile. 

As she entered her car, the chauffeur looked at her curiously. When shegave him no instructions, he asked, quietly, "Home, Miss?"

She started. "Yes, Tom. "

The man was in his place at the wheel when she added, "Did thosechildren enjoy their ride, Tom?"

"That they did, Miss--it was the treat of their lives. "

Little Maggie's princess lady smiled wistfully--almost as Maggieherself might have smiled. 

As the car was moving slowly away from the foot of the old stairway, she spoke again. "Tom!"

"Yes, Miss. "

"You may drive around by the old house, please. "

CHAPTER IV

PETER MARTIN AT HOME

Peter Martin, with his children, Charlie and Mary, lived in the oldestpart of Millsburgh, where the quiet streets are arched with great treesand the modest houses, if they seem to lack in modern smartness, morethan make good the loss by their air of homelike comfort. The Martincottage was built in the days before the success of Adam Ward and hisnew process had brought to Millsburgh the two extremes of the Flats andthe hillside estates. The little home was equally removed from thewretched dwellings of Sam Whaley and his neighbors, on the one hand, and from the imposing residences of Adam Ward and his circle, on theother. 

The house--painted white, with old-fashioned green shutters--is only astory and a half, with a low wing on the east, and a bit of porch infront, with wooden seats on either side the door. The porch step is alarge uncut stone that nature shaped to the purpose, and the walk thatconnects the entrance with the front gate is of the same untooled flatrock. On the right of the walk, as one enters, a space of green lawn, agreat tree, and rustic chairs invite one to rest in the shade; while onthe left, the yard is filled with old-fashioned flowers, and a row offlowering shrubs and bushes extends the full width of the lot along thepicket fence which parallels the board walk of the tree-borderedstreet. The fence, like the house, is painted white. 

The other homes in the neighborhood are of the same modest, well kepttype. 

The only thing that marred the quiet domestic beauty of the scene atthe time of this story was the place where Adam Ward had lived with hislittle family before material prosperity removed them to their estateon the hill. Joining the Martin home on the east, the old house, unpainted, with broken shutters, shattered windows, and sagging porch, in its setting of neglected, weed-grown yard and tumble-down fences, was pathetic in its contrast. 

Since the death of her mother, Mary Martin had been the housekeeper forher father and her brother. She was a wholesome, clear-visioned girl, with an attractive face that glowed with the good color of health andhappiness. And if at times, when the Ward automobile passed, there wasa shadow of wistfulness in Mary's eyes, it did not mar for long theexpression of her habitually contented and cheerful spirit. She workedat her household tasks with a song, entered into the pleasures of herfriends and neighbors with hearty delight, and was known, as well, tomany poverty-stricken homes in the Flats in times of need. 

More than one young workman in the Mill had wanted Pete Martin's girlto help him realize his dreams of home building. But Mary had alwaysanswered "No. "

Mary's brother Charlie was a strong-shouldered, athletic workman, witha fine, clean countenance and the bearing of his military experience. 

At supper, that evening, the young woman remarked casually, "Helen Wardwent by this afternoon. I was working in the roses. I thought for amoment she was going to stop--at the old house, I mean. "

Captain Charlie's level gaze met his sister's look. "Did she see you?"

"She did and she didn't, " replied Mary. 

"Never mind, dear, " returned the soldier workman, "it'll be all right. "

Peter Martin--a gray-haired veteran with rather a stolid Englishface--looked up at his children questioningly. Presently he said, "It'sa wonder Adam wouldn't fix up the old place a bit--for pride's sake iffor nothing else. It's a disgrace to the neighborhood. "

"I guess that's the reason he lets it go, " said Captain Charlie, pushing his chair back from the table. 

"What's the reason?" asked Peter. 

"For his pride's sake. As it stands now, the old house advertisesAdam's success. When people see it in ruins like that they always speakof the big new house on the hill. If the old house was fixed up andoccupied it wouldn't cause any comment on Adam's prosperity, you see. John told me once that he had begged his father to let him do somethingwith it, but Adam ordered him never to set foot on the place. "

"Well, " said Mary, "I suppose he can afford to keep the old house as asort of monument if he wants to. "

Peter Martin commented, in his slow way, "If Charlie is right about hisreason for leaving it as it is, I am not so sure, daughter, that evenAdam Ward can afford to do such a thing. "

Captain Charlie's eyes twinkled as he addressed his sister. "Fatherevidently believes with the Interpreter that houses have souls orspirits or something--like human beings. "

"Of course, " she returned, "if the Interpreter believes it father isbound to. "

The old workman smiled. "You children will believe it, too, some day;at least I hope so. "

"I wonder if Helen ever goes to see the Interpreter, " said Mary. 

Captain Charlie returned, quickly, "I know she does. "

"How do you know? Did you ever meet her there?"

The Captain answered grimly, "I hid out in the garden once with BillyRand to keep from meeting her. "

Flushed with the unparalleled adventures of the day, Bobby Whaley askedhis father, "Dad, ain't the old Interpreter one of us?--ain't he?"

"Sure he is. "

"Well, then, what for did old Adam Ward's daughter go to see him justlike Mag an' me did?"

"I don't know nothin' about that, " growled Sam Whaley, "but I can tellyou kids one thing. You're a-goin' to stay out of that there automobileof hers. You let me catch you takin' up with such as Adam Ward'sdaughter and I'll teach you somethin' you won't fergit. "

 * * * * *

The cigar-store philosopher remarked casually to the chief of police, "This here savior of the people, Jake Vodell, that's recently descendedupon us, is gatherin' to himself a choice bunch of disciples--I'll tellthe world. "

"What do you know about it?" demanded the officer of the law. 

The philosopher grinned. "Oh, they most of them smoke or chew, the sameas your cops. Vodell himself smokes your brand. Have one on me chief. "

CHAPTER V

ADAM WARD'S ESTATE

In spite of that smile of mingled admiration, contempt and envy, withwhich the people always accompanied any mention of Adam Ward, Millsburgh took no little pride in the dominant Mill owner'sachievements. In particular, was the Ward home, most pretentious of allthe imposing estates on the hillside, an object of never-failinginterest and conversational speculation. "Adam Ward's castle, " thepeople called it, smiling. And no visiting stranger of any importancewhatever could escape being driven past that glaring architecturalmonstrosity which stood so boldly on its most conspicuous hillsideelevation and proclaimed so defiantly to all the world its owner'smaterial prosperity. 

But the sight-seers always viewed the "castle" and the "palatialgrounds" (the Millsburgh _Clarion_, in a special Sunday article forwhich Adam paid, so described the place) through a strong, ornamentaliron fence, with a more than ornamental gate guarded by massive stonecolumns. Only when the visiting strangers were of sufficient importancein the owner's eyes were they permitted to pass the conspicuous PRIVATEPROPERTY, NO ADMITTANCE sign at the entrance. As the cigar-standphilosopher explained, Adam Ward did not propose to give anything away. 

The chief value of his possessions, in Adam's thoughts, lay in the factthat they were _his_. He always said, "_My_ house--_my_ grounds--_my_flowers--_my_ trees--_my_ fountain--_my_ fence. " He even extended hisownership and spoke of the very birds who dared to ignore the PRIVATEPROPERTY, No ADMITTANCE sign as _my_ birds. So marked, indeed, was thischaracteristic habit of his speech, that no one in Millsburgh wouldhave been surprised to hear him say, "_My_ sun--_my_ moonlight. " Andnever did he so forget himself as to include his wife and children insuch an expression as "our home. " Why, indeed, should he? His wife andhis children were as much _his_ as any of the other items on the longlist of the personal possessions which he had so industriouslyacquired. 

In perfect harmony with the principles that ordered his life, the ownerof the castle made great show of hospitality at times. But therecipients of his effusive welcome were invariably those from whom, orthrough whom, he had reason to think he might derive a definitematerial gain in return for his graciousness. The chief entertainmentoffered these occasional utilitarian guests was a verbal catalogue ofthe estate, with an itemized statement of the cost of everythingmentioned. If the architecture of the house was noticed, Adam proudlydisclaimed any knowledge of architecture, but named the architect'sfee, and gave the building cost in detail, from the heating system tothe window screens. If one chanced to betray an interest in a flower orshrub or tree, he boasted that he could not name a plant on the place, and told how many thousands he had paid the landscape architect, andwhat it cost him each year to maintain the lawns and gardens. If thevisitor admired the fountain or the statuary he declared--quiteunnecessarily--that he knew nothing of art, but had paid the variousartists represented various definite dollars and cents. And never wasthere a guest of that house that poor Adam did not seek to discredit tohis family and to other guests, lest by any chance any one should failto recognize the host's superiority. 

In his youth the Mill owner had received from his parents certainexaggerated religious convictions as to the desirability of gainingheaven and escaping, hell when one's years of material gains and lossesshould be forever past. Therefore, his spiritual life, also, was whollya matter of personal bargain and profit. The church was an insurancecorporation, of a sort, to which he paid his dues, as he paid thepremiums on his policies in other less pretentious companies. As amatter of additional security--which cost nothing in the way ofadditional premiums--he never failed to say grace at the table. 

This matter of grace, Adam found, was also a character asset of nolittle value when there were guests whom he, for good material reasons, wished to impress with the fine combination of business ability andsterling Christian virtue that so distinguished his simple and sincerenature. Profess yourself the disinterested friend of a man--make himbelieve that you value his friendship for its own sake and, on thatground, invite him to your home as your honored guest. And then, whenhe sits at your table, ask God to bless the food, the home, and theguest, and you have unquestionably maneuvered your friend into aposition where he will contribute liberally to your businesstriumphs--if your contracts are cleverly drawn and you strike for thenecessary signature while the glow of your generous hospitality isstill warm. 

And thus, with his patented process and his cleverly drawn contracts, this man had reaped from hospitality, religion and friendship theabundant gains that made him the object of his neighbors' admiration, contempt and envy. 

But the end of Adam Ward's material harvest day was come. As Helen hadtold the Interpreter, the doctors were agreed that her father must giveup everything in the nature of business and have absolute mental rest. The Mill owner must retire. 

Retire! Retire to what?

The world of literature--of history and romance, of poetry and thelives of men--the world of art, with its magic of color and form--theworld of music, with its power to rest the weary souls of men--theworld of nature, that with its myriad interests lay about him on everyside--the world of true friendships, with their inspiring sympathiesand unselfish love--in these worlds there is no place for Adam Wards. 

Retire! Retire to what?

 * * * * *

One afternoon, a few days after her visit to the Interpreter, Helen satwith a book in a little vine-covered arbor, in a secluded part of thegrounds, some distance from the house. She had been in the quietretreat an hour, perhaps, when her attention was attracted by the soundof some one approaching. Through a tiny opening in the lattice and vinewall she saw her father. 

Adam Ward apparently was on his way to the very spot his daughter hadchosen, and the young woman smiled to herself as she pictured hisfinding her there. But a moment before the seemingly inevitablediscovery, the man turned aside to a rustic seat in the shade of agreat tree not far away. 

Helen was about to reveal her presence by calling to him when somethingin her father's manner caused her to hesitate. Through the leafy screenof the arbor wall she saw him stop beside the bench and look carefullyabout on every side, as if to assure himself that he was alone. Theyoung woman flushed guiltily, but, as if against her will, she remainedsilent. As she watched her father's face, a feeling of pity, fear andwonder held her breathless. 

Helen had often seen her father suffering under an attack of nervousexcitement. She had witnessed his spells of ungoverned rage that lefthim white and trembling with exhaustion. She had known his fears thathe tried so hard to hide. She knew of his sleepless nights, of hisdreams of horror, of his hours of lonely brooding. But never had sheseen her father like this. It was as if Adam Ward, believing himselfunobserved, let fall the mask that hid his secret self from even thosewho loved him most. Sinking down upon the bench, he groaned aloud, while his daughter, looking upon that huddled figure of abject miseryand despair, knew that she was witnessing a mental anguish that couldcome only from some source deep hidden beneath the surface of herfather's life. She could not move. As one under some strange spell, shewas helpless. 

The doctors had said--diplomatically--that Adam Ward's ill health was anervous trouble, resulting from his lifelong devotion to his work, withno play spell or rest, and no relief through interest in other things. But Adam Ward knew the real reason for the medical men's insistentadvice that he retire from the stress of the Mill to the quiet of hisestate. He knew it from his wife's anxious care and untiringwatchfulness. He knew it from the manner of his business associateswhen they asked how he felt. He knew when, at some trivial incident orword, he would be caught, helpless, in the grip of an ungovernable ragethat would leave him exhausted for many weary, brooding hours. He feltit in the haunting, unconquerable fears that beset him--by the feelingof some dread presence watching him--by the convictions that unknownenemies were seeking his life--by his terrifying dreams of the hell ofhis inherited religion. 

And the real reason for his condition Adam Ward knew. It was not thebusiness to which he had driven himself so relentlessly. It was notthat he had no other interests to take his mind from the Mill. It was athing that he had fought, in secret, almost every hour of every year ofhis accumulating successes. It was a thing which his neighbors andassociates and family felt in his presence but could not name--a thingwhich made him turn his eyes away from a frank, straightforward lookand forbade him to look his fellows in the face save by an exertion ofhis will. 

Through the vines, Helen saw her father stoop to pick from the ground afew twigs that had escaped the eyes of the caretakers. Deliberately hebroke the twigs into tiny bits, and threw the pieces one by one aside. His gray face, drawn and haggard, twitched and worked with the nervousstress of his thoughts. From under his heavy brows he glanced with thequick, furtive look of a hunted thing, as though fearing some enemythat might be hidden in the near-by shrubbery. The young woman, shrinking from the look in his eyes, and not daring to make herpresence known, remembered, suddenly, how the Interpreter had beenreluctant to discuss her father's illness. 

Casting aside the last tiny bit of the twig which he had broken soaimlessly, he found another and continued his senseless occupation. 

With pity and love in her heart, Helen wanted to go to him--to helphim, but she could not--some invisible presence seemed to forbid. 

Suddenly Adam raised his head. A moment he listened, then cautiously herose to his feet--listening, listening. It was no trick of his fancythis tune. He could hear voices on the other side of a dense growth ofshrubbery near the fence. Two people were talking. He could notdistinguish the words but he could hear distinctly the low murmur oftheir voices. 

Helen, too, heard the voices and looked in that direction. From herposition in the arbor she could see the speakers. With the shadow of aquick smile, she turned her eyes again toward her father. He waslooking about cautiously, as if to assure himself that he was alone. The shadow of a smile vanished from Helen's face as she watched inwondering fear. 

Stooping low, Adam Ward crept swiftly to a clump of bushes near thespot from which the sound of the voices came. Crouching behind theshrubbery, he silently parted the branches and peered through. Bobbyand Maggie Whaley stood on the outer side of the fence with theirlittle faces thrust between the iron pickets, looking in. 

Still in the glow of their wonderful experience at the Interpreter'shut and the magnificent climax of that day's adventure, the childrenhad determined to go yet farther afield. It was true that their fatherhad threatened dire results if they should continue the acquaintancebegun at the foot of the Interpreter's zigzag stairway, but, sufficientunto the day. --They would visit the great castle on the hill wheretheir beautiful princess lady lived. And, who could tell, perhaps theymight see her once more. Perhaps--"But that, " said tiny Maggie, "wastoo wonderful ever to happen again. "

The way had been rather long for bare little feet. But excited hope hadstrengthened them. And so they had climbed the hill, and had come atlast to the iron fence through which they could see the world of brightflowers and clean grass and shady trees, and, in the midst of it all, the big house. With their hungry little faces thrust between the strongiron pickets, Sam Whaley's children feasted their eyes on the beautiesof Adam Ward's possessions. Even Bobby, in his rapture over theloveliness of the scene, forgot for the moment his desire to blow upthe castle, with its owner and all. 

Behind his clump of shrubbery, Adam Ward, crouching like some stealthycreature of the jungle, watched and listened. 

From the shelter of the arbor, Adam Ward's daughter looked upon thescene with white-faced interest. 

"Gee, " said Bobby, "some place, I'd say!"

"Ain't it pretty?" murmured little Maggie. "Just like them places wherethe fairies live. "

"Huh, " returned the boy, "old Adam Ward, he ain't no fairy I'ma-tellin' yer. "

To which Maggie, hurt by this suggested break in the spell of herenchantment, returned indignantly, "Well, I guess the fairies can livein all them there pretty flowers an' things just the same, if old Adamdoes own 'em. You can't shut fairies out with no big iron fences. "

"That's so, " admitted Bobby. "Gee, I wisht we was fairies, so's wecould sneak in! Gee, wouldn't yer like ter take a roll on that theregrass?"

"Huh, " returned the little girl, "I know what I'd do if I was a fairy. I'd hide in that there bunch of flowers over there, an' I'd watch tillthe beautiful princess lady with the kind heart come along, an' I'dtell her where she could find them there jewels of happiness what theInterpreter told us about. "

"Do yer reckon she's in the castle there, right now?" asked Bobby. 

"I wonder!" murmured Maggie. 

"Betcher can't guess which winder is hern. "

"Bet I kin; it's that there one with all them vines around it. Princessladies allus has vines a-growin' 'roun' their castle winders--so's whenthe prince comes ter rescue 'em he kin climb up. "

"Wisht she'd come out. "

"I wish--"

Little Maggie's wish was never expressed, for at that moment, frombehind that near-by clump of shrubbery a man sprang toward them, hisface distorted with passion and his arms tossing in threateninggestures. 

The children, too frightened to realize the safety of their position onthe other side of those iron bars, stood speechless. For the momentthey could neither cry out nor run. 

"Get out!" Adam Ward yelled, hoarse with rage, as he would have drivenoff a trespassing dog. "Get out! Go home where you belong! Don't youknow this is private property? Do you think I am keeping a circus herefor all the dirty brats in the country to look at? Get out, I tell you, or I'll--"

With frantic speed the two children fled down the hill. 

Adam Ward laughed--laughed until he was forced to hold his sides andthe tears of his ungodly mirth rolled down his cheeks. 

But such laughter is a fearful thing to see. White and trembling withthe shame and the horror of it, Helen crouched in her hiding place, notdaring even to move. She felt, as never before, the presence of thatspirit which possessed her father and haunted her home. It was as ifthe hidden thing of which she had forced herself to speak to theInterpreter were suddenly about to materialize before her eyes. Shewanted to scream--to cry aloud her fear--to shriek her protest--butsheer terror held her motionless and dumb. 

The spell was broken by Mrs. Ward who, from somewhere in the grounds, was calling, "Adam! Oh-h, Adam!"

The man heard, and Helen saw him controlling his laughter, and lookingcautiously about. 

Again the call came, and there was an anxious note in the voice. "Adam--father--Oh-h, father, where are you?"

With a cruel grin still twisting his gray face, Adam slunk behind aclump of bushes. 

Helen Ward crept from her hiding place and, keeping the little arborbetween herself and her father, stole away through the grounds. Whenshe was beyond his hearing, she almost ran, as if to escape from a spotaccursed. 

CHAPTER VI

ON THE OLD ROAD

When Bobby and Maggie Whaley fled from the immediate vicinity of AdamWard's estate, they were beside themselves with fear--blind, unreasoning, instinctive fear. 

There is a fear that is reasonable--that is born of an intelligentcomprehension of the danger that menaces, and there is a fear that isborn of ignorance--of inability to understand the nature of the danger. These children of the Flats had nothing in their little lives by whichthey might know the owner of the Mill, or visualize the world in whichthe man for whom their father worked lived. To Bobby and Maggie thehome of Adam Ward was a place of mystery, as far removed from the worldof their actualities as any fabled castle in fairyland could possiblybe. 

Sam Whaley's distorted views of all employers in the industrial world, and his fanatical ideas of class loyalty, were impressed with weirdexaggeration upon the fertile minds of his children. From theirfather's conversation with his workmen neighbors, and from thesuggestive expressions and epithets which Sam had gleaned from theliterature upon which he fed his mind and which he used with suchgusto, Bobby and Maggie had gathered the material out of which they hadcreated an imaginary monster, capable of destroying them with fiendishdelight. They had seen angry men too often to be much disturbed by merehuman wrath. But, to them, this Adam Ward who had appeared so suddenlyfrom the shrubbery was more than a man; he was all that they had beentaught to believe--a hideous thing of more dreadful power and sinisterpurpose than could be imagined. 

With all their strength they ran down the old hill road toward theworld of the Flats where they belonged. They dared not even look overtheir shoulders. The very ground seemed to drag at their feet to holdthem back. Then little Maggie stumbled and fell. Her frantic screamsreached Bobby, who was a few feet in advance, and the boy stoppedinstantly and faced about, with terror in his eyes but with evidentdetermination to defend his sister at any cost. 

When he had pulled Maggie to her feet, and it was certain that therewas nothing pursuing them, Bobby, boylike, laughed. "Gee, but we madesome git-away, that trip! Gee, I'll tell the world!"

The little girl clung to her protector, shaking with weariness andfear. "I--can't run 'nother step, " she gasped. "Will he come after ushere?"

"Naw, " returned the boy, with reassuring boldness, "he won't come thisfar. Yer just lay down in the grass, under this here tree, 'til yercatch yer wind; then we'll make it on down to the Interpreter's--'tain't far to the stairs. You just take it easy. I'll watch. "

The soft grass and the cool shade were very pleasant after their wildrun, and they were loath to go, even when little Maggie had recoveredfrom her exhaustion. Very soon, when no danger appeared, the boy forgotto watch and began an animated discussion of their thrillingexperience. 

But Maggie did not share her brother's boastful triumph. "Do yousuppose, " she said, wistfully, "that he is like that to the princesslady?"

Bobby shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know. Yer can't tell whathe'd do to her if he took a notion. Old Adam Ward would do anythingthat's mean, to anybody, no matter who. I'll bet--"

The sound of some one approaching from the direction of the castleinterrupted Bobby's conjectures. 

Maggie would have made another frantic effort to escape, but the boycaught her roughly and drew her down beside him. "No use to run--yercan't make it, " he whispered. "Best lay low. An' don't yer dast evenwhimper. "

Lying prone, they wormed themselves into the tall grass, with the trunkof the tree between them and the road, until it would have been a keenobserver, indeed, who would have noticed them in passing. 

They heard the approaching danger coming nearer and nearer. LittleMaggie buried her face in the grass roots to stifle a scream. Now itwas on the other side of the tree. It was passing on. Suddenly theyalmost buried themselves in the ground in their effort to lie closer tothe earth. The sound of the footsteps had ceased. 

For what seemed to them hours, the frightened children lay motionless, scarcely daring to breathe. Then another sound came to their strainingears--a sound not unfamiliar to the children of the Flats. A woman wasweeping. 

Cautiously, the more courageous Bobby raised his head until he couldpeer through the tangled stems and blades of the sheltering grass. Amoment he looked, then gently shook his sister's arm. Imitating herbrother's caution, little Maggie raised her frightened face. Only a fewsteps away, their princess lady was crouching in the grass, with herface buried in her hands, crying bitterly. 

"Well, what do yer know about that?" whispered Bobby. 

A moment longer they kept their places, whispering in consultation. Then they rose quietly to their feet and, hand in hand, stood waiting. 

Helen had not consciously followed the children. Indeed, her mind wasso occupied with her own troubled thoughts that she had forgotten thelittle victims of her father's insane cruelty. To avoid meeting hermother, as she fled from the scene of her father's madness, she hadtaken a course that led her toward the entrance to the estate. With theone thought of escaping from the invisible presence of that hiddenthing, she had left the grounds and followed the quiet old road. 

When the storm of her grief had calmed a little, the young woman raisedher head and saw Sam Whaley's dirty, ill-kept children gazing at herwith wondering sympathy. It is not too much to say that Helen Ward wasmore embarrassed than she would have been had she found herself thussuddenly in the presence of royalty. "I am sorry you were frightened, "she said, hesitatingly. "I can't believe that he really would have hurtyou. "

"Huh, " grunted Bobby. "I'm darned glad we was outside of that therefence. "

Maggie's big eyes were eloquent with compassion. "Did--did he scareyer, too?"

Helen held back her tears with an effort. "Yes, dear, he frightened me, too--dreadfully. "

With shy friendliness, little Maggie drew closer. "Is he--is he sure'nuff, yer father?"

"Yes, " returned Helen, "he is my father. "

"Gee!" ejaculated Bobby. "An' is he always like that?"

"Oh, no, indeed, " returned Helen, quickly. "Father is really kind andgood, but he--he is sick now and not wholly himself, you see. "

"Huh, " said Bobby. "He didn't act very sick to me. What's ailin' him?"

Helen answered slowly, "I--we don't just know what it is. The doctorssay it is a nervous trouble. "

"An' does he--does he ever whip yer?" asked Maggie. 

In spite of the pain in her heart, Helen smiled. "No--never. "

"Our dad gits mad, too, sometimes, " said Bobby. "But, gee! he ain'tnever like that. Dad, he wouldn't care if somebody just looked into ouryard. We wasn't a-hurtin' nothin'--just a-lookin'--that's all. Yercan't hurt nothin' just a-lookin', can yer?"

"I am sorry, " said Helen. 

"Be yer happy?" asked Maggie, suddenly, with disconcerting directness. 

"Why!" replied Helen, "I--What makes you ask such a funny question?"

Maggie was too much embarrassed at her own boldness to answer, andBobby came to her rescue. 

"She wants to know because the Interpreter, he tole us about a princesswhat lived in a castle an' wasn't happy 'til the fairy told her how tofind the jewel of happiness; an' Mag, here, she thinks it's you. "

"And where did the princess find the jewel of happiness?" asked Helen. 

Little Maggie's anxiety to help overcame her timidity and she answeredprecisely, "On the shores of the sea of life which was not far from thecastle where the beautiful princess lived. "

Helen looked toward the Flats, the Mill, and the homes in theneighborhood of the old house. "The shores of the sea of life, " sherepeated, thoughtfully. "I see. "

"Yes, " continued Maggie, with her tired little face alight, and hereyes big with excited eagerness, "but the beautiful princess, shedidn't know that there jewel of happiness when she seen it. "

"No?" said Helen, smiling at her little teacher. 

"No--an' so she picked up all the bright, shiny stones what was no goodat all, 'til the fairy showed her how the real jewel she was a-wantin'was an old, ugly, dirt-colored thing what didn't look like any jewel, no more 'n nothin'. "

"Oh, I see!" said Helen again. And Bobby thought that she looked atthem as though she were thinking very hard. 

"Yer forgot something Mag, " said the boy, suddenly. 

"I ain't neither, " returned his sister, with unusual boldness. "Yershut up an' see. " Then, to Helen, "Is yer heart kind, lady?"

"I--I hope so, dear, " returned the disconcerted Helen. "Why?"

"Because, if it is, then the fairies will help yer find the real jewelof happiness, 'cause that was the reason, yer see, it allhappened--'cause the beautiful princess's heart was kind. " She turnedto Bobby triumphantly, "There, ain't that like the Interpreter said?"

"Uh-huh, " agreed the boy. "But yer needn't to worry--her heart's allright. Didn't she give us that there grand ride in her swellautermobile?"

Little Maggie's embarrassment suddenly returned. 

"Did you really enjoy the ride?" asked Helen. 

Bobby answered, "I'll say we did. Gee! but yer ought to a seen usputtin' it all over everybody in the Flats. "

Something in the boy's answer brought another smile to Helen's lips, but it was not a smile of happiness. 

"I really must go now, " she said, rising. "Thank you for telling meabout the happiness jewel. Don't you think that it is time for you tobe running along home? Your mother will be wondering where you are, won't she?"

"Uh-huh, " agreed Bobby. 

But Maggie's mind was fixed upon more important things than the time ofday. With an effort, she forced herself to say, "If the fairy comes toyer will yer tell me about it, sometime? I ain't never seen one myselfan'--an'--"

"You poor little mite!" said Helen. "Yes, indeed, I will tell you aboutit if the fairy comes. And I will tell the fairy about you, too. But, who knows, perhaps the happiness fairy will visit you first, and youcan tell her about me. "

And something that shone in the beautiful face of the young woman, orsomething that sang in her voice, made little Maggie sure--deep downinside--that her princess lady would find the jewel of happiness, justas the Interpreter had said. But neither the child of the Flats, northe daughter of the big house on the hill knew that the jewel ofhappiness was, even at that moment, within reach of the princess lady'shand. 

When Helen had disappeared from their sight, the two children startedon their way down the hill toward the dingy Flats. 

"Gee, " said Bobby, "won't we have something to tell the kids now? Gee!We'll sure make 'em sore they wasn't along. Think of us a-talkin' toold Adam Ward's daughter, herself. Gee! Some stunt--I'll tell theworld. "

They had reached the foot of the old stairway and were discussingwhether or not they dared prolong their absence from home by paying avisit to the Interpreter, when a man appeared on the road from town. Bobby caught sight of the approaching stranger first, and the boy'sfreckled countenance lighted with excited interest and admiration. 

"Hully Gee!" he exclaimed, catching Maggie by the arm. "Would yer lookwho's a-comin'!"

The man was not, in his general appearance, one to inspire a feeling ofconfidence. He was a little above medium height, with fat shoulders, athick neck, and dark, heavy features with coarse lips showing through ablack beard trimmed to a point, and small black eyes set close above alarge nose with flaring nostrils. His clothing was good, and he carriedhimself with assurance. But altogether there was about him theunmistakable air of a foreigner. 

Bobby continued in an excited whisper, "That there's Jake Vodell we'veheard Dad an' the men talkin' so much about. He's the guy what'sa-goin' to put the fear of God into the Mill bosses and rich folks. He's a-goin' to take away old Adam Ward's money an' Mill, an'autermobiles, an' house an'--everything, an' divide 'em all up 'mong uspoor workin' folks. Gee, but he's a big gun, I'm tellin' yer!"

The man came on to the foot of the stairs and stopped before thechildren. For a long moment he looked them over with speculativeinterest. "Well, " he said, abruptly, "and who are you? That you belongin this neighborhood it is easy to see. "

"We're Bobby and Maggie Whaley, " answered the boy. 

The man's black eyebrows were lifted, and he nodded his headreflectively. "Oh-ho, you are Sam Whaley's kids, heh?"

"Uh-huh, " returned Bobby. "An' I know who yer are, too. "

"So?" said the man. 

"Uh-huh, yer Jake Vodell, the feller what's a-goin' to make all the bigbugs hunt their holes, and give us poor folks a chance. Gee, but I'dlike to be you!"

The man showed his strong white teeth in a pleased smile. "You are allright, kid, " he returned. "I think, maybe, you will play a big part inthe cause sometime--when you grow up. "

Bobby swelled out his chest with pride at this good word from his hero. "I'm big enough right now to put a stick o' danermite under old AdamWard's castle, up there on the hill. "

Little Maggie caught her brother's arm. "Bobby, yer ain't a-goin'--"

The man laughed. "That's the stuff, kid, " he said. "But you better letjobs like that alone--until you are a bit older, heh?"

"Mag an' me has been up there to the castle all this afternoon, "bragged the boy. "An' we talked with old Adam's daughter, too, an'--an'everything. "

The man stared at him. "What is this you tell me?"

"It's so, " returned Bobby, stoutly, "ain't it, Mag? An' the other dayHelen Ward, she give us a ride, in her autermobile--while she wasa-visitin' with the Interpreter up there. "

Jake Vodell's black brows were drawn together in a frown ofdisapproval. "So this Adam Ward's daughter, too, calls on theInterpreter, heh! Many people, it seems, go to this Interpreter. " ToBobby he said suddenly, "Look here, it will be better if you kids stayaway from such people--it will get you nothing to work yourselves inwith those who are not of your own class!"

"Yes, sir, " returned Bobby, dutifully. 

"I will tell you what you can do, though, " continued the man. "You cantell your father that I want him at the meeting to-night. Think you canremember, heh?"

"Yer bet I can, " replied the boy. "But where'll I tell him the meetin'is?"

"Never you mind that, " returned the other. "You just tell him I wanthim--he will know where. And now be on your way. "

To Bobby's utter amazement, Jake Vodell went quickly up the steps thatled to the Interpreter's hut. 

"Gee!" exclaimed the wondering urchin. "What do yer know about that, Mag? He's a-goin' to see our old Interpreter. Gee! I guess theInterpreter's one of us all right. Jake Vodell wouldn't be a-goin' tosee him if he wasn't. "

As they trudged away through the black dust, the boy added, "Darn itall, Mag, if the Interpreter _is_ one of us what's the princess ladygoin' to see him for?"

CHAPTER VII

THE HIDDEN THING

Hiding in the shrubbery, Adam Ward chuckled and grinned with strangeglee as he listened to his wife calling for him. Here and there aboutthe grounds she searched anxiously; but the man kept himself hidden andenjoyed her distress. At last, when she had come so near that discoverywas certain, he suddenly stepped out from the bushes and, facing her, waited expectantly. 

And now, by some miracle, Adam Ward's countenance was transformed--hiseyes were gentle, his gray face calm and kindly. His smile became theaffectionate greeting of a man who, past the middle years of life, issteadfast in his love for the mother of his grown-up children. 

Mrs. Ward had been, in the years of her young womanhood, as beautifulas her daughter Helen. But her face was lined now with care andshadowed by sadness, as though with the success of her husband therehad come, also, regrets and disappointments which she had suffered insilence and alone. 

She returned Adam's smile of greeting, when she saw him standing there, but that note of anxiety was still in her voice as she said gently, "Where in the world have you been? I have looked all over the place foryou. "

He laughed as he went to her--a laugh of good comradeship. "I was justsitting over there under that tree, " he answered. "I heard you when youcalled the first time, but thought I would let you hunt a while. Theexercise will do you good--keep you from getting too fat in your oldage. "

She laughed with him, and answered, "Well, you can just come and talkto me now, while I rest. "

Arm in arm, they went to the rustic seat in the shade of the treewhere, a few minutes before, he had so aimlessly broken the twigs. 

But when they were seated the man frowned with displeasure. "Alice, Iwish to goodness there was some way to make these men about the placekeep a closer watch of things. "

She glanced at him quickly. "Has something gone wrong, Adam?"

"Nothing more than usual, " he answered, harshly. "There are always alot of prowlers around. But they don't stay long when I get afterthem. " He laughed, shortly--a mirthless, shamefaced laugh. 

"I am sorry you were annoyed, " she said, gently. 

"Annoyed!" he returned, with the manner of a petulant child. "I'llannoy _them_. I tell you I am not going to stand for a lot of people'scoming here, sneaking and prying around to see what they can see. Ifanybody wants to enjoy a place like this let him work for it as Ihave. "

She waited a while before she said, as if feeling her way toward adefinite point, "It has been hard work, hasn't it, Adam? Almost toohard, I fear. Did you ever ask yourself if, after all, it is reallyworth the cost?"

"Worth the cost! I am not in the habit of paying more than things areworth. This place cost me exactly--"

She interrupted him, quietly, "I don't mean that, dear. I was notthinking of the money. I was thinking of what it has all cost in workand worry and--and other things. "

"It has all been for you and the children, Alice, " he answered, wearily; and there was that in his voice and face which brought thetears to her eyes. "You know that, so far as I am personally concerned, it doesn't mean a thing in the world to me. I don't know anythingoutside of the Mill myself. "

She put her hand on his arm with a caressing touch. "I know--Iknow--and that is just what troubles me. Perhaps if you would share itmore--I mean if you could enjoy it more--I might feel different aboutit. We were all so happy, Adam, in the old house. "

When he made no reply to this but sat with his eyes fixed on the groundshe said, pleadingly, "Won't you put aside all the cares and worries ofthe Mill now, and just be happy with us, Adam?"

The man moved uneasily. 

"You know what the doctors say, " she continued, gently. "You really--"

He interrupted impatiently, "The doctors are a set of fools. I'll showthem!"

She persisted with gentle patience. "But even if the doctors are wrongabout your health, still there is no reason why you should not restafter all your years of hard work. I am sure we have everything in theworld that any one could possibly want. There is not the shadow of anecessity to make you go on wearing your life out as you have beendoing. "

"Much you know about what is necessary for me to do, " he retorted. "Aman isn't going to let the business that he has been all his lifebuilding up go to smash just because he has made money enough to keephim without work for the rest of his days. "

"There are other things that can go to smash besides business, Adam, "she returned, sadly. "And I am sure that the Mill will be safe enoughnow in John's hands. "

"John!" he exclaimed, bitterly. "It's John and his crazy ideas that Iam afraid of. "

She returned, quickly, with a mother's pride, "Why, Adam! You have saidso many times how wonderfully well John was doing, and what a splendidhead he had for business details and management. It was only last weekthat you told me John was more capable now than some of the men thathave been in the office with you for several years. "

Adam Ward rose and paced uneasily up and down before her. "You don'tunderstand at all, Alice. It is not John's business ability or hiswillingness to get into the harness that worries me. It is the foolnotions that he picked up somewhere over there in the war--there, andfrom that meddlesome old socialist basket maker. "

"Just what notions do you mean, Adam? Is it John's friendship withCharlie Martin that you fear?"

"His friendship with young Martin is only part of it. I am afraid ofhis attitude toward the whole industrial situation. Haven't you heardhis wild, impracticable and dangerous theories of applying, as he says, the ideals of patriotism, and love of country, and duty to humanity, and sacrifice, and heroism, and God knows what other nonsense, to thework of the world? You know as well as I do how he talks about thecomradeship of the mills and factories and workshops being like thecomradeship of the trenches and camps and battlefields. His notions ofthe relation between an employer and his employees would be funny ifthey were not so dangerous. Look at his sympathy with the unions! Andyet I have shown him on my books where this union business has cost mehundreds of thousands of dollars! Comradeship! Loyalty! I tell you Iknow what I'm talking about from experience. The only way to handle theworking class is to keep them where they belong. Give them the leastchance to think you are easy and they are on your neck. If I had my wayI'd hold them to their jobs at the muzzle of a machine gun. McIver hasthe right idea. He is getting himself in shape right now for thebiggest fight with labor that he has ever had. Everybody knows thatagitator Jake Vodell is here to make trouble. The laboring classes havehad a long spell of good times now and they're ripe for anything. Allthey need is a start and this anarchist is here to start them. AndJohn, instead of lining up with McIver and getting ready to fight themto a finish, is spending his time hobnobbing with Charlie Martin andlistening to that old fool Interpreter. "

"Come, dear, " she said, soothingly. "Come and sit down here with me. Don't let's worry about what may happen. "

He obeyed her with the manner of a fretful child. And presently, as shetalked, the cloud lifted from his gray, haggard face, and he grew calm. Soon, when she made some smiling remark, he even smiled back at herwith the affectionate companionship of their years. 

"You will try not to worry about things so much, won't you, Adam?" shesaid, at last. "For my sake, won't you?"

"But I tell you, Alice, there is serious trouble ahead. "

"Perhaps that is all the more reason why you should retire now, " sheurged. He stirred uneasily, but she continued, "Just suppose the worstthat could possibly happen should happen, suppose you even had to giveup the Mill to Pete Martin and the men, suppose you lost the newprocess and everything, and we were obliged to give up our home hereand go back to live in the old house--it would still be better thanlosing you, dear. Don't you know that to have you well and strong wouldbe more to Helen and John and to me than anything else could possiblybe?"

Mrs. Ward knew, as the words left her lips, that she had said the wrongthing. She had heard him rave about his ownership of the new processtoo many times not to know--while any mention of his old workman friendPeter Martin always threw him into a rage. But in her anxiety theforbidden words had escaped her. 

She drew back with a little gasp of fear at the swift change that cameover his face. As if she had touched a hidden spring in his being theman's countenance was darkened by furious hatred and desperate fear. His trembling lips were ashen; the muscles of his face twitched andworked; his eyes blazed with a vicious anger beyond all control. Springing to his feet, he faced her with a snarling exclamation, and ina voice shaking with passion, cried, "Pete Martin! What is he? Who ishe? Everything he has in the world he owes to me. Haven't I kept him inwork all these years? Haven't I paid him every cent of his wages? Lookat his home. Not many working men have been able to own a place likethat. What would he have done without the money I have given him everypay day? I could have turned him out long ago--kicked him out of a jobwithout a cent. He's had all that's coming to him--every penny. _I_built up the Mill. That new process is mine--it's patented in my name. I have had the best lawyers I could hire to protect it on everypossible point. If it hadn't been for my business brain there wouldn'tbe any new process. What could Pete Martin have done with it--the foolhas no more business sense than a baby. I introduced it--I exploitedit--I built it up and made it worth what it is, and there isn't a courtin the world that wouldn't say I have a legal right to it. "

In vain Mrs. Ward tried to soothe him with reassuring words, pleadingwith him to be calm. 

"I know they're after me, " he raved. "They have tried all sorts oftricks. There is always some sneaking spy watching for a chance to getme, but I'll fix them. I built the business up and I can tear it down. Let them try to take anything away from me if they dare. I'll burn theMill and the whole town before I'll give up one cent of my legal rightsto Pete Martin or any of his tribe. "

Forgetting his companion, the man suddenly started off across thegrounds, waving his arms and shaking his fists in wild gestures as hecontinued his tirade against his old fellow workman. Mrs. Ward knewfrom experience the uselessness of trying to interfere until he hadexhausted himself. 

 * * * * *

As Helen was returning to the house after her talk with the children, she saw her mother coming slowly from that part of the grounds wherethe young woman had watched her father. It was evident, even at adistance, that Mrs. Ward was greatly distressed. When the young womanreached her mother's side, Mrs. Ward said, simply, "Your father, dear--he is terribly upset. Go to him, Helen, you can always do morefor him than any one else--he needs you. "

It was not an easy task for Helen Ward to face her father just then. Asshe went in search of him she tried to put from her mind all that shehad seen and to remember only that he was ill. She found him in themost distant and lonely part of the grounds, sitting with his faceburied in his hands--a figure of hopeless despair. 

While still some distance away, she forced herself to call cheerily, "Hello, father. "

As he raised his head, she turned to pick a few flowers from a near-bybed. When he had had a moment to regain, in a measure, hisself-control, she went toward him, arranging her blossoms with carefulattention. 

Adam Ward watched his daughter as she drew near, much as a condemnedman might have watched through the grating of a prison window. 

"What is it, father?" she asked, gently, when she had come close to hisside. "Another one of your dreadful nervous headaches?"

He put a shaking hand to his brow. "Yes, " he said wearily. 

"I am so sorry, " she returned, sitting down beside him. "You have beenthinking too hard again, haven't you?"

"Yes, I guess I have been thinking too hard. "

"But you're going to stop all that now, aren't you?" she continued, cheerily. "You're just going to forget the old Mill, and do nothing butrest and play with me. "

"Could I learn to play, do you think, Helen?"

"Why, of course you could, father, with me to teach you. That's thebest thing I do, you know. "

He watched her closely. "And you don't think that I--that I am nolonger capable of managing my affairs?"

She laughed gayly. "What a silly question--_you_ capable--_you_, father, the best brain--the best business executive in Millsburgh. Youknow that is what everybody says of you. You are just tired, and need agood rest, that is all. "

The man's drooping shoulders lifted and his face brightened as he said, slowly, "I guess perhaps you are right, daughter. "

"I am sure of it, " she returned, eagerly. Then she added brightly, asif prompted by a sudden inspiration, "I'll tell you what you do--askthe Interpreter. "

"Ask the Interpreter!"

She nodded, smiling as if she had put a puzzling conundrum to him. 

"You mean for me to ask that paralyzed old basket maker's advice? Youmean, ask him if I should retire from business?"

Again she nodded with a little laugh; but under her laughter there wasa note of earnestness. 

"And don't you know, " he said, "that it is the Interpreter who is atthe bottom of all my trouble?"

"Father!"

"The Interpreter, I tell you, is back of the whole thing. He is thebrains of the labor organizations in Millsburgh and has been for years. Why, it was the Interpreter who organized the first union in thisdistrict. He has done more to build them up than all the others puttogether. Pete Martin and Charlie, the ringleaders of the Mill workers'union, are only his active lieutenants. I haven't a doubt but that heis responsible for this agitator Jake Vodell's coming to Millsburgh. That miserable shack on the cliff is the real headquarters of labor inthis part of the country. Your Interpreter is a fine one for _me_ to goto for advice. His hut is a fine place for your brother to spend hisspare time. It would be a fine thing, right now, with this man Vodellin town, for me to resign and leave the Mill in the hands of John, whois already in the hands of the Interpreter and the Martins and theirMill workers' union!"

As Adam finished, the deep sonorous tones of the great Mill whistlesounded over the community. It was the signal for the closing of theday's work. 

Obedient to the habit of years, the Mill owner looked at his watch. Inhis mind he saw the day force trooping from the building and the nightshift coming in. Throughout the entire city, in office and shop andstore and home, the people ordered their days by the sound of thatwhistle, and Adam Ward had been very proud of this recognition accordedhim. 

Wearily, as one exhausted by a day of hard labor, this man who sofeared the power of the Interpreter looked up at his daughter. "I wishI could rest, " he said. 

CHAPTER VIII

WHILE THE PEOPLE SLEEP

The Interpreter's hands were busy with his basket weaving; his mindseemingly was occupied more with other things. Frequently he paused tolook up from his work and, with his eyes fixed on the Mill, the Flatsand the homes on the hillside, apparently considered the life that laybefore him and of which he had been for so many years an interestedobserver and student. On the opposite side of the table, silent Billywas engaged with something that had to do with the manufacturinginterests of their strange partnership. 

When Jake Vodell reached the landing at the top of the stairway, hestopped to look about the place with curious, alert interest, notingwith quick glances every object in the immediate vicinity of the hut, as if fixing them in his mind. Satisfied at last by the thoroughness ofhis inspection, he went toward the house, but his step on the boardwalk made no sound. At the outer door of the little hut the man haltedagain, and again he looked quickly about the premises. Apparently therewas no one at home. Silently he entered the room and the next instantdiscovered the two men on the porch. 

The Interpreter's attention at the moment was fixed upon his work andhe remained unaware of the intruder's presence, while Jake Vodell, standing in the doorway, regarded the old basket maker curiously, witha contemptuous smile on his bearded lips. 

But Billy Rand saw him. A moment he looked at the man in the doorwayinquiringly, as he would have regarded any one of the Interpreter'smany visitors; then the deaf and dumb man's expression changed. Glancing quickly at his still unobserving companion, he caught up ahatchet that lay among the tools on the table and, with a movement thatwas not unlike the guarding action of a huge mastiff, rose to his feet. His face was a picture of animal rage; his teeth were bared, his eyesgleamed, his every muscle was tense. 

The man in the doorway was evidently no coward, but the smile vanishedfrom his heavy face and his right hand went quickly inside his vest. "What's the matter with you?" he said, sharply, as Billy started towardhim with deliberate menace in his movement. 

At the sound of the man's voice the Interpreter looked up. One glanceand the old basket maker caught the wheels of his chair and with aquick, strong movement rolled himself between the two men--so close toBilly that he caught his defender by the arm. Facing his enragedcompanion, the Interpreter talked to him rapidly in their sign languageand held out his hand for the hatchet. The silent Billy reluctantlysurrendered the weapon and drew back to his place on the other side ofthe table, where he sat glaring at the stranger in angry watchfulness. 

The man in the doorway laughed harshly. "They told me I would find ahelpless old cripple up here, " he said. "I think you are pretty wellprotected at that. "

Regarding the stranger gravely, the Interpreter apologized for hiscompanion. "You can see that Billy is not wholly responsible, " heexplained. "He is little more than a child mentally; his actions areoften apparently governed wholly by that strange instinct which seemsto guide the animals. He is very devoted to me. "

"He seems to be in earnest all right, " said the stranger. "He is ahusky brute, too. "

The Interpreter, regarding the man inquiringly, almost as if he wereseeking in the personality of his visitor the reason for Billy'sstartling conduct, replied, simply, "He would have killed you. "

With a shrug of his thick shoulders, the stranger uninvited cameforward and helped himself to a chair, and, with the air of oneintroducing a person of some importance, said, "I am Vodell--JakeVodell. You have heard of me, I think, heh?"

"Oh, yes. Indeed, I should say that every one has heard of you, Mr. Vodell. Your work has given you even more than national prominence, Ibelieve. "

The man was at no pains to conceal his satisfaction. "I am known, yes. "

"It is odd, " said the Interpreter, "but your face seems familiar to me, as if I had met you before. "

"You have heard me speak somewhere, maybe, heh?"

"No, it cannot be that. You have never been in Millsburgh before, haveyou?"

"No. "

"It is strange, " mused the old basket maker. 

"It is the papers, " returned Vodell with a shrug. "Many times thepapers have my picture--you must have seen. "

"Of course, that is it, " exclaimed the Interpreter. "I remember now, distinctly. It was in connection with that terrible bomb outrage in--"

"Sir!" interrupted the other indignantly. "Outrage--what do you mean, outrage?"

"I was thinking of the innocent people who were killed or injured, "returned the Interpreter, calmly. "I believe you were also prominent inthose western strikes where so many women and children suffered, wereyou not?"

The labor agitator replied with the exact manner of a scientificlecturer. "It is unfortunate that innocent persons must sometimes behurt in these affairs. But that is one of the penalties that societymust pay for tolerating the conditions that make these industrial warsnecessary. "

"If I remember correctly, you were in the South, too, at the time thatmill was destroyed. "

"Oh, yes, they had me in jail there. But that was nothing. I have manysuch experiences. They are to me very commonplace. Wherever there arethe poor laboring men who must fight for their rights, I go. The mines, shops, mills, factories--it is all the same to me. I go wherever I canserve the Cause. I have been in America now ten years, nearly eleven. "

"You are not, then, a citizen of this country?"

Jake Vodell laughed contemptuously. "Oh, sure I am a citizen of thiscountry--this great America of fools and cowards that talk all the timeso big about freedom and equality, while the capitalist money hogs holdthem in slavery and rob them of the property they create. I had tobecome a citizen when the war came, you see, or they would have sent meaway. But for that I would make myself a citizen of some cannibalcountry first. " The old basket maker's dark eyes blazed with quickfire and he lifted himself with sudden strength to a more erectposition in his wheel chair. But when he spoke his deep voice was calmand steady. "You have been in our little city nearly a month, Iunderstand. "

"Just about. I have been looking around, getting acquainted, studyingthe situation. One must be very careful to know the right men, youunderstand. It pays, I find, to go a little slow at first. We will gofast enough later. " His thick lips parted in a meaning grin. 

The Interpreter's hands gripped the wheels of his chair. 

"Everybody tells me I should see you, " the agitator continued. "Everywhere it is the same. They all talk of the Interpreter. 'Go tothe Interpreter, ' they say. When they told me that this greatInterpreter is an old white-headed fellow without any legs, I laughedand said, 'What can he do to help the laboring man? He is not good foranything but to sit in a wheel chair and make baskets all the day. Ineed _men_. ' But they all answer the same thing, 'Go and see theInterpreter. ' And so I am here. "

When the Interpreter was silent, his guest demanded, harshly, "They areall right, heh? You are a friend to the workingman? Tell me, is it so?"

The old basket maker spoke with quiet dignity. "For twenty-five yearsMillsburgh has been my home, and the Millsburgh people have been myfriends. You, sir, have been here less than a month; I have known youbut a few minutes. "

Jake Vodell laughed understandingly. "Oh-ho, so that is it? Maybe youlike to see my credentials before we talk?"

The Interpreter held up a hand in protest. "Your reputation issufficient, Mr. Vodell. "

The man acknowledged the compliment--as he construed it--with a shrugand a pleased laugh. "And all that is said of you by the laboring classin your little city is sufficient, " he returned. "Even the men inMcIver's factory tell me you are the best friend that labor has everhad in this place. " He paused expectantly. 

The man in the wheel chair bowed his head. 

"And then, " continued Jake Vodell, with a frown of displeasure, "when Icome to see you, to ask some questions about things that I should know, what do I hear? The daughter of this old slave-driver and robber--thiscapitalist enemy of the laboring class--Adam Ward, she comes also tosee this Interpreter who is such a friend of the people. "

The Interpreter laughed. "And Sam Whaley's children, they come too. "

"Oh, yes, that is better. I know Sam Whaley. He is a good man who willbe a great help to me. But I do not understand this woman business. "

"I have known Miss Ward ever since she was born; I worked in the Millat the same bench with her father and Peter Martin, " said the man inthe wheel chair, with quiet dignity. 

"I see. It is not so bad sometimes to have a friend or two among thesemillionaires when there is no danger of it being misunderstood. Butthis man, who was once a workman and who deserted his class--thistraitor, her father--does he also call on you, Mr. Interpreter?"

"Once in a great while, " answered the Interpreter. 

Jake Vodell laughed knowingly. "When he wants something, heh?" Then, with an air of taking up the real business of his visit to the littlehut on the cliff, he said, "Suppose now you tell me something aboutthis son of Adam Ward. You have known him since he was a boy too--thesame as the girl?"

"Yes, " said the Interpreter, "I have known John Ward all his life. "

Something in the old basket maker's voice made Jake Vodell look at himsharply and the agitator's black brows were scowling as he said, "So--you are friends with him, too, I guess, heh?"

"I am, sir; and so is Captain Charlie Martin, who is the head of ourMill workers' union, as you may have heard. "

"Exactly. That is why I ask. So many of the poor fools who slave forthis son of Adam Ward in the Mill say that he is such a fine man--sokind. Oh, wonderful! Bah! When was the wolf whelped that would be kindto a rabbit? You shall tell me now about the friendship between thiswolf cub of the capitalist Mill owner and this poor rabbit, son of theworkman Peter Martin who has all his life been a miserable slave in theMill. They were in the army together, heh?"

"They enlisted in the same company when the first call came and werecomrades all through the worst of the fighting in France. "

"And before that, they were friends, heh?"

"They had been chums as boys, when the family lived in the old housenext door to the Martins. But during the years that John was away inschool and college Adam moved his family to the place on the hill wherethey live now. When John was graduated and came home to stay, henaturally found his friends in another circle. His intimacy with PeteMartin's boy was not renewed--until the war. "

"Exactly, " grunted Jake Vodell. "And how did Adam Ward like it that hisboy should go to war? Not much, I think. It was all right for theworkman's boy to go; but the Mill owner's son--that was different, heh?"

There was a note of pride in the Interpreter's voice, as he answered, "Adam was determined that the boy should not go at all, even if he weredrafted. But John said that it was bad enough to let other men work tofeed and clothe him in ordinary times of peace without letting them dohis fighting for him as well. "

"This Adam Ward's son said that!" exclaimed the agitator. "Huh--it wasfor the effect--a grand-stand play. "

"He enlisted, " retorted the Interpreter. "And when his father wouldhave used his influence to secure some sort of commission with an easyberth, John was more indignant than ever. He said if he ever woreshoulder straps they would be a recognition of his service to hiscountry and not, as he put it, a pretty gift from a rich father. So heand Charlie Martin both enlisted as privates, and, as it happened, onthe same day. Under such circumstances it was quite as natural thattheir old friendship should be reestablished as that they should havedrifted apart under the influence of Adam Ward's prosperity. "

Jake Vodell laughed disagreeably. "And then this wonderful son of yourmillionaire Mill owner comes out of the war and the army exactly as hewent in, nothing but a private--not even a medal--heh? But this workmanfrom the Mill, he comes back a captain with a distinguished servicemedal? I think maybe Private Ward's father and mother and sister likedthat--no?"

Disregarding these comments, the Interpreter said, "Now that I haveanswered your questions about the friendship of John Ward and CharlieMartin, may I ask just why you are so much interested in the matter?"

The agitator gazed at the man in the wheel chair with an expression ofincredulous amazement. "Is it possible you do not understand?" hedemanded. "And you such a friend to the workingman! But wait--one morething, then I will answer you. This daughter of Adam Ward--she is alsogood friends with her old playmate who is now Captain Martin, is she?The workman goes sometimes to the big house on the hill to see hismillionaire friends, does he?"

The Interpreter answered, coldly, "I can't discuss Miss Ward with you, sir. "

"Oh-ho! And now I will answer your question as to my interest. ThisJohn Ward is already a boss in the Mill. His father, everybody tellsme, is not well. Any time now the old man may retire from the businessand the son will have his place as general manager. He will be theowner. The friendship between these two men is not good--becauseCharlie Martin is the leader of the union and there can be no suchfriendship between a leader of the laboring class and one of theemployer class without great loss to our Cause. You will see. Theserich owners of the Mill, they will flatter and make much of this poorworkman captain because of his influence among the people who slave forthem, and so any movement to secure for the workmen their rights willbe defeated. Do you understand now, Mister basket maker, heh?"

The Interpreter bowed his head. 

The agitator continued. "Already I find it very hard to accomplish muchwith this Mill workers' union. Except for our friend, Sam Whaley, and afew others, the fools are losing their class loyalty. Their fightingspirit is breaking down. It will not do, I tell you. At the McIverfactory it is all very different. It will be easy there. The workingmenshow the proper spirit--they will be ready when I give the word. But Iam not pleased with the situation in this Mill of Adam Ward's. Thisfine friendship between the son of the owner and the son of the workmanmust stop. Friendship--bah!--it is a pretense, a sham, a trick. "

The man's manner, when he thus passed judgment upon the comradeship ofJohn and Charlie, was that of an absolute monarch who was righteouslyannoyed at some manifestation of disloyalty among his subjects. Hisvoice was harsh with the authority of one whose mandates are not to bequestioned. His countenance was dark with scowling displeasure. 

"And you, too, my friend, " he went on, glaring from under his blackbrows at the old man in the wheel chair, "you will be wise if youaccept my suggestion and be a little careful yourself. It is not sobad, perhaps, this young woman coming to see you, but I am told thather brother also comes to visit with the Interpreter. And this leaderof the Mill workers' union, Charlie Martin, he comes, too. Everybodysays you are the best friend of the working people. But I tell youthere cannot be friendship between the employer class and the laboringclass--it must be between them always war. So, Mr. Interpreter, youmust look out. The time is not far when the people of Millsburgh willknow for sure who is a friend to the labor class and who is a friend tothe employer class. "

The Interpreter received this warning from Jake Vodell exactly as hehad listened to Bobby Whaley's boyish talk about blowing up the castleof Adam Ward on the hill. 

Rising abruptly, the agitator, without so much as a by-your-leave, wentinto the house where he proceeded to examine the books and periodicalson the table. Billy started from his place to follow, but theInterpreter shook his head forbiddingly, and while Jake Vodell passedon to the farther corner of the room and stood looking over the wellfilled shelves of the Interpreter's library, the old basket makertalked to his companion in their silent language. 

When this foreign defender of the rights of the American laboring classreturned to the porch he was smiling approval. "Good!" he said. "Youare all right, I think. No man could read the papers and books that youhave there, and not be the friend of freedom and a champion of thepeople against their capitalist masters. We will have a great victoryfor the Cause in Millsburgh, comrade. You shall see. It is too bad thatyou do not have your legs so that you could take an active part with mein the work that I will do. "

The Interpreter smiled. "If you do not mind, I would like to knowsomething of your plans. That is, " he added, courteously, "so far asyou are at liberty to tell me. "

"Certainly I will tell you, comrade, " returned the other, heartily. "Who can say--it may be that you will be of some small use to me afterall. " His eyes narrowed slyly. "It may be that for these Mill owners tocome to you here in your little hut is perhaps not so bad when we thinkabout it a little more, heh? The daughter of Adam Ward might be led tosay many foolish little things that to a clever man like you would beunderstood. Even the brother, the manager of the Mill--well, I haveknown men like him to talk of themselves and their plans rather freelyat times when they thought there was no harm. And what possible harmcould there be in a poor crippled old basket maker like you, heh?" Theman laughed as though his jest were perfectly understood andappreciated by his host--as, indeed, it was. 

"But about my plans for this campaign in Millsburgh, " he went on. "Youknow the great brotherhood that I represent and you are familiar withtheir teachings of course. " He gestured comprehensively toward theInterpreter's library. 

The man in the wheel chair silently nodded assent. 

Jake Vodell continued. "I am come to Millsburgh, as I go everywhere, inthe interests of our Cause. It is my experience that I can always workbest through the unions. "

The Interpreter interrupted. "Oh, one of our Millsburgh unions sent foryou then? I did not know. "

The agitator shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "No--no--I was notsent for. I was sent. I am here because it was reported that there wasa good opportunity to advance the Cause. No union brings me. I come tothe unions, to work with them for the freedom of the laboring class. "

"And of what union are you a member, sir?" asked the Interpreter. 

"Me! Ha! I am not a member of any of your silly American unions! Ibelong to that greater union, if you please, which embraces them all. But your unions know and receive me as a leader because of the workthat I do for all. Our Cause is the cause of the working people ofAmerica, as it is the cause of the laboring classes in England, andFrance, and Russia, and Germany, and everywhere in the world. "

Again the old basket maker bowed his silent assent. 

"You have, in this place, " continued the agitator, "one strong union ofthe Mill workers. In the other shops and factories and in the trades itis like McIver's factory, the men are not so well organized. "

Again the Interpreter interrupted. "The working people of Millsburgh, generally, receive the highest wage paid anywhere in the country, dothey not?"

"Ah, but surely that is not the question, comrade. Surely youunderstand that all the laboring people of America must be united inone brotherhood with all the other countries of the world, so thatthey, the producers of wealth, shall be able to take possession of, andoperate, the industries of this country, and finally take thisgovernment away from the capitalist class who are now the real ownersof what you call your 'land of the free and the home of the brave. 'Bah! You fool Americans do not know the first meaning of the wordfreedom. You are a nation of slaves. If you were as brave as you sing, you very soon would be your own masters. "

"And your plan for Millsburgh?" asked the Interpreter, calmly. 

"It is simple. But for this John Ward and his friendship with CharlieMartin that so deceives everybody, it will be easy. The first step inmy campaign here will be to call out the employees of McIver's factoryon a strike. I start with McIver's workmen because his well-knownposition against the laboring class will make it easy for me to win thesympathy of the public for the strikers. "

"But, " said the Interpreter, "the factory union is working under anagreement with McIver. "

The self-appointed savior of the American working people shrugged hisheavy shoulders disdainfully. "That is no matter--it is always easy tofind a grievance. When the factory men have walked out, then will comethe sympathetic strike of your strong Mill workers' union. All theother labor organizations will be forced to join us, whether they wishto or not. I shall have all Millsburgh so that not a wheel can turnanywhere. The mills--the factories--the builders--the bakeries--everything will be in our hands and then, my comrade, then!"

The man rose to his feet and stood looking out over the life that laywithin view from the Interpreter's balcony-porch, as if possessed withthe magnitude of the power that would be his when this Americancommunity should be given into his hand. 

Silent, watchful Billy stirred uneasily. 

The Interpreter, touching his companion's arm, shook his head. 

Jake Vodell, deep in his ambitious dream, did not notice. "The time iscoming, comrade, " he said, "and it is nearer than the fool Americansthink, when the labor class will rise in their might and take what istheirs. My campaign here in Millsburgh, you must know, is only one ofthe hundreds of little fires that we are lighting all over thiscountry. The American people, they are asleep. They have druggedthemselves with their own talk of how safe and strong and prosperousthey are. Bah! There is no people so easy to fool. They think we strikefor recognition of some union, or that it is for higher wages, or someother local grievance. Bah! We use for an excuse anything that willgive us a hold on the labor class. These silly unions, they are nothingin themselves. But we--_we_ can use them in the Cause. And soeverywhere--North, South, East, West--we light our little fires. Andwhen we are ready--Boom! One big blaze will come so quick from allpoints at once that it will sweep the country before the sleeping foolswake up. And then--then, comrade, you shall see what will happen toyour capitalist vultures and your employer swine, who have so longgrown fat on the strength of the working class. "

A moment longer he stood as if lost in the contemplation of the gloryof that day, when, in the triumph of his leadership, the people of thenation he so despised and hated would rise in bloody revolution againsttheir own government and accept in its stead the dictatorship oflawless aliens who profess allegiance to no one but their own godlessselves. 

Then he turned back to the Interpreter with a command, "You, comrade, shall keep me informed, heh? From these people of our enemy class whocome here to your hut, you will learn the things I will want to know. Ishall come to you from time to time, but not too often. But, you mustsee that your watchdog there has better manners for me, heh?" Helaughed and was gone. 

At the club that evening, Jim McIver sat with a group of men discussingthe industrial situation. 

"They're fixing for a fight all right, " said one. "What do you think, Jim?"

The factory owner answered, "They can have a fight any time they wantit. Nothing but a period of starvation will ever put the laboring classback where it belongs and the sooner we get it over the better it willbe for business conditions all around. "

In the twilight dust and grime of the Flats, a woman sat on thedoorstep of a wretched house. Her rounded shoulders slouchedwearily--her tired hands were folded in her lap. She stared with dull, listless eyes at the squalid homes of her neighbors across the street. The Interpreter had described the woman to Helen--"a girl with fineinstincts for the best things of life and a capacity for greathappiness. "

In a room back of a pool hall of ill-repute, the man Jake Vodell sat inconference with three others of his brotherhood. A peculiar knocksounded at the door. Vodell drew the bolt. Sam Whaley entered. "My kidstold me you wanted me, " said the workman. Long into the night, on thebalcony porch of the hut on the cliff, John Ward and Captain CharlieMartin talked with the Interpreter. As they talked, they watched thelights of the Mill, the Flats, the business streets, and the homes. 

CHAPTER IX

THE MILL

It was pay day at the Mill. 

No one, unless he, at some period in his life, has been absolutelydependent upon the wages of his daily toil, can appreciate a pay day. To experience properly the thrill of a pay day one must have no othersource of income. The pay check must be the only barrier between oneand actual hunger. Bobby and Maggie Whaley knew the full meaning of payday. Their mother measured life itself by that event. 

Throughout the great industrial hive that morning there was anelectrical thrill of anticipation. Smiles were more frequent; jestswere passed with greater zest; men moved with a freer step, a morejoyous swing. The very machinery seemed in some incomprehensible way tobe animated with the spirit of the workmen, while the droning, humming, roaring voice of the Mill was unquestionably keyed to a happier note. In the offices among the bookkeepers, clerks, stenographers and thedepartment heads, the same brightening of the atmosphere wasnoticeable. Nor was the spirit of the event confined to the Millitself; throughout the entire city--in the stores and banks, the postoffice, the places of amusement, in the homes on the hillside and inthe Flats--pay day at the Mill was the day of days. 

It was an hour, perhaps, after the whistle had started the big plantfor the afternoon. 

John Ward was deep in the consideration of some business of moment withthe superintendent, George Parsons--a sturdy, square-jawed, steady-eyed, middle-aged man, who had come up from the ranks by thesheer force of his natural ability. 

 * * * * *

There is nothing at all unusual about John Ward. He is simply a goodspecimen of the more intelligent class of our young American manhood, with, it might be, a more than average mind for business, which he hadinherited from his father. He is, in short, a fair type of the healthy, clean-living, straight-thinking, broad-gauged, big-hearted youngcitizen such as one may find by the hundreds of thousands in the manyfields of our national activities. In our arts and industries, in ourbanks and commercial houses, in our factories and newspapers, on ourfarms and in our professions, in our educational institutions, amongour writers and scientists, in our great transportation organizations, and in the business of our government, our John Wards are to be found, ready to take the places left to them by the passing of their fathers. 

Since his return from the war, the young man had devoted himself withthe enthusiasm of a great purpose to a practical study of his father'sbig industrial plant. Adam still held the general management, but hisson knew that the time must come when the responsibility of thatposition would fall to him. 

With John's inherited executive ability and his comradeship, plus thedriving force of his fixed and determined purpose, it was not strangethat he so quickly gained the loyal support and cooperation of hisfather's long-trained assistants. His even-tempered friendliness andready recognition of his dependence upon his fellow workers won theirlove. His industry, his clear-headed, open-minded consideration of thedaily problems presented, with his quick grasp of essential details, commanded their admiring respect. Under the circumstance of hisfather's nervous trouble and the consequent enforced absence of Adamfrom his office for more and more frequent periods, it was inevitablethat John, by common, if silent, consent of the executive heads, shouldbe advanced more and more toward the general manager's desk. 

The superintendent, gathering up his blue prints and memoranda, arose. "And will that be all, sir?" he asked, with a smile. 

Nearly every one smiled when he finished an interview with Adam Ward'sson; probably because John himself nearly always smiled when he ended aconsultation or gave an order. 

"That's all from my side, George, " he said, leaning back in his chairand looking up at the superintendent in his open, straightforward waythat so surely invited confidence and trust. "Have you anything else onyour mind?"

"Nary a thing, John, " returned the older man, and with a parting "solong" he started toward the door that opened into the Mill. 

With that smile of genuine affection still lingering on his face, Johnwatched the sturdy back of the old superintendent as if, for themoment, his thoughts had swung from George Parsons' work to GeorgeParsons himself. 

The superintendent opened the door and was about to step out when hestopped suddenly and with a quick, decided movement drew back into theroom and closed the door again. To the young man in the other end ofthe big office it looked as though the superintendent had seensomething that startled him. Another moment and George was againbending over John's desk. 

"The old man is out there, John. "

"What! Father! Why I had no idea that he was coming down to-day. " Alook of anxiety came into the frank gray eyes. "He has not been so welllately, George. I wonder why he didn't come to the office first asusual. "

"He sometimes slips in back that way, you know, " returned thesuperintendent. 

"He really ought not to be here, " said the young man. "I wish--" Hehesitated. 

"He's generally in a state of mind when he comes in like that, " saidGeorge. "You're not needing a goat, are you, boy?"

John smiled. "There's not a thing wrong in the plant so far as I know, George. "

"I don't know of anything either, " returned the other, "but we may notknow all the way. There's one thing sure, the old man ought not to bewandering through the works alone. There's some of those rough-neckswould--well it's too darned easy, sometimes, for accidents to happen, do you see? I'll rustle out there and stick around convenient like. You'd better stay where you are as if you didn't know he was on thejob. And remember, son, if you _should_ need a goat, I'm qualified. Ifanything has happened--whether it has or he only thinks it has--justyou blame it on to old George. I'll understand. "

The work was at the height of its swing when burly Max Gardner paused asecond to straighten his back and wipe the sweat from his sooty face. As he stooped again to his heavy task, he said to his mates in a voicethat rumbled up from the depths of his naked, hairy chest, "Get a gateon y'--get a gate on y'--y' rough-necks. 'Tis th' boss that's a-lookin''round to see who he'll be tyin' th' can to next. "

The men laughed. 

"There's one thing sure, " said Bill Connley, who looked as though hisbody were built of rawhide stretched over a framework of steel, "whenJohn Ward ties the can to a man, that man knows what 'tis for. When hegive Jim Billings his time last week, he says to him, says he, 'Jim, I'm sorry for y'. Not because I'm fir'in' y', ' says he, 'but becausey're such a loafer that y're no good to yerself nor to anybodyelse--y're a disgrace to the Mill, ' says he, 'and to every honestworking man in it. ' An' Jim, he never give a word back--just hung hishead an' got out of sight like a dog with his tail between his legsafter a good swift kick. "

"An' th' young boss was right at that, " commented sturdy Soot Walters. "Jim was a good man when he was new on the job, but since he got thewrinkles out of his belly, he's been killin' more time than any threemen in the works. "

"Pass me that pinch bar, Bill, " called Dick Grant from the other side. As he reached for the tool, his glance took in the figure that hadcaught the eye of big Max. "Holy Mike!" he exclaimed, "'tis the old manhimself. "

Every man in the group except Max turned his face toward Adam Ward, whostood some distance away, and a very different tone marked the voice ofBill Connley as he said, "Now what d'ye think brings that danged oldpirate here to look us over this day?"

"Who the devil cares?" growled Scot, as, with an air of sullenindifference, they turned again to their work. 

 * * * * *

No one seeing the Mill owner as he viewed his possessions that daycould have believed that this was the wretched creature that Helen hadwatched from the arbor. Away from the scenes of his business life AdamWard was like some poor, nervous, half-insane victim of the drug habit. At the Mill, he was that same drug fiend under the influence of his"dope. "

His manner was calm and steady, with no sign of nervousness or lack ofcontrol. His gray face--which, in a way, was the face of astudent--gave no hint of the thoughts and emotions that stirred withinhim. As he looked about the great industrial institution to which hehad given himself, body, mind and soul, all the best years of his life, his countenance was as expressionless as the very machines of iron andsteel and wood among which he moved--a silent, lonely, brooding spirit. No glow of worthy pride in the work of his manhood, no gleam offriendly comradeship for his fellow workmen, no joy of his kinship withthe great humanity that was here personified shone in his eyes oranimated his presence. Cold and calculating, he looked upon the humanelement in the Mill exactly as he looked upon the machinery. Men costhim a certain definite sum of dollars; they must be made to return tohim a certain increase in definite dollars on that cost. The livingbodies, minds, and souls that, moving here and there in the haze ofsmoke and steam and dust, vitalized the inanimate machinery and gavelife and intelligent purpose to the whole, were no more to him than oneof his adding machines in the office that, mechanically obedient to histouch, footed up long columns of dollars and cents. It is not strangethat the humanity of the Mill should respond to the spirit of its ownerwith the spirit of his adding machines and give to him his totals ofdollars and cents--with nothing more. 

Quickly the feeling of Adam Ward's presence spread throughout the busyplant. Smiling faces grew grim and sullen. In the place of good-naturedjest and cheerful laugh there were muttered curses and contemptuousepithets. The very atmosphere seemed charged with antagonism andrebellious hatred. 

"Wad ye look at it?" said one. "And they tell me that white-faced olddevil used to work along side of Pete and the Interpreter at that samebench where Pete's a-workin' yet. "

"He did that, " said another. "I was a kid in the Mill at the time;'twas before he got hold of his new process. "

"Pete Martin is a better man than Adam Ward ever was or will be atthat--process or no process, " said a third, while every man withinhearing endorsed the sentiment with a hearty word, an oath or a pointedcomment. 

"But the young boss is a different sort, though, " came from the firstspeaker. 

"He is that!"

"The boy's all right. "

"John's a good man. "

A workman with a weak face and shifty eyes paused in passing to say, "You'll find out how different the boy is onct he's put to the test. He's the same breed, an' it's just like Jake Vodell said last night, there ain't one of the greedy capitalist class that wouldn't nail alaboring man to the cross of their damnable system of slavery if theydast. "

A silence fell over the group. 

Then a dry voice drawled, "Jake Vodell ain't never overworked himselfas anybody knows of, has he? As for you, Sam Whaley, I'm thinkin' itwould take somethin' more than a crucifyin' to get much profit out ofyou, the way you mooch around. "

There was a general laugh at this and Sam Whaley went on his weak wayto do whatever it was that he was supposed to be doing. 

"Sam's all right, Bob, " said one who had laughed. "His heart is in theright place. "

"Sure he is, " agreed Bob. "But I sometimes can't help thinkin', justthe same, that if I was a-ownin' and a-workin' slaves, I'd consider hima mighty poor piece of property. "

When Adam Ward entered the office, some time later, he walked straightto his son's desk, without so much as a glance or a nod of recognitiontoward any other soul in the big room. 

"I want to talk with you, John, " he said, grimly, and passed on intohis private office. 

The closing of the door of that sacred inner room behind John was thesignal for a buzz of excited comments. 

"Lordy, " gasped a stenographer to her nearest neighbor, "but I'm sorryfor poor young Mr. Ward--did you see the old man's face?"

The half-whispered remark expressed, with fair accuracy, the generalsentiment of the entire force. 

Adam Ward did not sit down at his desk, but going to a window he stoodlooking out as though deep in thought. 

"Father, " said John, at last, "what is it? Has anything happened?"

Adam turned slowly, and it was evident that he was holding hisself-control by a supreme effort of will. "I have made up my mind toquit, " he said. "From to-day on you will take my place and assume myresponsibilities in the Mill. "

"I am glad, father, " said John, simply, "You really should be free fromall business cares. As for my taking your place in the Mill, " hesmiled, "no one could ever do that, father. "

"You have full control and absolute authority from to-day on, " returnedAdam. "I shall never put my foot inside the doors of the plant or theoffice again. "

"But, father!" cried John. "There is no need for you to--"

Adam interrupted him with an imperious gesture. "There is no usearguing about it, " he said, coldly. "But there are two or three thingsthat I want to tell you--that I think you ought to know. You can takethem from me or not, as you please. My ideas and policies that madethis institution what it is to-day will probably be thrown aside as somuch worthless junk, but I am going to give you a word or two ofwarning just the same. "

John knew that when his father was in this mood there was nothing to dobut to keep silent. But the expression of the old Mill owner's facefilled his son's heart with pity, and the boy could not refrain fromsaying, "I am sorry you feel that way about it, father, because reallyyou are all wrong. Can't we sit down and talk it over comfortably?"

"I prefer to stand, " returned Adam. "I can say all I have to say in afew words. I am retiring because I know, now, after"--hehesitated--"after the last two nights, that I must. I am turning theMill over to you because I would rather burn it to the ground than seeit in the hands of any one outside the family. I believe, too, that theonly way to get the wild, idiotic ideas of that old fool basket makerout of your head is to make you personally responsible for the successor failure of this business. I have watched you long enough to knowthat you have the ability to handle it, and I am convinced that onceyou realize how much money you can make, you will drop all yoursentimental nonsense and get your feet on solid ground. "

John Ward's cheeks flushed, but he made no reply to his father'spointed observations. 

"I had those same romantic notions about work and business myself whenI was your age, " continued Adam, "but experience taught me better. Experience will teach you. " He paused and went to stand at the windowagain. 

John waited. 

Presently Adam faced about once more. "I suppose you have noticed thatMcIver is greatly interested in your sister Helen?"

"I imagined so, " returned John, soberly. "Well, he is. He wants tomarry her. If she will only be sensible and see it right, it is awonderful opportunity for us. McIver made over a million out of thewar. His factory is next to this in size and importance and it is soclosely related to the Mill that a combination of the two industries, with the control of the new process, would give you a tremendousadvantage. You could practically put all competitors out of business. McIver has approached me several times on the proposition but I havebeen holding off, hoping that Helen would accept him, so that theirmarriage would tie the thing up that much tighter. You and McIver, withthe family relation established by Helen, would make a great team. " Hehesitated and his face worked with nervous emotion as he added, "Thereis something about the new process that--perhaps--you should know--I--"He stopped abruptly to pace up and down the room in nervous excitement, as if fighting for the mastery of the emotions aroused by this mentionof his patented property. 

As John Ward watched his father and felt the struggle within the man'ssecret self, the room seemed suddenly filled with the invisiblepresence of that hidden thing. The younger man's eyes filled with tearsand he cried in protest, "Father--father--please don't--"

For a moment Adam Ward faced his son in silence. Then, with a sigh ofrelief, he muttered, "It's all right, John; just one of my nervousattacks. It's gone now. "

Changing the subject abruptly, he said, "I must warn you, my boy--keepaway from the Interpreter. Have nothing to do with him; he isdangerous. And watch out for Pete Martin and Charlie, too. They are allthree together. This agitator, Jake Vodell, is going to make trouble. He is already getting a start with McIver's men. You have some radicalsright here on your pay roll, but if you stick with McIver and followhis lead you will come through easily and put these unions where theybelong. That's all, I guess, " he finished, wearily. "Call in yoursuperintendent. "

"Just a moment, father, " said John Ward, steadily. "It is not fair toeither of us for me to accept the management of the Mill withouttelling you that I can't do all that you have suggested. "

Adam looked at his son sharply. "And what can't you do?" he demanded. 

"I shall never work with McIver in any way, " answered John slowly. "Youknow what I think of him and his business principles. Helen's interestin him is her own affair, but I have too great a sense of loyalty to mycountry and too much self-respect ever to think of McIver as anythingbut a traitor and an enemy. "

"And what else?" asked Adam. 

"I will not promise to keep away from the Interpreter. I reserve theright to choose my own friends and business associates, and I will dealwith the employees of the Mill and with the unions without regard toMcIver's policies or any consideration of his interest in any waywhatever. "

For a long moment Adam Ward looked at his son who stood so straight anduncompromisingly soldier-like before him. Suddenly, to John'samazement, his father laughed. And there was not a little admirationand pride in the old Mill owner's voice as he said, "I see! In otherwords, if you are going to be the boss, you don't propose to have anystrings tied to you. "

"Would you, sir?" asked John. 

"No, I wouldn't, " returned Adam and laughed again. "Well, go ahead. Have it your own way. I am not afraid for you in the long run. You aretoo much like me not to find out where your own interests lie, once youcome squarely up against the situation. I only wanted to help you, butit looks as though you would have to go through the experience foryourself. It's all right, son, go to it! Now call George. "

When the superintendent entered the private office, Adam Ward said, briefly, "George, I am turning the Mill over to John here. From to-dayon he is the manager without any strings on him in any way. He has theentire responsibility and is the only authority. He accounts to no onebut himself. That is all. "

Abruptly Adam Ward left the private office. Without even a look towardthe men in the big outer room who had served with him for years, hepassed on out to the street. 

When the whistle sounded, John went out into the Mill to stand near thewindow where the workmen passing in line received their envelopes. 

From every part of the great main building, from the yards and theseveral outer sheds and structures they came. From furnace and engineand bench and machine they made their way toward that given point asscattered particles of steel filings are drawn toward a magnet. Theconverging paths of individuals touched, and two walked side by side. Other individuals joined the two and as quickly trios and quartets cametogether to form groups that united with other similar groups; whilefrom the mass thus assembled, the thin line was formed that extendedpast the pay clerk's window and linked the Mill to the outer world. 

In that eager throng of toilers Adam Ward's son saw men of almost everyrace: Scotchmen greeted Norwegians; men from Ireland exchanged friendlyjests with men from Italy; sons of England laughed with the sons ofFrance; Danes touched elbows with Dutchmen; and men from Poland stoodshoulder to shoulder with men whose fathers fought with Washington. Andevery man was marked alike with the emblems of a commonbrotherhood--the brotherhood of work. Their faces were colored with thegood color of their toil--with the smoke of their furnaces, and thegrime of their engines, and the oil from their machines mixed with thesweat of their own bodies. Their clothing was uniform with the insigniaof their united endeavor. And to the newly appointed manager of theMill, these men of every nation were comrades in a common cause, spending the strength of their manhood for common human needs. He sawthat only in the work of the world could the brotherhood of man berealized; only in the Mill of life's essential industries could thenations of the earth become as one. 

In that gathering of workmen the son of Adam Ward saw men of manyreligions, sects and creeds: Christians and pagans; Catholics andProtestants; men who worshiped the God of Abraham and men who worshipedno God; followers of strange fanatical spiritualism and followers of astranger materialism. And he saw those many shades of human beliefsblended and harmonized--brought into one comprehensive whole by thepower of the common necessities of human life. 

He saw that the unity of the warring religions of the world would notbe accomplished in seminaries of speculative theological thought, butthat in the Mill of life the spiritual brotherhood of all mankind wouldbe realized. In work, he saw the true worship of a common God whosevice-regent on earth is humanity itself. 

In that pay-day assembly John saw men of middle age to whom the workinto which they daily put the strength of their lives meant nothingless than the lives of their families. In the families dependent uponthe Mill he saw the life of the nation dependent upon the nation'sindustries. As he saw in the line men old and gray and bent with thetoil of many years, he realized how the generation of this day isindebted for every blessing of life--for life itself, indeed--to theseveterans of the Mill who have given, their years in work that thenation might, through its industries, live and, in the building up ofits industries, grow strong. 

As he watched the men of his own age, he thought how they, too, mustreceive the torch from the failing hands of their passing fathers, andin the Mill prove their manhood's right to carry the fire of theircountry's industrial need. 

And there were boys on the edge of manhood, who must be, by the Mill, trained in work for the coming needs of their country; who must indeedfind their very manhood itself in work, or through all their yearsremain wards of the people--a burden upon humanity--the weakness of thenation. For as surely as work is health and strength and honor andhappiness and life, so surely is idleness disease and weakness andshame and misery and death. 

The home builder, the waster, the gambler, the loyal citizen, theslacker, the honest and dishonest--they were all there at the paywindow of the Mill. And to each the pay envelope meant a differentthing. To big Max the envelope meant an education for his son. To BillConnley it meant food and clothing for his brood of children. To youngScot it meant books for his study. To others it meant medicine ordoctors for sick ones at home. To others it meant dissipation anddishonor. To all alike those pay envelopes meant Life. 

As these men of the Mill passed the son of Adam Ward, there were manysmiling nods and hearty words of greeting. Now and then one would speaka few words about his work. Others passed a laughing jest. Many whowere his comrades in France gave him the salute of their militarydays--half in fun, but with a hint of underlying seriousness that madethe act a recognition of his rank in the industrial army. 

And John returned these greetings in the same good spirit offellowship. To one it was, "Hello, Tony, how is that new baby at yourhouse?" To another, whose hand was swathed in a dirty bandage, "Takecare of that hand, Mack; don't get funny with it just because it's wellenough to use again. " To another, "How is the wife, Frank, better?Good, that's fine. " Again it was, "You fellows on number six machinemade a record this week. " Again, "Who's the hoodoo on number sevenfurnace?--four accidents in six days is going some--better look aroundfor your Jonah. " And again, "I heard about that stunt of yours, Bill;the kid would have been killed sure if you hadn't kept your head andnerve. It was great work, old man. " And to a lad farther down the line, "You'll know better next time, won't you, son?" But there were some whopassed John Ward with averted faces or downcast eyes. Here and therethere were sneering, vicious glances and low muttered oaths and cursesand threats. Not infrequently the name of Jake Vodell was mentionedwith approved quotations from the agitator's speeches of hatred againstthe employer class. 

The last of the long line of workmen was approaching the window whenPete Martin greeted the son of his old bench mate with a smile offatherly affection and pride. 

"Hello, Uncle Pete, " returned John. "Where is Charlie?"

"I'm sure I don't know, John, " the old man answered, looking about. "Isupposed he had gone on, I was a little slow myself. "

"There he is, " said John, as the soldier workman came running from adistant part of the building. 

When Captain Charlie came up to them, his father moved on to the windowso that for a moment the two friends were alone. 

"It's come, Charlie, " said John, in a low tone. "Father told me andgave it out to the superintendent to-day. "

"Hurrah!" said Charlie Martin, and he would have said more but hiscomrade interrupted him. 

"Shut up, will you? We must go out to the hill to-morrow for a talk. I'll come for you early. "

"Right!" said Charlie with a grin, "but may I be permitted to saycongratulations?"

"Congratulations your foot!" returned the new general manager. "It'sgoing to be one whale of a job, old man. "

The last of the stragglers came near and Charlie Martin moved on, inhis turn, to the pay window. 

When John arrived home in the late afternoon, his sister met him withmany joyful exclamations. "Is father in earnest? Are you really to takehis place, John?"

John laughed. "You would have thought he was in earnest if you hadheard him. " Then he asked, soberly, "Where is father, Helen; is he allright?"

"He has been shut up in his room all alone ever since he told us, " shereturned, sadly. "I do hope he will be better now that he is to havecomplete rest. "

As if determined to permit no cloud to mar the joy of the occasion, shecontinued, with eager interest, "Do tell me about it, brother. Were themen in the office glad? Aren't you happy and proud? And how did theworkmen take it?"

"The people in the office were very nice, " he answered, smiling back ather. "Good old George looked a little like he wanted to laugh and cryat the same time. The men in the plant don't know yet, exceptCharlie--I told him. "

A little shadow fell over Helen's happy face and she looked away. "Isuppose of course you would tell Charlie Martin the first thing, " shesaid, slowly. Then, throwing her arm suddenly about his neck, shekissed him. "You are a dear, silly, sentimental old thing, but I am asproud as I can be of you. "

"As for that, " returned John, "I guess it must run in the familysomehow. I notice little things now and then that make me think mysister may not always be exactly a staid, matter-of-fact old lady owl. "

When he had laughed at her blushes, and had teased her as a brother isin duty bound, he said, seriously, "Will you tell me something, Helen?Something that I want very much to know--straight from you. "

"What is it, John?"

"Are you going to marry Jim McIver?"

"How do you know that he wants me?"

"Father told me to-day. Don't fence please, dear. Either tell mestraight out or tell me to mind my own business. "

She replied with straightforward honesty, "Mr. McIver has asked me, John, but I can't tell you what my answer will be. I don't knowmyself. "

CHAPTER X

CONCERNING THE NEW MANAGER

When the Mill whistle sounded at the close of that pay day, Mary wassitting under the tree in the yard with her sewing basket--a gift fromthe Interpreter--on the grass beside her chair. The sunlight lay warmand bright on the garden where the ever industrious bees were fillingtheir golden bags with the sweet wealth of the old-fashioned flowers. Bright-winged butterflies zigzagged here and there above the shrubberyalong the fence and over her head; in the leafy shadows of the treesher bird friends were cheerfully busy with their small duties. Now andthen a passing neighbor paused to exchange a word or two of theircommon interests. Presently workmen from the Mill went by--men of herfather's class who lived in that vicinity of well-kept cottage homes;and each one called a greeting to the daughter of his friend. 

And so, at last, Peter Martin himself and Captain Charlie turned in atthe little white gate and came to sit down on the grass at her feet. 

"You are late to-day, " said Mary, smiling. "I suppose you both haveforgotten that the vegetable garden is to be hoed this afternoon andthat you, Charlie, promised to beat the rugs for me. "

Captain Charlie stretched himself lazily on the cool grass. "We shouldworry about gardens and rugs and things, " he returned. "This is the daywe celebrate. "

The father laughed quietly at his daughter's look of puzzled inquiry. 

"The day you celebrate?" said Mary. "Celebrate what?"

Charlie answered with a fair imitation of a soapbox orator, "This, mybeloved sister, is the day of our emancipation from the iron rule ofthat cruel capitalist, who has for so many years crushed the lives ofhis toiling slaves in his Mill of hell, and coined our heart's bloodinto dollars to fill his selfish coffers of princely luxury. Downthrough the ringing ages of the future this day will be forevercelebrated as the day that signals the dawning of a new era in theindustrial world of--uh-wow! Stop it!"

Captain Charlie was ticklish and the toe of Mary's slippered foot hadfound a vital spot among his ribs. 

"You sound like that Jake Vodell, " she said. "Stop your nonsense thisminute and tell me what you mean or--" Her foot advanced againthreateningly. 

Captain Charlie rolled over to a safe distance and sat up to grin ather with teasing impudence. 

"What's the matter with him, father?" she demanded. 

But Pete only laughed and answered, "I guess maybe he thinks he's goingto get promoted to some higher-up position in the Mill. "

"No such luck for me!" said Charlie quickly. "John will need me toomuch right where I am. "

A bright color swept into Mary's cheeks and her eyes shone with gladexcitement. "Do you mean that John--that his father has--" She lookedfrom her father's face to her brother and back to her father again. 

Pete nodded silently. 

"You've guessed it, sister, " said Charlie. "Old Adam walked out forgood to-day, turned the whole works over to John--troubles, triumphs, opportunities, disasters and all. And it's a man's sized job the boyhas drawn, believe me--especially right now, with Jake Vodell as busyas he is. "

"The men in the Mill were all pleased with the change, weren't they?"asked Mary. 

"They will be, when they hear of it, " answered Captain Charlie, gettingto his feet. "That is, " he added, as he met his father's look, "most ofthem will be. "

"There's some in the Mill that it won't make any difference to, I'mafraid, " said Peter Martin, soberly. 

Then the two men went into the house to, as they said, "clean up"--anoperation that required a goodly supply of water with plenty of soapand a no little physical effort in the way of vigorous rubbing. 

When her father and brother were gone, Mary Martin sat very still. Sostill was she that a butterfly paused in its zigzag flight about theyard to rest on the edge of the work basket at her side. At last theyoung woman rose slowly to her feet, dropping the sewing she had heldon the other things in the basket. The startled butterfly spread itsgorgeous wings and zigzagged away unnoticed. Crossing the little lawn, Mary made her way among the flowers in the garden until she stood halfhidden in the tall bushes which grew along the fence that separated theMartin home from the neglected grounds about the old house. When herfather and brother went to their pleasant task in the vegetable gardenshe was still standing there, but the men did not notice. 

 * * * * *

Later, when Mary called the men to supper, the change in the managementof the Mill was again mentioned. And all during the evening meal it wasthe topic of their conversation. It was natural that the older manshould recall the days when he and Adam and the Interpreter had workedtogether. 

"The men generally showed a different spirit toward their work in thosedays, " said the veteran. "They seemed to have a feeling of pride and alove for it that I don't see much of now. Of late years, it looks asthough everybody hates his job and is ashamed of what he is doing. Theyall seem to think of nothing but their pay, and busy their minds withscheming how they can get the most and give the least. It's the regularthing to work with one eye on the foreman and the other on the clock, and to count it a great joke when a job is spoiled or a breakdowncauses trouble. " All of which was a speech of unusual length for PeteMartin. Captain Charlie asked, thoughtfully, "And don't you think, father, that Adam looks on the work of the Mill in exactly that spiritof 'get the most for the least' without regard to the meaning andpurpose of the work itself?"

"There's no reason to doubt it, son, that I can see, " returned the oldworkman. 

"I have often wondered, " said Charlie, "how much the attitude of theemployees toward their work is due to the attitude of their employerstoward that same work. "

The old workman returned, heartily, "We'll be seeing a differentfeeling in the Mill under John, I am thinkin'--he's different. "

"I should say he is different, " agreed Charlie, quickly. "John wouldrather work at his job for nothing than do anything else for ten timesthe salary he draws. But was Adam always as he is now?"

"About his work do you mean?"

"Yes. "

Adam Ward's old comrade answered, slowly, "I've often wondered thatmyself. I can't say for sure. As I look back now, I think sometimesthat he used to have an interest in the work itself at first. Takin'his development of the new process and all--it almost seems that hemust have had. And yet, there's some things that make me think that allthe time it meant nothing to him but just what he could get out of itfor himself. "

"Helen will be happy over the change, won't she?" remarked Mary. 

"Helen!" ejaculated Captain Charlie, with more emphasis perhaps thanthe occasion demanded. 

"She won't give it so much as a thought. Why should she? She can go onwith her dinners and card parties and balls and country club affairswith the silk-hatted slackers of her set, just the same as if nothinghad happened. "

Mary laughed. "Seems to me I have heard something like thatbefore--'silk-hatted slackers'--it sounds familiar. "

Captain Charlie watched her suspiciously. 

The father laughed quietly. 

"Oh, yes, " she exclaimed, with an air of triumph. "It was Bobby Whaleywho said it. I remember thinking at the time that it probably came tohim from his father, who of course got it from Jake Vodell. Silk-hattedslackers--sounds like Jake, doesn't it, father?"

Captain Charlie grinned sheepishly. "I know it was a rotten thing tosay, " he admitted. "Some of the best and bravest men in our army weresilk-hatters at home. They were in the ranks, too, a lot of them--justlike John Ward. And some of the worst cowards and shirkers and slackersthat ever lived belonged to our ancient and noble order of thehorny-handed sons of toil, that Jake Vodell orates about. But what getsme, is the way some of those fellows who were everything but slackersin France act, now that they are back home. Over there they were on thejob with everything they had, to the last drop of their blood. But nowthat they are back in their own home country again, they have simplythrown up their hands and quit--that is, a lot of them have. They seemto think that the signing of the Armistice ended it all and that theycan do nothing now for the rest of their lives. Who was it said, 'Peacehath her victories, ' or something like that? Well, peace hath herdefeats, too. I'll be hanged if I can understand how a man who has itin him to be a one hundred per cent American hero in war can be aSimon-pure slacker in times of peace. "

As he finished, Captain Charlie pushed his chair back from the tableand, finding his pipe, proceeded to fill it with the grim determinationof an old-time minuteman ramming home a charge in his Bunker Hillmusket. 

Later the two men went out to enjoy their pipes on the lawn in the coolof the evening. They were discussing the industrial situation whenMary, having finished her household work for the night, joined them. 

"I forgot to tell you, " she said, "that Jake Vodell called to-day. "

"Again!" exclaimed Charlie. 

"If Vodell wants to talk with us he'll have to come when we are athome, " said Pete Martin, slowly, looking at his daughter. 

With a laugh, the young woman returned, "But I don't think that it wasyou or Charlie that he wanted to see this time, father. "

"What did he want?" demanded her brother quickly. 

"He wanted me to go with him to a dance next Tuesday, " she answereddemurely. 

"Huh, " came in a tone of disgust from Charlie. 

The father asked, quietly, "And what did you say to him, Mary?"

"I told him that I went to dances only with my friends. "

"Good!" said Captain Charlie. 

"And what then?" asked Pete. 

"Then, " she hesitated, "then he said something about my being carefulthat I had the right sort of friends and referred to Charlie and John. "

"Yes?" said Mary's father. 

"He said that the only use John Ward had for Charlie was to get a lineon the union and the plans of the men--that his friendship was only apretext in order that he might use Charlie as a sort of spy and thatthe union men wouldn't stand for it. "

Captain Charlie muttered something under his breath that he could notspeak aloud in the presence of his sister. 

Pete Martin deliberately knocked the ashes from his pipe. 

"Then, " continued Mary, "he talked about how everybody knew that Johnwas nothing but a"--she laughed mockingly at her brother--"asilk-hatted swell who couldn't hold his job an hour if it wasn't thathis father owned the Mill, and that Charlie was a hundred times morecompetent to manage the business. He said that anybody could see howCharlie's promotion in the army proved him superior to John, who wasnever anything but a common private. "

Captain Charlie laughed aloud. "John and I understand all about thatsuperiority business. I was lucky, that's all--our captain justhappened to be looking in my direction. Believe me, good old John wasjust as busy as I ever dared to be, only it was his luck to be busy atsome other point that the captain didn't see. "

"Is that all Jake had to say, daughter?"

"No, " answered the young woman, slowly. "I--I am afraid I was angry atwhat he called John--I mean at what he said about Charlie and John'sfriendship--and so I told him what I thought about him and Sam Whaleyand their crowd, and asked him to go and not come back again except tosee you or Charlie. "

"Good for you, Mary!" exclaimed her brother. 

But the old workman said nothing. 

"And how did Jake take his dismissal?" asked Charlie, presently. 

"He went, of course, " she answered. "But he said that he would show mewhat the friendship of a man of John Ward's class meant to a workingman; that the union men would find out who the loyal members were andwhen the time came they would know whom to reward and whom to treat astraitors to the Cause. "

For a little while after this the three sat in silence. At last PeterMartin rose heavily to his feet. "Come, Charlie, it is time we were onour way to the meeting; we mustn't be late, you know. "

When her father and brother were gone to the meeting of the Millworkers' union, Mary Martin locked the door of the cottage and walkedswiftly away. 

It was not far to the Interpreter's hut, and presently the young womanwas climbing the old zigzag stairway to the little house on the edge ofthe cliff above. There was no light but the light of the stars--thefaint breath of the night breeze scarcely stirred the leaves of thebushes or moved the tall weeds that grew on the hillside. At the top ofthe stairs Mary paused to look at the many lights of the Flats, theMill, the business houses, the streets and the homes, that shone in theshadowy world below. 

She was about to move toward the door of the hut when the sound ofvoices coming from the balcony-porch halted her. The Interpreter wasspeaking. She could not distinguish his words, but the deep tones ofthe old basket maker's voice were not to be mistaken. Then the youngwoman heard some one reply, and the laughing voice that answered theInterpreter was as familiar to Mary Martin as the laugh of her ownbrother. The evening visitor to the little hut on the cliff was the sonof Adam Ward. 

Very softly Mary Martin stole back down the zigzag steps to the roadbelow. Slowly she went back through the deep shadows of the night toher little home, with its garden of old-fashioned flowers, next door tothe deserted house where John Ward was born. 

Late that night, while John was still at the Interpreter's hut, AdamWard crept alone like some hunted thing about the beautiful grounds ofhis great estate. Like a haunted soul of wretchedness, the Mill ownerhad left his bed to escape the horror of his dreams and to find, ifpossible, a little rest from his torturing fears in the calm solitudeof the night. 

 * * * * *

When Pete Martin, with Captain Charlie and their many industrialcomrades, had returned to their homes after the meeting of their union, five men gathered in that dirty, poorly lighted room in the rear ofDago Bill's pool hall. 

The five men had entered the place one at a time. They spoke togetherin low, guarded tones of John Ward and his management of the Mill, ofPete Martin and Captain Charlie, of the Interpreter and McIver. 

And three of those five men had come to that secret place at JakeVodell's call, directly from the meeting of the Mill workers' union. 

CHAPTER XI

COMRADES

Mary was in the flower garden that Sunday forenoon when John Wardstopped his big roadster in front of the Martin cottage. 

It was not at all unusual for the one-time private, John, to call thatway for his former superior officer. Nearly every Sunday when theweather was fine the comrades would go for a long ride in John's carsomewhere into the country. And always they carried a lunch prepared byCaptain Charlie's sister. 

Sometimes there might have been a touch of envy in Mary's generousheart, as she watched the automobile with her brother and his friendglide away up the green arched street. After all, Mary was young andloved the country, and John Ward's roadster was a wonderful machine, and the boy who had lived in the old house next door had been, in hergirlhood days, a most delightful comrade and playfellow. 

The young woman could no more remember her first meeting with John orhis sister Helen than she could recall the exact beginning of heracquaintance with Charlie. From her cradle days she had known theneighbor children as well as she had known her own brother. Then theinevitable separation of the playmates had come with Adam Ward'sincreasing material prosperity. The school and college days of John andHelen and the removal of the family from the old house to the new homeon the hill had brought to them new friends and new interests--friendsand interests that knew nothing of Pete Martin's son and daughter. Butin Mary's heart, because it was a woman's heart, the memories of theold house lived. The old house itself, indeed, served to keep thosememories alive. 

John did not see her at first, but called a cheery greeting to herfather, who with his pipe and paper was sitting under the tree on thelawn side of the walk. 

Mary drew a little back among the flowers and quietly went on with herwork. 

"Is Charlie here, Uncle Pete?" asked John, as he came through the gate. 

"He's in the house, I think, John, or out in the back yard, maybe, "answered the old workman. And, then, in his quiet kindly way, PeterMartin spoke a few words to Adam Ward's son about the change in themanagement of the Mill--wishing John success, expressing his owngratification and confidence, and assuring him of the hearty good willthat prevailed, generally, among the employees. 

Presently, as the two men talked together, Mary went to express herpleasure in the promotion of her old playmate to a position of suchresponsibility and honor in the industrial world. And John Ward, whenhe saw her coming toward him with an armful of flowers, must at leasthave noticed the charming picture she made against that background ofthe garden, with its bright-colored blossoms in the flood of morningsunlight. 

Certainly the days of their childhood companionship must have stirredin his memory, for he said, presently, "Do you know, Mary, you make methink of mother and the way she used to go among her flowers everySunday morning when we lived in the old house there. " He lookedthoughtfully toward the neighboring place. 

"How is your mother these days, John?" asked Mary's father. 

"She is well, thank you, Uncle Pete, " returned John. "Except ofcourse, " he added, soberly, "she worries a good deal about father's illhealth. "

"Your father will surely be much better, now that he is relieved fromall his business care, " said Mary. 

"We are all hoping so, " returned John. 

There was an awkward moment of silence. 

As if the mention of his father's condition had in some way suggestedthe thought, or, perhaps, because he wished to change the subject, Johnsaid, "The old house looks pretty bad, doesn't it? It is a shame thatwe have permitted it to go to ruin that way. "

Neither Peter Martin nor his daughter made reply to this. There wasreally nothing they could say. 

John was about to speak again when Captain Charlie, coming from thehouse with their lunch basket in his hand, announced that he was ready, and the two men started on their way. 

Standing at the gate, Mary waved good-by as her brother turned to lookback. Even when the automobile had finally passed from sight she stoodthere, still looking in the direction it had gone. 

Peter Martin watched his daughter thoughtfully. 

Without speaking, Mary went slowly into the house. 

Her father sat for some minutes looking toward the door through whichshe had passed. At last with deliberate care he refilled his pipe. Butthe old workman did not, for an hour or more, resume the reading of hisSunday morning paper. 

Beyond a few casual words, the two friends in the automobile seemedoccupied, each with his own thoughts. Neither asked, "Where shall wego?" or offered any suggestion for the day's outing. As if it wereunderstood between them, John turned toward the hill country and sentthe powerful machine up the long, winding grade, as if on a verydefinite mission. An hour's driving along the ridges and the hillsides, and they turned from the main thoroughfare into a narrow lane betweentwo thinly wooded pastures. A mile of this seldom traveled road andJohn stopped his car beside the way. Here they left the automobile, and, taking the lunch basket, climbed the fence and made their way upthe steep side of the hill to a clump of trees that overlooked the manymiles of winding river and broad valley and shaded hills. The place wasa favorite spot to which they often came for those hours of comradeshipthat are so necessary to all well-grounded and enduring friendships. 

"Well, _Mister_ Ward, " said Captain Charlie, when they were comfortablyseated and their pipes were going well, "how does it feel to be one ofthe cruel capitalist class a-grindin' the faces off us poor?"

The workman spoke lightly, but there was something in his voice thatmade John look at him sharply. It was a little as though CaptainCharlie were nerving himself to say good-by to his old comrade. 

The new general manager smiled, but it was a rather serious smile. "Doyou remember how you felt when you received your captain's commission?"he asked. 

"I do that, " returned Charlie. "I felt that I had been handed a mightybig job and was scared stiff for fear I wouldn't be able to make goodat it. "

"Exactly, " returned John. "And I'll never forget how _I_ felt when theystepped you up the first time and left me out. And when you had climbedon up and Captain Wheeler was killed and you received your commission, with me still stuck in the ranks--well--I never told you before butI'll say now that I was the lonesomest, grouchiest, sorest man in thewhole A. E. F. It seemed to me about then that being a private was themeanest, lowest, most no-account job on earth, and I was darned neardeserting and letting the Germans win the war and be hanged. I thoughtit would serve the Allies right if I was to let 'em get licked good andplenty just for failing to appreciate me. "

Captain Charlie laughed. 

"Oh, yes, you can laugh, " said the new general manager of the Mill. "It's darned funny _now_, but I can tell you that there wasn't muchhumor in it for me _then_. We had lived too close together from thatfirst moment when we found ourselves in the same company for me to feelcomfortable as a common buck private, watchin' you strut around in thegentleman officer class, and not daring even to tell you to go to--"

"You poor old fool, " said Charlie, affectionately. "You knew mypromotion was all an accident. "

"Exactly, " returned John dryly. "We've settled all that a hundredtimes. "

"And you ought to have known, " continued Captain Charlie, warmly, "thatmy feeling toward you would have been no different if they had made mea general. "

"Sure, I ought to have known, " retorted John, with an air of triumph. 

And then it appeared that John Ward had a very definite purpose in thusturning his comrade's mind to their army life in France. "And youshould have sense enough to understand that my promotion in the Mill isnot going to make any difference in our friendship. Your promotion wasthe result of an accident, Charlie, exactly as my position in the Millto-day is the result of an accident. Your superior officer happened tosee you. I happen to be the son of Adam Ward. If I should have known_then_ that your rank would make no difference in your feeling towardme, you have got to understand _now_ that my position can make nodifference in my feeling toward you. "

Charlie Martin's silence revealed how accurately John had guessed hisMill comrade's hidden thoughts. 

The new manager continued, "The thing that straightened me out on thequestion of our different ranks was that scrap where Captain Charlieand Private John found themselves caught in the same shell hole with noone else anywhere near except friend enemy, and somebody had to dosomething darned quick. Do you remember our argument?"

"Do I remember!" exclaimed Charlie. "I remember how you said it wasyour job to take the chance because I, being an officer, was worth moreto the cause and because the loss of a private didn't matter so muchanyhow. "

John retorted quickly, "And you said that it was up to you to take thechance because it was an officer's duty to take care of his men. "

"And then, " said Charlie, "you told me to go to hell, commission andall. And I swore that I'd break you for insolence and insubordinationif we ever got out of the scrape alive. "

"And so, " grinned John, "we compromised by pulling it off together. Andfrom that time on I felt different and was as proud of you and yourofficer's swank as if I had been the lucky guy myself. "

"Yes, " said Captain Charlie, smiling affectionately, "and I could seethe grin in your eyes every time you saluted. "

"No one else ever saw it, though, " returned Private Ward, proudly. 

"Don't think for a minute that I overlooked that either, " said CaptainMartin. "If any one else had seen it, I would have disciplined you forsure. "

"And don't you think for a minute that I didn't know that, too, "retorted John. "I could feel you laying for me, and every man in thecompany knew it just as be knew our friendship. That's what made us alllove you so. We used to say that if Captain Charlie would just take anotion to start for Berlin and invite us to go along the war would beover right there. "

Charlie Martin laughed appreciatively. Then he said, earnestly, "Afterall, old man, it wasn't an officers' war and it wasn't a privates' war, was it? Any more than it was the war of America, or England, or France, or Australia, or Canada--it was _our_ war. And that, I guess, is themain reason why it all came out as it did. "

"Now, " said John, with hearty enthusiasm, "you are talking sense. "

"But it is all very different now, John, " said Charlie, slowly. "Millsburgh is not France and the Mill is not the United States Army. "

"No, " returned John, "and yet there is not such a lot of difference, when you come to think it out. "

"We can't disguise the facts, " said Captain Martin stubbornly. 

"We are not going to disguise anything, " retorted John. "I had an ideahow you would feel over my promotion, and that is why I wanted you outhere to-day. You've got to get this 'it's all very different now' stuffout of your system. So go ahead and shoot your facts. "

"All right, " said Charlie. "Let's look at things as they are. It wasall very well for us to moon over what we would do if we ever got backhome when we knew darned well our chances were a hundred to one againstour ever seeing the old U. S. Again. We spilled a lot of sentiment aboutcomradeship and loyalty and citizenship and equality and all that, but--"

"Can your chatter!" snapped John. "Drag out these facts that you are soanxious to have recognized. Let's have a good look at whatever it isthat makes you rough-neck sons of toil so superior to us lily-fingeredemployers. Go to the bat. "

"Well, " offered Charlie, reluctantly, "to begin with, you are amillionaire, a university man, member of select clubs; I am nothing buta common workman. "

John returned, quickly, "We are both citizens of the United States. Inthe duties and privileges of our citizenship we stand on exactly thesame footing, just as in the army we stood on the common ground ofloyalty. And we are both equally dependent upon the industries of ourcountry--upon the Mill, and upon each other. Exactly as we were bothdependent upon the army and upon each other in France. "

"You are the general manager of the Mill, practically the owner, " saidCharlie. "I am only one of your employees. "

The son of Adam Ward answered scornfully, "Yes, over there it wasCaptain Charlie Martin and Private John Ward of the United States Army. I suppose it is a lot different now that it is Captain John Ward andPrivate Charlie Martin of the United States Industries. "

Charlie continued, "You live in a mansion in a select district on thehill, I live in a little cottage on the edge of the Flats!"

"Over there it was officers' quarters and barracks, " said John, shortly. 

Charlie tried again, "You wear white collars and tailored clothes atyour work--I wear dirty overalls. "

"We used to call 'em uniforms, " barked John. 

Captain Charlie hesitated a little before he offered his next fact, andwhen he spoke it was with a little more feeling. "There are ourfamilies to take into account too, John. Your sister--well--isn't it afact that your sister would no more think of calling on Mary than shewould think of putting on overalls and going to work in the Mill?"

It was John's turn now to hesitate. 

"Don't you see?" continued Charlie, "we belong to different worlds, Itell you, John. "

Deliberately Helen's brother knocked the ashes from his pipe andrefilled it with thoughtful care. 

Then he said, gravely, "Helen doesn't realize, as we do, old man. Howcould she? The girl has not had a chance to learn what the war taughtus. She is exactly like thousands of other good women, and men, too, for that matter. They simply don't understand. Good Lord!" he exploded, suddenly "when I think what a worthless snob I was before I enlisted Iwant to kick my fool self to death. But we are drifting away from themain thought, " he finished. 

"Oh, I don't know, " returned the other. 

"I thought we were discussing the question of rank, " said John. 

"Well, " retorted Charlie, dryly, "isn't that exactly the whole questionas your sister sees it?"

"You give me a pain!" growled John. "I'll admit that Helen, right now, attaches a great deal of importance to some things that--well, that arenot so very important after all. But she is no worse than I was beforeI learned better. And you take my word she'll learn, too. Sister visitsthe old Interpreter too often not to absorb a few ideas that she failedto acquire at school. He will help her to see the light, just as hehelped me. But for him, I would have been nothing but a gentlemanslacker myself--if there is any such animal. But what under heaven hasall this to do with our relation as employer and employee in the Mill?What effect would Mary have had on you over there if she had gone toyou with 'Oh, Charlie dear, you mustn't go out in that dreadful NoMan's Land to-night. It is so dirty and wet and cold. Remember that youare an officer, Charlie dear, and let Private John go. '"

Captain Charlie laughed--this new general manager of the Mill was solike the buddie he had loved in France. "Do you remember that night--"he began, but his comrade interrupted him rudely. 

"Shut up! I've got to get this thing off my chest and you've got tohear me out. This country of ours started out all right with theproposition that all men are created free and equal. But ninety percent of our troubles are caused by our crazy notions as to what thatequality really means. The rest of our grief comes from our fool claimsto superiority of one sort or another. It looks to me as though you andHelen agreed exactly on this question of rank and I am here to tell youthat you are both wrong. "

Captain Charlie Martin sat up at this, but before he could speak Johnshot a question at him. "Tell me, when Private Ward saluted CaptainMartin as the regulations provide, was the action held by either theofficer or the private to be a recognition of the superiority ofCaptain Martin or the inferiority of Private Ward--was it?"

"Not that any one could notice, " answered Charlie with a grin. 

"You bet your life it wasn't, " said John. "Well, then, " he continued, "what was it that the salute recognized?"

"Why, it was the captain's _rank_. "

"Exactly; and what determined that rank?"

"The number of men he commanded. "

"That's it!" cried John. "The rank of the captain representedthe--the"--he searched for a word--"the _oneness_ of all the men in hiscommand. And so you see the thing that the individual private reallysaluted as superior to himself was the _oneness_ of all his comrades, both privates and officers in the company. "

"Sure, " said Charlie, looking a little puzzled, as if he did not quitesee what the manager of the Mill was driving at. "The salute was merelya sign of the individual's surrender of his own personal will to theauthority of the rank that represented all his fellow individuals. "

"Yes, " said John, "and when Jack Pershing stood up there with the restof the kings and we paraded past, were we humiliated because we werenot dressed exactly like the reviewing generals? We were not. We stuckout our chests and pulled in our chins as if the whole show was framedto honor us. And that is exactly what it was, Charlie, because we wereall included in Pershing's rank. The army was not honoring Pershing theman, it was honoring _itself_. "

"Yes, " said Charlie, as if he still did not quite grasp his comrade'spurpose. 

"Here, " said John, "this is the idea. You remember how when we werekids we used to get hold of an old magnifying glass and use it as aburning glass?"

"I remember we darned near set fire to Hank Webster's barn once, "smiled Charlie. 

"Well, " returned John, "think of the army as a sun, and of every loyalindividual soldier, officer and private alike, as a ray of that sun and_there_ is your true equality. Pershing's rank was simply the burningglass that focused our two million individual rays to a point of suchequality that they could move as one. And I noticed another thing inthat review, too, " continued John, earnestly, "even if I was supposedto have my eyes front, I noticed that General Pershing saluted thecolors. And that meant simply this, that as each individual soldierhonored the whole army in his recognition of the general's rank, thearmy itself, through its commander, honored the greater _oneness_ ofthe nation. And so Foch's rank was a burning glass that focused thedifferent allied nations into a still greater _oneness_, and drew theirstrength to such a point of equality that it lighted a fire under oldKaiser Bill. "

"But what has all this to do with you and me now?" demanded Charlie. "It looks to me as though you are the one that is getting away from themain thought. "

"I am not, " returned John. "It has this to do with you and me: Ourlittle part as a nation in that world job in France is finished allright, and the national job that we have to tackle now, here at home, is a little different, but the principle of unity involved is exactlythe same. Our everyday work can no more be done by those who work withtheir hands alone than the Germans could have been whipped by privatesalone. Nor can our industries be carried on by those who do theplanning and managing alone any more than the army could have carriedout a campaign with nothing but officers. "

"Oh, I see now what you are getting at, " said Charlie. 

"It's about time that you woke up, " retorted John. 

"You mean, " continued Charlie, carefully, "that just as the unity ofthe army was in the different ranks that focused the individual soldierrays upon one common purpose, so the true equality of our industries ispossible only through the difference in rank, such as--well, such asyours and mine--manager and workman or employer and employee. "

"Now you're getting wise, " cried John. "Really at times you show signsof almost human intelligence. "

Charlie returned, doubtfully, "How do you suppose Sam Whaley and a fewothers I could name in our union would take to this equality stuff ofyours?"

"And how do you suppose McIver and others like him would take to it?"retorted John. "All the men in your union are not Sam Whaleys by a longshot, neither are all employers like McIver. As I remember, you had todiscipline a man now and then in Company K. And you have heard ofofficers being cashiered, haven't you?"

"That's all right, " returned the captain, "but how will the rank andfile of our industrial army as a whole ever get it?"

For some time John Ward did not reply to this, but sat brooding overthe question, while his former superior officer waited expectantly. 

Then the manager said, earnestly, "Charlie, what was it that drew overfour million American citizens of almost every known parentage fromevery walk of life, and made them an army with one purpose? And whatwas it that inspired one hundred million more to back them?

"I'll tell you what it was, " he continued, when his companion did notanswer, "it was the Big Idea. 

"Oh, yes, I know there were all kinds of graft and incompetency andjealousy and mutiny and outrages. And there were traitors andprofiteers and slackers of every sort. But the Big Idea that focusedthe strength of the nation as a whole, Charlie, was so much bigger thanany individual or group that it absorbed all. It took possession of usall--inspired us all--dominated and drove us all, into everyconceivable effort and sacrifice, until it made heroism a common thing. And this Big Idea was so big that it not only absorbed disloyalty andselfishness as a great living river takes in a few drops of poison, butit assimilated, as well, every brand of class and caste. It made nodistinction between officer and private, it ruled General Pershing andPrivate Jones alike. It recognized no difference between educated anduneducated and sent university professors and bootblacks over the topside by side. And this Big Idea that so focused the individual rays ofour nation against German imperialism was nothing more or less than_the idea of the oneness of all humanity. _ It may be lost in a scramblefor the spoils of victory, it is true, but it was the Big Idea that wonthe victory just the same. "

John Ward was on his feet now, pacing back and forth. His face wasflushed and eager, his eyes were glowing, as he himself was possessedof the Big Idea which he strove to put into words. 

And Captain Charlie's pipe was forgotten as he watched his friend andlistened. This John Ward was a John Ward that few people in Millsburghknew. But Captain Charlie knew him. Captain Charlie had seen him testedin all the ways that war tests men. In cold and hunger and theunspeakable discomforts of mud and filth and vermin--in the waitingdarkness when an impatient whisper or a careless move to easeoverstrained nerves meant a deluge of fire and death--in the wildfrenzy of actual conflict--in the madness of victory--in the deliriumof defeat--in the dreary marking time--in the tense readiness for thecharge--in those many moments when death was near enough to strip theoutward husks from these two men and leave their naked souls face toface--Captain Charlie had learned to know John Ward. 

"Do you remember what the Interpreter said to us the first time we wentto see him after we got home?" demanded John. 

Charlie nodded. "He said for us not to make the mistake of thinkingthat the war was over just because the Armistice was signed and we wereat home in Millsburgh again. I'm afraid a good many people, though, aremaking just that mistake. "

"I didn't understand what our old friend meant then, Charlie, "continued John, "but I know now. He meant that the same old fightbetween the spirit of imperialism that seeks the selfish dominion of anindividual or class and the spirit of democracy that upholds theoneness of all for all, is still on, right here at home. The Presidentsaid that the war was to make the world safe for democracy, and thereare some wild enthusiasts who say that we Americans won it. "

"That 'we won the war' stuff is all bunk, " interrupted Charlie, in atone of disgust. 

"'Bunk' is right, " agreed John. "The old A. E. F. Did have a hand, though, in putting a crimp in the Kaiser's little plan for acquiringtitle to the whole human race for himself and family. But if theAmerican people don't wake up to the fact that the same identicalprinciples of human right and human liberty that sent us to France areinvolved in our industrial controversies here at home, we might as wellhave saved ourselves the trouble of going over there at all. "

"That is all true enough, " agreed Captain Charlie, "but what is goingto wake us up? What is going to send us as a nation against the KaiserBills of capital and the Kaiser Bills of labor, or, if you like itbetter, the imperialistic employers and the equally imperialisticemployees?"

John Ward fairly shouted his answer, "The Big Idea, my boy--the sameBig Idea that sent us to war against imperialism over there will wakeus up to drive the spirit of imperialism out of our American industrieshere at home. "

Charlie shook his head doubtfully. "It was different during the WorldWar, John. Then the Big Idea was held up before the people to theexclusion of everything else. When we think of the speeches and paradesand rallies and sermons and books and newspapers and pictures and songsthat were used in the appeal to our patriotism and our common humanity, it was no wonder that we all felt the pull of it all. But no one now issaying anything about the Big Idea, except for an occasional paragraphhere and there. And certainly no one is making much noise aboutapplying it in our industries. "

"Yes, I know we can't expect any such hurrah as we had when men wereneeded to die for the cause in a foreign land. You go to France and getshot for humanity and you are a hero. Stay at home and sweat for thesame cause and you are a nobody. From the publicity point of view"there seems to be a lot of difference between a starving baby inBelgium and a starving kid in our Millsburgh Flats. But just the sameit is the Big Idea that will save us from the dangers that arethreatening our industries and, through our industries, menacing thevery life of out nation. "

"But how will the people get it, John?"

"I don't know how it will come; but, somehow, the appeal must be madeto the loyal citizens of this nation in behalf of the humanity that isdependent for life itself upon our industries, exactly as the appealwas made in behalf of the humanity that looked to us for help in timeof war. We must, as a nation, learn, somehow, to feel our work as wefelt our war. The same ideals of patriotism and sacrifice and heroismthat were so exalted in the war must be held up in our everyday work. We must learn to see our individual jobs in the industrialorganizations of our country as we saw our places in the nation's army. As a people we must grasp the mighty fact that humanity is the issue ofour mills and shops and factories and mines, exactly as it was theissue of our campaigns in France. America, Charlie, has not only toface in her industries the same spirit of imperialism that we fought inFrance, but she has to contend with the same breed of disloyalgrafters, profiteers and slackers that would have betrayed us duringthe war. And these traitors to our industries must be branded whereverthey are found--among the business forces or in the ranks of labor, inour schools and churches or on our farms. 

"The individual's attitude toward the industries of this nation must bea test of his loyal citizenship just as a man's attitude toward ourarmy was a test. And Americans dare not continue to ignore the dangerthat lies in the work of those emissaries who are seeking to weaken theloyalty of our workmen and who by breeding class hatred and strife inour industries are trying to bring about the downfall of our governmentand replace the stars and stripes with the flag that is as foreign toour American independence as the flag of the German Kaiser himself. "

Captain Charlie said, slowly, "That is all true, John, but at the sametime you and I know that there is no finer body of loyal citizensanywhere in the world than the great army of our American workmen. Andwe know, too, that the great army of our American business men are justas fine and true and loyal. "

"Exactly, " cried John, "but if these loyal American citizens who workwith their hands in the Mill and these loyal citizens who work in theoffice of the Mill don't hold together, in the same spirit ofcomradeship that united them in the war, to defend our industriesagainst both the imperialism of capital and the equally dangerousimperialism of labor, we may as well run up a new flag at Washingtonand be done with it. "

"You are right, of course, John, " said Captain Charlie, "but how?"

"You and I may not know how, " retorted the other, "any more than weknew how the war was going to be won when we enlisted. But we do knowour little parts right here in Millsburgh clear enough. As I see it, itis up to us to carry the torch of Flanders fields into the field of ourindustries right here in our own home town. "

He paced to and fro without speaking for a little while, the otherwatching him, waited. 

"Of course, " said John at last, "a lot of people will call us fanaticsand cranks and idealists for saying that the Big Idea, of the war mustdominate us in our industrial life. And, of course, it is going to be adarned sight harder in some ways to stand for the principles of ourcomradeship here at home than it was over there. 'Don't go out into NoMan's Land to-night, Captain Charlie, it is so dirty and dark and wetand cold and dangerous; let Private John go. ' But the darned fool, Captain Charlie, went into the cold and the wet and the danger becausehe and Private John were comrades in the oneness of the Big Idea. "

His voice grew a little bitter as he finished. "Don't go into thatawful Mill, Captain John, it is so dirty and dangerous and you will getso tired; let Private Charlie do the work while you stay at home andplay tennis or bridge or attend to the social duties of your superiorclass. "

With ringing earnestness Charlie Martin added, "But the darned foolfanatic and idealist Captain John will go just the same because he andPrivate Charlie are comrades in the oneness of the Big Idea of the Millhere at home. "

For a few moments John stood looking into the distance as one who seesa vision, then he said, slowly, "And the Big Idea will win again, oldman, as it has always won; and the traitors and slackers and yellowdogs will be saved with the rest, I suppose, just as they always havebeen saved from themselves. "

He turned to see his comrade standing at attention. Gravely CaptainCharlie saluted. 

 * * * * *

Perhaps Jake Vodell was right in believing that the friendship of JohnWard and Charlie Martin was dangerous to his cause in Millsburgh. 

The Vodells, who with their insidious propaganda, menace Americathrough her industrial troubles, will be powerless, indeed, whenAmerican employers and employees can think in terms of industrialcomradeship. 

CHAPTER XII

TWO SIDES OF A QUESTION

That evening the new manager of the Mill stayed for supper at theMartin cottage. It was the first time since he had left the old housenext door for his school in a distant city that he had eaten a mealwith these friends of his boyhood. 

Perhaps because their minds were so filled with things they could notspeak, their talk was a little restrained. Captain Charlie attempted ajest or two; John did his best, and Mary helped them all she could. Theold workman, save for a kindly word now and then to make the son ofAdam Ward feel at home, was silent. 

But when the supper was over and the twilight was come and they hadcarried their chairs out on the lawn where, in their boy and girl daysthey had romped away so many twilight hours, the weight of the presentwas lifted. While Peter Martin smoked his pipe and listened, the threemade merry over the adventures of their childhood, until the old housenext door, so deserted and forlorn, must have felt that the days solong past were come again. 

It was rather late when John finally said goodnight. As he drovehomeward he told himself many times that it had been one of thehappiest evenings he had ever spent. He wondered why. 

The big house on the hill, as he approached the iron gates, seemedstrangely grim and forbidding. The soft darkness of the starlit nightinvited him to stay out of doors. Reluctantly, half in mind to turnback, he drove slowly up the long driveway. The sight of McIver's bigcar waiting decided him. He did not wish to meet the factory owner thatevening. He would wait a while before going indoors. Finding acomfortable lawn chair not far from the front of the house, he filledhis pipe. 

As he sat there, many things unbidden and apparently without purposepassed in leisurely succession through his mind. Bits of boyhoodexperiences, long forgotten and called up now, no doubt, by his eveningat the cottage that had once been as much his home as the old houseitself. How inseparable the four children had been! Fragments of hisarmy life--what an awakening it had all been for him! The comingstruggle with the followers of Jake Vodell--his new responsibilities. He had feared that his comradeship with Charlie might beweakened--well, that was settled now. He was glad they had had theirtalk. 

The door of the house opened and McIver came down the steps to hisautomobile. For a moment Helen stood framed against the bright light ofthe interior, then the car rolled away. The door was closed. 

John recalled what his father had said. Would his sister finally acceptMcIver? For a long time the factory owner had been pressing his suit. Would she marry him at last? A combination of the Ward Mill and theMcIver factory would be a mighty power in the manufacturing world. Hedismissed the thought. He wished that Helen were more like Mary. Hissister was a wonderful woman in his eyes--he was proud of her; butagain his mind went back to the workman's home and to his happy eveningthere. His own home was so different. His mother! What a splendid oldman Uncle Peter was!

John Ward's musings were suddenly disturbed by a faint sound. Turninghis head, he saw the form of a man, dark and shadowy in the faint lightof the stars, moving toward the house. John held his place silently, alert and ready. Cautiously the dark form crept forward with frequentpauses as if to look about. Then, as the figure stood for a momentsilhouetted against a lighted window of the house, John recognized hisfather. 

At the involuntary exclamation which escaped the younger man Adamwhirled as if to run. 

John spoke, quietly, "That you, father?"

The man came quickly to his son. With an odd nervous laugh, he said, "Lord, boy, but you startled me! What are you doing out here at thistime of the night?"

"Just enjoying a quiet smoke and looking at the stars, " John answered, easily. 

It was evident that Adam Ward was intensely excited. His voice shookwith nervous agitation and he looked over his shoulder and peered intothe surrounding darkness as if dreading some lurking danger. 

"I couldn't sleep, " he muttered, in a low cautious tone. "Dreams--nothing in them of course--all foolishness--nerves are allshot to pieces. "

He dropped down on the seat beside his son, then sprang to his feetagain. "Did you hear that?" he whispered, and stooping low, he tried tosee into the shadows of the shrubbery behind John. 

The younger man spoke soothingly. "There is nothing here, father, sitdown and take it easy. "

"You don't know what you're talking about, " retorted Adam Ward. "I tellyou they are after me--there's no telling what they will do--poison--agun--infernal machines through the mail--bomb. No one has any sympathywith me, not even my family. All these years I have worked for what Ihave and now nobody cares. All they want is what they can get out ofme. And you--you'll find out! I saw your car in front of Martin's againthis evening. You'd better keep away from there. Peter Martin isdangerous. He would take everything I have away from me if he could. "

John tried in vain to calm his father, but in a voice harsh withpassion he continued, and as he spoke, he moved his hands and armsconstantly with excited and vehement gestures. 

"That process is mine, I tell you. The best lawyers I could get havefixed up the patents. Pete Martin is an old fool. I'll see him in hisgrave before--" he checked himself as if fearing his own anger wouldbetray him. As he paced up and he muttered to himself, "I built up thebusiness and I can tear it down. I'll blow up the Mill. I--" his voicetrailed off into hoarse unintelligible sounds. 

John Ward could not speak. He believed that his father's strange fearsfor the loss of his property were due to nothing more than his nervoustrouble. Peter Martin's name, which Adam in his most excited momentsnearly always mentioned in this manner, meant nothing more to John thanthe old workman's well-known leadership in the Mill workers' union. 

Suddenly Adam turned again to his son, and coming close asked in awhisper, "John--I--is there really a hell, John? I mean such as thepreachers used to tell about. Does a man go from this life to thehorrors of eternal punishment? Does he, son?"

"Why, father, I--" John started to reply, but Adam interrupted himwith, "Never mind; you wouldn't know any more than any one else aboutit. The preachers ought to know, though. Seems like there must be someway of finding out. I dreamed--"

As if he had forgotten the presence of his son, he suddenly startedaway toward the house. 

Not until John Ward had assured himself that his father was safely inhis room and apparently sleeping at last, did he go to his ownapartment. 

But the new manager of the Mill did not at once retire. He did not eventurn on the lights. For a long time he stood at the darkened window, looking out into the night. "What was it?" he asked himself again andagain. "What was it his father feared?"

In the distance he could see a tiny spot of light shining high againstthe shadowy hillside above the darkness of the Flats. It was a lightedwindow in the Interpreter's hut. 

 * * * * *

As they sat in the night on the balcony porch, Jake Vodell said harshlyto the old basket maker, "You shall tell me about this Adam Ward, comrade. I hear many things. From what you say of your friendship withhim in the years when he was a workman in the Mill and from yourfriendship with his son and daughter you must know better than any oneelse. Is it true that it was his new patented process that made him sorich?"

"The new process was undoubtedly the foundation of his success, "answered the Interpreter, "but it was the man's peculiar genius thatenabled him to recognize the real value of the process and to foreseehow it would revolutionize the industry. And it was his ability as anorganizer and manager, together with his capacity for hard work, thatenabled him to realize his vision. It is easily probable that not oneof his fellow workmen could have developed and made use of thediscovery as he has. "

Jake Vodell's black brows were raised with quickened interest. "Thisnew process was a discovery then? It was not the result of research andexperiment?"

The Interpreter seemed to answer reluctantly. "It was an accidentaldiscovery, as many such things are. "

The agitator must have noticed that the old basket maker did not wishto talk of Adam Ward's patented process, but he continued hisquestions. 

"Peter Martin was working in the Mill at the time of this wonderfuldiscovery, was he?"

"Yes. "

"Oh! and Peter and Adam were friends, too?"

"Yes. "

The Interpreter's guest shrugged his shoulders and scowled hisrighteous indignation. "And all these years that Adam Ward has beenbuilding up this Mill that grinds the bodies and souls of his fellowmen into riches for himself and makes from the life blood of hisemployees the dollars that his son and daughter spend in wickedluxury--all these years his old friend Peter Martin has toiled for himexactly as the rest of his slaves have toiled. Bah! And still thepriests and preachers make the people believe there is a God ofJustice. "

The Interpreter replied, slowly, "It may be after all, sir, that PeterMartin is richer than Adam Ward. "

"How richer?" demanded the other. "When he lives in a poor littlehouse, with no servants, no automobiles, no luxuries of any kind, andmust work every day in the Mill with his son, while his daughter Maryslaves at the housekeeping for her father and brother! Look at AdamWard and his great castle of a home--look at his possessions--at thefortune he will leave his children. Bah! Mr. Interpreter, do not talkto me such foolishness. "

"Is it foolishness to count happiness as wealth?" asked theInterpreter. 

"Happiness?" growled the other. "Is there such a thing? What does thelaboring man know of happiness?"

And the Interpreter answered, "Peter Martin, in the honorable peace andcontentment of his useful years, and in the love of his family andfriends, is the happiest man I have ever known. While Adam Ward--"

Jake Vodell sprang to his feet as if the Interpreter's words exhaustedhis patience, while he spoke as one moved by a spirit of contemptuousintolerance. "You talk like a sentimental old woman. How is it possiblethat there should be happiness and contentment anywhere when all isinjustice and slavery under this abominable capitalist system? First weshall have liberty--freedom--equality--then perhaps we may begin totalk of happiness. Is Sam Whaley and his friends who live down there intheir miserable hovels--is Sam Whaley happy?"

"Sam Whaley has had exactly the same opportunity for happiness thatPeter Martin has had, " answered the Interpreter. "Opportunity, yes, "snarled the other. "Opportunity to cringe and whine and beg his masterfor a chance to live like a dog in a kennel, while he slaves to makehis owners rich. Do you know what this man McIver says? I will tellyou, Mr. Interpreter--you who prattle about a working man's happiness. McIver says that the laboring classes should be driven to their workwith bayonets--that if his factory employees strike they will be forcedto submission by the starvation of their women and children. Happiness!You shall see what we will do to this man McIver before we talk ofhappiness. And you shall see what will happen to this castle of AdamWard's and to this Mill that he says is his. "

"I think I should tell you, sir, " said the Interpreter, calmly, "thatin your Millsburgh campaign, at least, you are already defeated. "

"Defeated! Hah! That is good! And who do you say has defeated me, before I have commenced even to fight, heh?"

"You are defeated by Adam Ward's retirement from business, " came thestrange reply. 

BOOK II

THE TWO HELENS

 "_O Guns, fall silent till the dead men hear Above their heads the legions pressing on_:

 * * * * *

 _Bid them be patient, and some day, anon, They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep; Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn, And in content may turn them to their sleep_. "

CHAPTER XIII

THE AWAKENING

Immediately following that day when she had watched her father from thearbor and had talked with Bobby and Maggie Whaley on the old road, Helen Ward had thrown herself into the social activities of her circleas if determined to find, in those interests, a cure for her discontentand unhappiness. 

Several times she called for a few minutes at the little hut on thecliff. But she did not again talk of herself or of her father to theold basket maker as she had talked that day when she first met thechildren from the Flats. Two or three times she saw the children. Butshe passed them quickly by with scarcely a nod of greeting. And yet, the daughter of Adam Ward felt with increasing certainty that she couldnever be content with the busy nothingness which absorbed the lives ofso many of her friends. Her father, since his retirement, seemed alittle better. But she could not put out of her mind the memory of whatshe had seen. For her, the dreadful presence of the hidden thing alwaysattended him. Because she could not banish the feeling and becausethere was nothing she could do, she sought relief by escaping from thehouse as often as possible on the plea of social duties. 

There were times when the young woman thought that her mother knew. Attimes she fancied that her brother half guessed the secret that soovershadowed their home. But Mrs. Ward and her children alike shrankfrom anything approaching frankness in mentioning the Mill owner'scondition. And so they went on, feeling the hidden thing, dreading theyknew not what--deceiving themselves and each other with hopes that intheir hearts they knew were false. 

The mother, brave, loyal soul, seeing her daughter's unhappiness andwishing to protect her from the thing that had so saddened her ownlife, encouraged Helen to find what relief she could in the pleasuresthat kept her so many hours from home. John, occupied by the exactingduties of his new position, needed apparently nothing more. Indeed, toHelen, her brother's attitude toward his work, his views of life andhis increasing neglect of what she called the obligations of theirposition in Millsburgh, were more and more puzzling. She had thoughtthat with John's advancement to the general managership of the Mill hispeculiar ideas would be modified. But his promotion seemed to have madeno sign of a change in his conception of the relationship betweenemployer and employee, or in his attitude toward the unions or towardthe industrial situation as a whole. 

Of one thing Helen was certain--her brother had found that which she, in her own life, was somehow missing. And so the young woman observedher brother with increasing interest and a growing feeling thatapproached envy. At every opportunity she led him to talk of his workor rather of his attitude toward his work, and encouraged him toexpress the convictions that had so changed his own life and that wereso foreign to the tenets of Helen and her class. And always their talksended with John's advice: "Go ask the Interpreter; he knows; he willmake it so much clearer than I can. "

But with all John's absorbing interest in his work and in the generalindustrial situation of Millsburgh, which under the growing influenceof Jake Vodell was becoming every day more difficult and dangerous, thegeneral manager could not escape the memories of that happy evening atthe Martin cottage. The atmosphere of this workman's home was sodifferent from the atmosphere of his own home in the big house on thehill. There was a peace, a contentment, a feeling of security in thelittle cottage that was sadly wanting in the more pretentiousresidence. Following, as it did, his father's retirement from the Millwith his own promotion to the rank of virtual ownership and hisimmediate talk with Captain Charlie, that evening had reëstablished forhim, as it were, the relationship and charm of his boyhood days. It wasas though, having been submitted to a final test, he was now admittedonce more, without reserve, to the innermost circle of theirfriendship. 

On his way to and from his office he nearly always, now, drove past theMartin cottage. The distance was greater, it is true, but John thoughtthat the road was enough better to more than make up for that. Besides, he really did enjoy the drive down the tree-arched street and past theold house. It was all so rich in memories of his happy boyhood, andsometimes--nearly always, in fact--he would catch a glimpse of Maryamong her flowers or on the porch or perhaps at the gate. 

Occasionally this young manager of the Mill, with his strange ideas ofindustrial comradeship, found it necessary to spend an evening withthese workmen who were leaders in the union that was held by his fatherand by McIver to be a menace to the employer class. It in no waydetracted from the value of these consultations with Captain Charlieand his father that Mary was always present. In fact, Mary herself wasin a position materially to help John Ward in his study of theindustrial problems that were of such vital interest to him. No oneknew better than did Pete Martin's daughter the actual livingconditions of the class of laboring people who dwelt in the Flats. Certainly, as he watched the progress of Jake Vodell's missionary workamong them, John could not ignore these Sam Whaleys of the industriesas an important factor in his problem. 

So it happened, curiously enough, that Helen herself was led to call atthe little home next door to the old house where she had lived in thoseyears of her happy girlhood. 

 * * * * *

Helen was downtown that afternoon on an unimportant shopping errand. She had left the store after making her purchases and was about toenter her automobile, when McIver, who chanced to be passing, stoppedto greet her. 

There was no doubting the genuineness of the man's pleasure in theincident, nor was Helen herself at all displeased at this break in whathad been, so far, a rather dull day. 

"And what brings you down here at this unreasonable hour?" he asked;"on Saturday, too? Don't you know that there is a tennis match on atthe club?"

"I didn't seem to care for the tennis to-day somehow, " she returned. "Mother wanted some things from Harrison's, so I came downtown to getthem for her. "

He caught a note in her voice that made him ask with grave concern, "How is your father, Helen?"

She answered, quickly, "Oh, father is doing nicely, thank you. " Then, with a cheerfulness that was a little forced, she asked in turn, "Andwhy have you deserted the club yourself this afternoon?"

"Business, " he returned. "There will be no more Saturday afternoons offfor me for some time to come, I fear. " Then he added, quickly, "Butlook here, Helen, there is no need of our losing the day altogether. Send your man on, and come with me for a little spin. The roadster isin the next block. I'll take you home in an hour and get on back to myoffice. "

Helen hesitated. 

"The ride will do you good. "

"Sure you can spare the time?"

"Sure. It will do me good, too. "

"And you're not asking me just to be nice--you really want me?"

"Don't you know by this time whether I want you or not?" he returned, in a tone that brought the color to her cheeks. "Please come!"

"All right, " she agreed. 

When they were seated in McIver's roadster, she added, "I really can'tdeny myself the thrilling triumph of taking a business man away fromhis work during office hours. "

"You take my thoughts away from my work a great many times duringoffice hours, Helen, " he retorted, as the car moved away. "Must I waitmuch longer for my answer, dear?"

She replied, hurriedly, "Please, Jim, not that to-day. Let's not thinkabout it even. "

"All right, " he returned, grimly. "I just want you to know, though, that I am waiting. "

"I know, Jim--and--and you are perfectly wonderful but--Oh, can't weforget it just for an hour?"

As if giving himself to her mood, McIver's voice and manner changed. "Do you mind if we stop at the factory just a second? I want to leavesome papers. Then we can go on up the river drive. "

 * * * * *

An hour later they were returning, and because it was the prettieststreet in that part of Millsburgh, McIver chose the way that would takethem past the old house. 

John Ward's machine was standing in front of the Martin cottage. 

McIver saw it and looked quickly at his companion. There was no need toask if Helen had recognized her brother's car. 

The factory owner considered the new manager of the Mill a troublesomeobstacle in his own plans for making war on the unions. He felt, too, that with John now in control of the business, his chances of bringingabout the combination of the two industries were materially lessened. He had wondered, at times, if it was not her brother's influence thatcaused Helen to put off giving him her final answer to his suit. 

When he saw that Helen had recognized John's car, he remarked, with aninsinuating laugh, "Evidently I am not the only business man who can belured from his office during working hours. "

"Jim, how can you?" she protested. "You know John is there on businessto see Charlie or his father. "

"It is a full hour yet before quitting time at the Mill, " he returned. 

She had no reply to this, and the man continued with a touch ofmalicious satisfaction, "After all, Helen, John is human, you know, andold Pete Martin's daughter is a mighty attractive girl. "

Helen Ward's cheeks were red, but she managed to control her voice, asshe said, "Just what do you mean by that, Jim?"

"Is it possible that you really do not know?" he countered. 

"I know that my brother, foolish as he may be about some things, wouldnever think of paying serious attention to the daughter of one of hisemployees, " she retorted, warmly. 

"That is exactly the situation, " he returned. "No one believes for amoment that the affair is serious on John's part. "

The color was gone from Helen's face now. "I think you have said toomuch not to go on now, Jim. Do you mean that people are saying thatJohn is amusing himself with Mary Martin?"

"Well, " he returned, coolly, "what else can the people think when theysee him going there so often; when they see the two together, wanderingabout the Flats; when they hear his car tearing down the street late inthe evening; when they see her every morning at the gate watching forhim to pass on his way to work? Your brother is not a saint, Helen. Heis no different, in some ways, from other men. I always did feel thatthere was something back of all this comrade stuff between him andCharlie Martin. As for the girl, I don't think you need to worry abouther. She probably understands it all right enough. "

"Jim, you must not say such things to me about Mary! She is not at allthat kind of girl. The whole thing is impossible. "

"What do you know about Mary Martin?" he retorted. "I'll bet you havenever even spoken to her since you moved from the old house. "

Helen did not speak after this until they were passing the great stonecolumns at the entrance to the Ward estate, then she said, quietly, "Jim, do you always believe the worst possible things about every one?"

"That's an odd thing for you to ask, " he returned, doubtfully, as theydrove slowly up the long curving driveway. "Why?"

"Because, " she answered, "it sometimes seems to me as if no onebelieved the best things about people these days. I know there is aworld of wickedness among us, Jim, but are we all going wholly to thebad together?"

McIver laughed. "We are all alike in one thing, Helen. No matter whathe professes, you will find that at the last every man holds to thegood old law of 'look out for number one. ' Business or pleasure, it'sall the same. A man looks after his own interests first and takes whathe wants, or can get, when and where and how he can. "

"But, Jim, the war--"

He laughed cynically. "The war was pure selfishness from start tofinish. We fed the fool public a lot of patriotic bunk, of course--wehad to--we needed them. And the dear people fell for the sentimentalhero business as they always do. " With the last word he stopped the carin front of the house. 

When Helen was on the ground she turned and faced him squarely. "JimMcIver, your words are an insult to my brother and to ninety-nine outof every hundred men who served under our flag, and you insult myintelligence if you expect me to accept them in earnest. If I thoughtfor a minute that you were capable of really believing such abominablestuff I would never speak to you again. Good-by, Jim. Thank you so muchfor the ride. "

Before the man could answer, she ran up the steps and disappearedthrough the front door. 

But McIver's car was no more than past the entrance when Helen appearedagain on the porch. For a moment she stood, as if debating somequestion in her mind. Then apparently, she reached a decision. Tenminutes later she was walking hurriedly down the hill road--the wayBobby and Maggie had fled that day when Adam Ward drove them from theiron fence that guarded his estate. It was scarcely a mile by this roadto the old house and the Martin cottage. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE WAY BACK

That walk from her home to the little white cottage next door to theold house was the most eventful journey that Helen Ward ever made. Shefelt this in a way at the time, but she could not know to what end hersudden impulse to visit again the place of her girlhood wouldeventually lead. 

As she made her way down the hill toward that tree-arched street, sherealized a little how far the years had carried her from the old house. She had many vivid and delightful memories of that world of herchildhood, it is true, but the world to which her father's materialsuccess had removed her in the years of her ripening womanhood had cometo claim her so wholly that she had never once gone back. She hadlooked back at first with troubled longing. But Adam Ward's determinedefforts to make the separation of the two families final and complete, together with the ever-increasing bitterness of his strange hatred forhis old workman friend, had effectually prevented her from any attemptat a continuation of the old relationship. In time, even the thought oftaking so much as a single step toward the intimacies from which shehad come so far, had ceased to occur to her. And now, suddenly, withoutplan or premeditation, she was on her way actually to touch again, ifonly for a few moments, the lives that had been so large a part of thesimple, joyous life which she had known once, but which was so foreignto her now. 

Nor was it at all clear to her why she was going or what she would do. As she had observed with increasing interest the change in herbrother's attitude toward the pleasures that had claimed him so whollybefore the war, she had wondered often at his happy contentment incontrast to her own restless and dissatisfied spirit. McIver's wordshad suddenly forced one fact upon her with startling clearness: John, through his work in the Mill, his association with Captain Charlie andhis visits to the Martin home, was actually living again in theatmosphere of that world which she felt they had left so far behind. Itwas as though her brother had already gone back. 

And McIver's challenging question, "What do you know about MaryMartin?" had raised in her mind a doubt, not of her brother and hisrelationship to these old friends of their childhood, but of herselfand all the relationships that made her present life such a contrast toher life in the old house. 

With her mind and heart so full of doubts and questionings, she turnedinto the familiar street and saw her brother's car still before theMartin home. 

As she went on, a feeling of strange eagerness possessed her. Her faceglowed with warm color, her eyes shone with glad anticipation, herheart beat more quickly. As one returning to well loved home scenesafter many years in a foreign land, the daughter of Adam Ward went downthe street toward the place where she was born. In front of the oldhouse she stopped. The color went from her cheeks--the brightness fromher eyes. 

In her swiftly moving automobile, nearly always with gay companions, Helen had sometimes passed the old house and had noticed with momentaryconcern its neglected appearance. But these fleeting glimpses had beenso quickly forgotten that the place was most real to her as she saw itin her memories. But now, as she stood there alone, in the mood thathad brought her to the spot, the real significance of the ruin struckher with appalling force. 

Those rooms with their shattered windowpanes, their bare, rottingcasements and sagging, broken shutters appealed to her in the muteeloquence of their empty loneliness for the joyous life that once hadfilled them. The weed-grown yard, the tumbledown fence, the dilapidatedporch, and even the chimneys that were crumbling and ragged against thesky, cried out to her in sorrowful reproach. A rushing flood of homememories filled her eyes with hot tears. With the empty loneliness ofthe old house in her heart, she went blindly on to the little cottagenext door. There was no thought as to how she would explain her unusualpresence there. She did not, herself, really know clearly why she hadcome. 

Timidly she paused at the white gate. There was no one in the yard tobid her welcome. As one in a dream, she passed softly into the yard. She was trembling now as one on the threshold of a great adventure. What was it? What did it mean--her coming there?

Wonderingly she looked about the little yard with its bit of lawn--atthe big shade tree--the flowers--it was all just as she had alwaysknown it. Where were they?--John and Mary and Charlie? Why was there nosound of their voices? Her cheeks were suddenly hot with color. What ifCharlie Martin should suddenly appear! As one awakened from strangedreams to a familiar home scene, Helen Ward was all at once back inthose days of her girlhood. She had come as she had come so many, manytimes from the old house next door, to find her brother and theirfriends. Her heart was eager with the shy eagerness of a maid for theexpected presence of her first boyish lover. 

 * * * * *

Then Peter Martin, coming around the house from the garden, saw herstanding there. 

The old workman stopped, as if at the sight of an apparition. Mechanically he placed the garden tool he was carrying against thecorner of the house; deliberately he knocked the ashes from his pipeand placed it methodically in his pocket. 

With a little cry, Helen ran to him, her hands outstretched, "UnclePete!"

The old workman caught her and for a few moments she clung to him, halflaughing, half crying, while they both, in the genuineness of theiraffection, forgot the years. 

"Is it really you, Helen?" he said, at last, and she saw a suspiciousmoisture in the kindly eyes. "Have you really come back to see the oldman after all these years?"

Then, with quick anxiety, he asked, "But what is the matter, child?Your father--your mother--are they all right? Is there anything wrongat your home up on the hill yonder?"

His very natural inquiry broke the spell and placed her instantly backin the world to which she now belonged. Drawing away from him, shereturned, with characteristic calmness, "Oh, no, Uncle Pete, father andmother are both very well indeed. But why should you think there mustbe something wrong, simply because I chanced to call?"

The old workman was clearly confused at this sudden change in hermanner. He had welcomed the girl--the Helen of the old house--thisself-possessed young woman was quite a different person. She was theprincess lady of little Maggie and Bobby Whaley's acquaintance, whosometimes condescended to recognize him with a cool little nod as herbig automobile passed him swiftly by. 

Pete Martin could not know, as the Interpreter would have known, how atthat very moment the Helen of the old house and the princess lady werestruggling for supremacy. 

Removing his hat and handling it awkwardly, he said, with a touch ofdignity in his tone and manner in spite of his embarrassment, "I'm gladthe folks are well, Helen. Won't you take a seat and rest yourself?"

As they went toward the chairs in the shade of the tree, he added, "Itis a long time since we have seen you in this part of town--walking, Imean. "

The Helen of the old house wanted to answer--she longed to cry out inthe fullness of her heart some of the things that were demandingexpression, but it was the princess lady who answered, "I saw mybrother's car here and thought perhaps he would let me ride home withhim. "

The old workman was studying her now with kind but franklyunderstanding eyes. "John and Mary have gone to see some of the folksthat she is looking after in the Flats, " he said, slowly. "They'll beback any minute now, I should think. "

She did not know what to reply to this. There were so many things shewanted to know--so many things that she felt she must know. But shefelt herself forced to answer with the mere commonplace, "You are allwell, I suppose, Uncle Pete?"

"Fine, thank you, " he answered. "Mary is always busy with her houseworkand her flowers and the poor sick folks she's always a-lookingafter--just like her mother, if you remember. Charlie, he's workinglate to-day--some breakdown or something that's keeping him overtime. That brother of yours is a fine manager, Miss Helen, and, " he added, with a faint note of something in his voice that brought a touch ofcolor to her cheeks, "a finer man. "

Again she felt the crowding rush of those questions she wanted to ask, but she only said, with an air of calm indifference, "John has changedso since his return from France--in many ways he seems like a differentman. "

"As for that, " he replied, "the war has changed most people in one wayor another. It was bound to. Everybody talks about getting back tonormal again, but as I see it there'll be no getting back ever to whatused to be normal before the war started. "

She looked at him with sudden, intense interest. "How has it so changedevery one, Uncle Pete? Why can't people be just as they were before ithappened? The change in business conditions and all that, I canunderstand, but why should it make any difference to--well, to me, forexample?"

The old workman answered, slowly, "The people are thinking deeper andfeeling deeper. They're more human, as you might say. And I've noticedgenerally that the way the people think and feel is at the bottom ofeverything. It's just like the Interpreter says, 'You can't change theminds and hearts of folks without changing what they do. ' Everybodyain't changed, of course, but so many of them have that the rest willbe bound to take some notice or feel mighty lonesome from now on. "

Helen was about to reply when the old workman interrupted her with, "There come John and Mary now. "

The two coming along the street walk to the gate did not at firstnotice those who were watching them with such interest. John wascarrying a market basket and talking earnestly to his companion, whoseface was upturned to his with eager interest. At the gate they paused amoment while the man, with his hand on the latch, finished whatever itwas that he was saying. And Helen, with a little throb of somethingvery much like envy in her heart, saw the light of happiness in theeyes of the young woman who through all the years of their girlhood hadbeen her inseparable playmate and loyal friend. 

When John finally opened the gate for her to pass, Mary was laughing, and the clear ringing gladness in her voice brought a faint smile ofsympathy even to the face of the now coolly conventional daughter ofAdam Ward. 

Mary's laughter was suddenly checked; the happiness fled from her face. With a little gesture of almost appealing fear she put her hand on hercompanion's arm. 

In the same instant John saw and stood motionless, his face blank withamazement. Then, "Helen! What in the world are you doing here?"

John Ward never realized all that those simple words carried to thethree who heard him. Peter Martin's face was grave and thoughtful. Maryblushed in painful embarrassment. His sister, calm and self-possessed, came toward them, smiling graciously. 

"I saw your roadster and thought I might ride home with you. Uncle Peteand I have been having a lovely little visit. It is perfectly charmingto see you again like this, Mary. Your flowers are beautiful as ever, aren't they?"

"But, Helen, how do you happen to be wandering about in thisneighborhood alone and without your car?" demanded the still bewilderedJohn. 

"Don't be silly, " she laughed. "I was out for a walk--that is all. I dowalk sometimes, you know. " She turned to Mary. "Really, to hear thisbrother of mine, one would think me a helpless invalid and this part ofMillsburgh a very dangerous community. "

Mary forced a smile, but the light in her eyes was not the light ofhappiness and her cheeks were still a burning red. 

"Don't you think we should go now, John?" suggested Helen. 

The helpless John looked from Mary to her father appealingly. 

"Better sit down awhile, " Pete offered, awkwardly. 

John looked at his watch. "I suppose we really ought to go. " To Mary headded, "Will you please tell Charlie that I will see him to-morrow?"

She bowed gravely. 

Then the formal parting words were spoken, and Helen and John wereseated in the car. Mary had moved aside from the gate and stood nowvery still among her flowers. 

 * * * * *

Before John had shifted the gears of his machine to high, he heard asound that caused him to look quickly at his sister. Little Maggie'sprincess lady was sobbing like a child. 

"Why, Helen, what in the world--"

She interrupted him. "Please, John--please, don't--don't take me homenow. I--I--Let us stop here at the old house for a few minutes. I--Ican't go just yet. "

Without a word John Ward turned into the curb. Tenderly he helped herto the ground. Reverently he lifted aside the broken-down gate and ledher through the tangle of tall grass and weeds that had almostobliterated the walk to the front porch. Over the rotting steps andacross the trembling porch he helped her with gentle care. Very softlyhe pushed open the sagging door. 

CHAPTER XV

AT THE OLD HOUSE

From room to room in the empty old house the brother and sister wentsilently or with low, half-whispered words. They moved softly, as iffearing to disturb some unseen tenant of those bare and dingy rooms. Often they paused, and, drawing close to each other, stood as if in thevery presence of some spirit that was not of their material world. Atlast they came to the back porch, which was hidden from the curiouseyes of any chance observer in the neighborhood by a rank growth ofweeds and bushes and untrimmed trees. 

As John Ward looked at his sister now, that expression of wonderingamazement with which he had greeted her was gone. In its place therewas gentle understanding. 

With a little smile, Helen sat down on the top step of the porch andmotioned him to a seat beside her. "Won't you tell me about it, John?"she said, softly. 

"Tell you about what, Helen?"

"About everything--your life, your work, your friends. " She made alittle gesture toward the cottage next door. 

They could see the white gable through the screen of tangled boughs. 

"What is it that has changed you so?" she went on. "Your interests areso different now. You are so happy and contented--so--so alive--andI"--her voice broke--"I feel as if you were going away off somewhereand leaving me behind. I am so miserable. John, won't you tell me aboutthings?"

"You poor old girl!" exclaimed John with true brotherly affection. "I've been a blind fool. I ought to have seen. That's nearly always theway, though, I guess, " he went on, reflectively. "A fellow gets sodarned interested trying to make things go right outside his own homethat he forgets to notice how the people that he really loves most ofall are getting along. It looks as though I have not been doing so muchbetter than poor old Sam Whaley, after all. "

He paused and seemed to be following his thoughts into fields whereonly he could go. Helen moved a little closer, and he came back to her. 

"I never dreamed that you were feeling anything like this, sister. Iknew that you were worried about father, of course, as we all are, butaside from that you seemed to be so occupied with your variousinterests and with McIver--" He paused, then finished, abruptly, "Lookhere, Helen, what about you and McIver anyway; have you given him hisanswer yet?"

"Has that anything to do with it?" she answered, doubtfully. "There isnothing that I can tell you about McIver. I don't seem to be able tomake up my mind, that is all. But McIver is only a part of the wholetrouble, John. Oh, can't you understand! How am I to know whether ornot I want to marry him or any one else until--until I have foundmyself--until I know where I really belong. "

He looked at her blankly for a second, then a smile broke over hisface. "By George!" he exclaimed "that is exactly what I had to do--findmyself and find where I belonged. I never dreamed that my sister mightbe compelled to go through the same experience. "

"Was it your army life that helped you to know?"

His face was serious now. "It was the things I saw and experiencedwhile in France. "

"Tell me, " she demanded. "I mean, tell me some of the things that youmen never talk about--the things you were forced to think and feel andbelieve--that showed you your own real self--that changed you into whatyou are to-day. "

And because John Ward was able that afternoon to understand hissister's need, he did as she asked. It may have been the influence ofthe old house that enabled him to lay bare for her those experiences ofhis innermost self--those soul adventures about which, as she had sotruly said, men never talk. Certainly he could never have spoken intheir home on the hill as he spoke in that atmosphere from which theirfather and his material prosperity had so far removed them. And Helen, as she listened, knew that she had found at last the key to all in herbrother's life that had so puzzled her. 

But after all, she reflected, when he had finished, John's experiencecould not solve her problem. She could not find herself in the thingsthat he had thought and felt. 

"If only I could have been with you over there. " she murmured. 

"But, Helen, " he cried, eagerly, "it is all right here at home. Thesame things are happening all about us every day--don't you understand?The one biggest thing that came to me out of the war is the realizationthat, great and terrible though it was, it was in reality only a partof the greater war that is being fought all the time. "

She shook her head with a doubtful smile at his earnestness. 

And then he tried to tell her of the Mill as he saw it in its relationto human life--of the danger that threatened the nation through theindustrial situation--of the menace to humanity that lay in the effortsof those who were setting class against class in a deadly hatred thatwould result in revolution with all its horrors. He tried to make herfeel the call of humanity's need in the world's work, as it was felt inthe need of the world's war. He sought to apply for her the principlesof heroism and comradeship and patriotism and service to this war thatwas still being waged against the imperialistic enemies of the nationand the race. 

But when he paused at last, she only smiled again, doubtfully. "You arewonderful in your enthusiasm, John dear, " she said, "and I love you forit. I think I understand you now, and for yourself it is right, ofcourse, but for me--it is all so visionary--so unreal. "

"And yet, " he returned, "you were very active during the war--you madebandages and lint and sweaters, and raised funds for the Red Cross. Wasit all real to you?"

"Yes, " she answered, honestly, "it was very real John; it was so realthat in contrast nothing that I do now seems of any importance. "

"But you never saw a wounded soldier--you never witnessed thehorrors--you never came in actual touch with the suffering, did you?"

"No. "

"And yet you say the war was real to you. "

"Very real, " she replied. 

"Do you think, Helen, " he said, slowly, "that the Interpreter'ssuffering would have been more real if he had lost his legs by a Germanmachine gun instead of by a machine in father's mill?"

"John!" she exclaimed, in a shocked tone. 

"You say the suffering away over there in France was real to you, " hecontinued. "Well, less than a mile from this spot, I called thisafternoon on a man who is dying by inches of consumption, contractedwhile working in our office. For eight years he was absent from hisdesk scarcely a day. The force nicknamed him 'Old Faithful. ' When hedropped in his tracks at last they carried him out and stopped his pay. He has no care--nothing to eat, even, except the help that the Martinsgive him. Another case: A widow and four helpless children--the man waskilled in McIver's factory last week. He died in agony too horrible todescribe. The mother is prostrated, the children are hungry. God knowswhat will become of them this next winter. Another: A workman who wasterribly burned in the Mill two years ago. He is blind and crippled inthe bargain--"

She interrupted him with a protesting cry, "John, John, for pity'ssake, stop!"

"Well, why are not these things right here at home as real to you asyou say the same things were when they happened in France?" hedemanded. 

She did not attempt to answer his question but instead asked, gently, "Is that why you have been going to the Flats with Mary?"

If he noticed any special significance in her words he ignored it. "Mary visits the people in the Flats as her mother did--as our motherused to do. She told me about some of the cases, and I have been goingwith her now and then to see for myself--that is all. "

Then they left the old house and drove back to their pretentious homeon the hill, where Adam Ward suffered his days of mental torture andwas racked by his nightly dreams of hell. And the dread shadow of thathidden thing was over them all. 

 * * * * *

That night when John told the Interpreter of his afternoon with hissister the old basket maker listened silently. His face was turnedtoward the scene that, save for the twinkling lights, lay wrapped indarkness before them. And he seemed to be listening to the voice of theMill. When John had finished, the man in the wheel chair said verylittle. 

But when John was leaving, the Interpreter asked, as an afterthought, "And where was Captain Charlie this afternoon, John?"

"At the Mill, " John answered. "I'm glad he wasn't at home, too; it wasbad enough as it was. "

"Perhaps it was just as well, " said the old basket maker. And JohnWard, in the darkness, could not see that the Interpreter was smiling. 

CHAPTER XVI

HER OWN PEOPLE

"A lady to see you, sir. "

John did not take his eyes from the work on his desk. "All right, Jimmy, show her in. "

The general manager read on to the bottom of the typewritten page, signed his name to the sheet, placed it in the proper basket and turnedin his chair. 

"Helen!"

Little Maggie's princess lady was so lovely that afternoon, as shestood there framed in the doorway of the manager's office that even herbrother noticed. 

She was laughing at his surprise, and there was a half teasing, halfserious look in her eyes that was irresistible. 

"By George, you are a picture, Helen!" John exclaimed, with not alittle brotherly pride in his face and voice. "But what is the idea?What are you down here for--all dolled up like this?"

She blushed with pleasure at his compliment. "That is very nice of you, John; you are a dear to notice it. Are you going to ask me to sit down, or must you put me out for interrupting?"

He was on his feet instantly. "Forgive me; I am so stunned by theunexpected honor of your visit that I forget my manners. "

When she was seated, he continued, "And now what is it? what can I dofor you, sister?"

She looked about the office--at his desk and through the open door intothe busy outer room. "Are you quite sure that you have time for me?"

"Surest thing in the world, " he returned, with a reassuring smile. Thento a man who at that moment appeared in the doorway, "All right, Tom. "And to Helen, "Excuse me just a second, dear. "

She watched him curiously as he turned sheet after sheet of the papersthe man handed him, seeming to absorb the pages at a glance, while arunning fire of quick questions, short answers, terse comments andclear-cut instructions accompanied the examination. 

Helen had never before been inside the doors of the industrial plant towhich her father had literally given his life. In those old-house days, when Adam worked with Pete and the Interpreter, she had gone sometimesto the outer gate to meet her father when his day's work was done. Onrare occasions her automobile had stopped in front of the office. Thatwas all. 

In a vague, indefinite way the young woman realized that her education, her pleasures, the dresses she wore, her home on the hill, everythingthat she had, in fact, came to her somehow from those great dingy, unsightly buildings. She knew that people who were not of her worldworked there for her father. Sometimes there were accidents--men werekilled. There had been strikes that annoyed her father. But no part ofit all had ever actually touched her. She accepted it as a matter ofcourse--without a thought--as she accepted all of the established factsin nature. The Mill existed for her as the sun existed. It neveroccurred to her to ask why. There was for her no personal note in thedroning, moaning voice of its industry. There was nothing of personalsignificance in the forest of tall stacks with their overhanging cloudof smoke. Indeed, there had been, rather, something sinister andforbidding about the place. The threatening aspect of the presentindustrial situation was in no way personal to her except, perhaps, asit excited her father and disturbed John. 

"You've got it all there, Tom, " said the manager, finishing hisexamination of the papers. "Good work, too. Baird will have thosespecifications on that Miller and Wilson job in to-morrow, will he?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Good, that's the stuff!"

The man was smiling as he moved toward the door. 

"Oh, Tom, just a moment. "

Still smiling, the man turned back. 

"I want you to meet my sister. Helen, may I present Mr. Conway? Tom isone of our Mill family, you know, mighty important member, too--regularshark at figuring all sorts of complicated calculations that I couldn'twork out in a month of Sundays. " He laughed with boyish happiness andpride in Tom's superior accomplishments. 

It was a simple little incident, but there was something in itsomewhere that moved Helen Ward strangely. A spirit that was new to herseemed to fill the room. She felt it as one may feel the bigness of themountains or sense the vast reaches of the ocean. These two men, employer and employee, were in no way conscious of their relationshipas she understood it. Tom did not appear to realize that he was working_for_ John--he seemed rather to feel that he was working _with_ John. 

When the man was gone, she asked again, timidly, "Are you sure, brother, that I am not in the way?"

"Forget it!" he cried. "Tell me what I can do for you. "

"I want to see the Mill, " she answered. 

John did not apparently quite understand her request. "You want to seethe Mill?" he repeated. 

She nodded eagerly. "I want to see it all--not just the office butwhere the men work--everything. "

She laughed at his bewildered expression as the sincerity of her wishdawned upon him. 

"But what in the world"--he began--"why this sudden interest in theMill, Helen?"

Half teasing, half laughing, she answered, "You didn't really think, did you, John, that I would forget everything you said to me at the oldhouse?"

"No, " he said, doubtfully. "At least, I suppose I didn't. But, honestly, I didn't think that I had made much of an impression. "

She made a little gesture of helpless resignation. "Here I am just thesame and so much interested already that I can't tear myself away. Comeon, let's start--that is, if you really have the time to take me. "

Time to take her! John Ward would have lost the largest contract he hadever dreamed of securing rather than miss taking Helen through theMill. 

 * * * * *

With an old linen duster, which had hung in the office closet sinceAdam Ward's day, to cover her from chin to shoes, and a cap that Johnhimself often wore about the plant, to replace her hat, they set out. 

Helen's first impression, as she stood just inside the door to the bigmain room of the plant, was fear. To her gentle eyes the scene was oneof terrifying confusion and unspeakable dangers. 

Those great machines were grim and threatening monsters with ponderousjaws and arms and chains that seemed all too light to control theirsullen strength. The noise--roaring, crashing, clanking, moaning, shrieking, hissing--was overpowering in its suggestion of theungoverned tumult that belonged to some strange, unearthly realm. Everywhere, amid this fearful din and these maddening terrors, flittingthrough the murky haze of steam and smoke and dust, were men with sootyfaces and grimy arms. Never had the daughter of Adam Ward seen men atwork like this. She drew closer to John's side and held to his arm asthough half expecting him to vanish suddenly and leave her alone inthis monstrous nightmare. 

Looking down at her, John laughed aloud and put his arm about herreassuringly. "Great game, old girl!" he said, with a wholesome pridein his voice. "This is the life!"

And all at once she remembered that this _was_, indeed, life--life asshe had never seen it, never felt it before. And this life game--thisgreatest of all games--was the game that John played with suchabsorbing interest day after day. 

"I can understand now why you are not so devoted to tennis and teas asyou used to be, " she returned, laughing back at him with a newadmiration in her face. 

Then John led her into the very midst of the noisy scene. Carefully heguided her steps through the seeming hurry and confusion of machineryand men. Now they paused before one of those grim monsters to watch itsmighty work. Now they stopped to witness the terrific power displayedby another giant that lifted, with its great arms of steel, a weight ofmany tons as easily as a child would handle a toy. Again, they steppedaside from the path of an engine on its way to some distant part of theplant, or stood before a roaring furnace, or paused to watch a group ofmen, or halted while John exchanged a few brief words with asuperintendent or foreman. And always with boyish enthusiasm Johntalked to her of what they saw, explaining, illustrating, making thepurpose and meaning of every detail clear. 

Gradually, as she thus went closer to this life that was at first soterrifying to her, the young woman was conscious of a change withinherself. The grim monsters became kind and friendly as she saw howtheir mighty strength was obedient always to the directing eye and handof the workmen who controlled them. The many noises, as she learned todistinguish them, came to blend into one harmonious whole, like theinstruments in a great orchestra. The confusion, as she came to view itunderstandingly, resolved itself into orderly movement. As she recalledsome of the things that her brother had said to her as they sat on theback porch of the old house, her mind reached out for the larger truth, and she thrilled to the feeling that she was standing, as it were, inthe living, beating heart of the nation. The things that she had beenschooled to hold as of the highest value she saw now for the first timein their just relation to the mighty underlying life of the Mill. Thepetty refinements that had so largely ruled her every thought and deedwere no more than frothy bubbles on the surface of the industrialocean's awful tidal power. The male idlers of her set were suddenlycontemptible in her eyes, as she saw them in comparison with herbrother or with his grimy, sweating comrades. 

Presently John was saying, "This is where father used to work--beforethe days of the new process, I mean. That bench there is the very onehe used, side by side with Uncle Pete and the Interpreter. "

Helen stared at the old workbench that stood against the wall and atthe backs of the men, as though under a spell. Her father workingthere!

Her brain all at once was crowded with questions to which there were noanswers. What if Adam Ward were still a workman at that bench? What ifit had been the Interpreter who had discovered the new process? What ifher father had lost his legs? What if John, instead of being themanager, were one of those men who worked with their hands? What ifthey had never left the old house next door to Mary and Charlie? Whatif--

"Uncle Pete, " said John, "look here and see who's with us thisafternoon. "

Mary's father turned from his work and they laughed at the expressionon his face when he saw her standing there. 

And it was the Helen of the old house who greeted him, and who was sointerested in what he was doing and asked so many really intelligentquestions that he was proud of her. 

They had left Uncle Pete at his bench, and Helen's mind was again busywith those unanswerable questions--so busy, in fact, that she scarcelyheard John saying, "I want to show you a lathe over here, Helen, thatis really worth seeing. It is, on the whole, the finest and mostintricate piece of machinery in the whole plant. " And, he added, asthey drew near the subject of his remarks, "You may believe me, ittakes an exceptional workman to handle it. There are only three men inour entire force who are ever permitted to touch it. They are expertsin their line and naturally are the best paid men we have. "

As he finished speaking they paused beside a huge affair of black ironand gray steel, that to Helen seemed an incomprehensible tangle ofwheels and levers. 

A workman was bending over the machine, so absorbed apparently in thecomplications of his valuable charge that he was unaware of theirpresence. 

Helen spoke close to her brother's ear, "Is he one of your threeexperts?"

John nodded. "He is the chief. The other two are reallyassistants--sort of understudies, you know. "

At that moment the man straightened up, stood for an instant with hiseyes still on his work, then, as he was turning to another part of theintricate mechanism, he saw them. 

"Hello, Charlie!" said the grinning manager, and to his sister, "Surelyyou haven't forgotten Captain Martin, Helen?"

In the brief moments that followed Helen Ward knew that she had reachedthe point toward which she had felt herself moving for severalmonths--impelled by strange forces beyond her comprehension. 

Her brother's renewed and firmly established friendship with thisplaymate of their childhood years, together with the many stirringtales that John had told of his comrade captain's life in France, couldnot but awaken her interest in the boy lover whom she had, as shebelieved, so successfully forgotten. The puzzling change in herbrother's life interests, has neglect of so many of his pre-warassociates and his persistent comradeship with his fellow workman, hadkept alive that interest; while Captain Martin's repeated refusals toaccept John's invitations to the big home on the hill had curiouslytouched her woman's pride and at the same time had compelled herrespect. 

The clash between John's new industrial and social convictions and theclass consciousness to which she had been so carefully schooled, withits background of her father's wretched mental condition, theunhappiness of her home and her own repeated failures to findcontentment in the privileges of material wealth, raised in her mindquestions which she had never before faced. 

Her talks with the Interpreter, the slow forming of the lines of theapproaching industrial struggle, with the sharpening of the contrastbetween McIver and John, her acquaintance with Bobby and Maggie, even--all tended to drive her on in her search for the answer to herproblem. 

And so she had been carried to the Martin cottage--to her talk withJohn at the old house--to the Mill--to this. 

As one may intuitively sense the crisis in a great struggle betweenlife and death, this woman knew that in this man all her disturbinglife questions were centered. Deep beneath the many changes that herfather's material success in life had brought to her, one unalterablelife fact asserted itself with startling power: It was this man who hadfirst awakened in her the consciousness of her womanhood. Face to facewith this workman in her father's Mill, she fought to control thesituation. 

To all outward appearances she did control it. Her brother saw only areserved interest in his workman comrade. Captain Martin saw only thedaughter of his employer who had so coldly preferred her newer friendsto the less pretentious companions of her girlhood. 

But beneath the commonplace remarks demanded by the occasion, the Helenof the old house was struggling for supremacy. The spirit that she hadfelt in the office when John talked with his fellow workmen, she feltnow in the presence of this workman. The power, the strength, thebigness, the meaning of the Mill, as it had come to her, were allpersonified in him. A strange exultation of possession lifted her up. She was hungry for her own; she wanted to cry out: "This work is mywork--these people are my people--this man is my man!"

It was Captain Charlie who ended the interview with the excuse that thebig machine needed his immediate attention. He had stood as they talkedwith a hand on one of the controls and several times he had turned awatchful eye on his charge. It was almost, Helen thought with a littlethrill of triumph, as though the man sought in the familiar touch ofhis iron and steel a calmness and self-control that he needed. But now, when he turned to give his attention wholly to his work, with theeffect of politely dismissing her, she felt as though he had suddenly, if ever so politely, closed a door in her face. 

John must have felt it a little, too, for he became rather quiet asthey went on and soon concluded their inspection of the plant. 

At the office door, Helen paused and turned to look back, as ifreluctant to leave the scene that had now such meaning for her, whileher brother stood silently watching her. Not until they were back inthe manager's office and Helen was ready to return to the outside worlddid John Ward speak. 

Facing her with his straightforward soldierly manner, he said, inquiringly, "Well?"

She returned his look with steady frankness. "I can't tell you what Ithink about it all now, John dear. Sometime, perhaps, I may try. It istoo big--too vital--too close. I am glad I came. I am sorry, too. "

So he took her to her waiting car. 

For a moment he stood looking thoughtfully after the departing machineand then, with an odd little smile, went back to his work. 

CHAPTER XVII

IN THE NIGHT

Helen knew, even as she told the chauffeur to drive her home, that shedid not wish to return just then to the big house on the hill. Her mindwas too crowded with thoughts she could not entertain in the atmosphereof her home; her heart was too deeply moved by emotions that shescarcely dared acknowledge even to herself. 

She thought of the country club, but that, in her present mood, wasimpossible. The Interpreter--she was about to tell Tom that she wishedto call at the hut on the cliff, but decided against it. She fearedthat she might reveal to the old basket maker things that she wished tohide. She might go for a drive in the country, but she shrank frombeing alone. She wanted some one who could take her out ofherself--some one to whom she could talk without betraying herself. 

Not far from the Mill a number of children were playing in the dustyroad. 

Helen did not notice the youngsters, but Tom, being a careful driver, slowed down, even though they were already scurrying aside for theautomobile to pass. Suddenly she was startled by a shrill yell. "Hello, there! Hello, Miss!"

Bobby Whaley, in his frantic efforts to attract her attention, wasjumping up and down, waving his cap and screeching like a wild boy, while his companions looked on in wide-eyed wonder, half in awe at hisdaring, half in fear of the possible consequence. 

To the everlasting honor and glory of Sam Whaley's son, the automobilestopped. The lady, looking back, called, "Hello, Bobby!" and waitedexpectantly for him to approach. 

With a look of haughty triumph at Skinny and Chuck, the lad swaggeredforward, a grin of overpowering delight at his achievement on hisdirty, freckled countenance. 

"I am so glad you called to me, " Helen said, when he was close. "I wasjust wishing for some one to go with me for a ride in the country. Would you like to come?"

"Gee, " returned the urchin, "I'll say I would. "

"Do you think your mother would be willing for you to go?"

"Lord, yes--ma, she ain't a-carin' where we kids are jest so's we ain'tunder her feet when she's a-workin'. "

"And could you find Maggie, do you think? Perhaps she would enjoy theride, too. "

Bobby lifted up his voice in a shrill yell, "Mag! Oh--oh--Mag!"

The excited cry was caught up by the watching children, and theneighborhood echoed their calls. "Mag! Oh, Mag! Somebody wants yer, Mag! Come a-runnin'. Hurry up!"

Their united efforts were not in vain. From the rear of a near-by houselittle Maggie appeared. A dirty, faded old shawl was wrapped about hertiny waist, hiding her bare feet and trailing behind. A sorry wreck ofa hat trimmed with three chicken feathers crowned her uncombed hair, and the ragged remnants of a pair of black cotton gloves completed herelegant costume. In her thin little arms she held, with tender mothercare, a doll so battered and worn by its long service that one wonderedat the imaginative power of the child who could make of it anything buta shapeless bundle of dirty rags. 

"Get a move on yer, Mag!" yelled the masterful Bobby, with franticgestures. "The princess lady is a-goin' t' take us fer a ride in herswell limerseen with her driver 'n' everything. "

For one unbelieving moment, little Maggie turned to the two miniatureladies who, in costumes that rivaled her own, had come to ask the causeof this unseemly disturbance of their social affair. Then, at anothershout from her brother, she discarded her finery and, holding fast toher doll with true mother instinct, hurried timidly to the waitingautomobile. 

On that day when Helen had sent her servant to take them for a ride, these children of the Flats had thought that no greater happiness waspossible to mere human beings. But now, as they sat with theirbeautiful princess lady between them on the deep-cushioned seat, andwatched the familiar houses glide swiftly past, even Bobby was silent. It was all so unreal--so like a dream. Their former experience was sofar surpassed that they would not have been surprised had theautomobile been suddenly transformed into a magic ship of the air, withTom a fairy pilot to carry them away up among the clouds to somewonderful sunshine castle in the sky. 

It is true that Bobby's conscience stirred uneasily when he felt an armsteal gently about him and he was drawn a little closer to the princesslady's side. A feller with a proper pride does not readily permit suchfamiliarities. It had been a long time since any one had put an armaround Bobby--he did not quite understand. 

But as for that, the princess lady herself did not quite understandeither. Perhaps the sight of little Maggie and her play lady friends soelegantly costumed for their social function had suddenly convinced herthat these children of the Flats were of her world after all. Perhapsthe shouting children had awakened memories that banished for themoment the sadness of her grown-up years. Or it may have been simplythe way that wee Maggie held her battered doll. It may have been thatthe mother instinct of this wistful mite of humanity quickened in theheart of the young woman something that was deeper, more vital, morereal to her womanhood than the things to which she had so far givenherself. As the Helen of the old house had longed to cry aloud in theMill her recognition of her man, she hungered now with a strange womanhunger for the feel of a child in her arms. 

And so, with no care for her gown, which was sure to be ruined by thiscontact with the grime of the Flats, with no question as to what peoplemight think, with no thought for class standards or industrialproblems, the daughter of Adam Ward took the children of Sam Whaley inher arms and carried them away from the shadow of that dark cloud thathung always above the Mill. From the smoke and dust and filth of theirheritage, she took them into the clean, sunny air of the hillsidefields and woods. From the hovels and shanties of their familiar hauntsshe took them where birds made their nests and the golden bees andbright-winged butterflies were busy among their flowers. From thesqualid want and cruel neglect of their poverty she took them into afairyland that was overflowing with the riches that belong tochildhood. 

And then, when the sun was red above the bluff where the curving lineof cliffs end at the river's edge, she brought them back. 

For some reason that has never been made satisfactorily clear by thewise ones who lead the world's thinking, Bobby and Maggie must alwaysbe brought back to their home in the Flats, the princess lady mustalways return to her castle on the hill. 

 * * * * *

Charlie Martin was unusually quiet when he returned home from his workthat day. The father mentioned Helen's visit to the Mill, and Mary hadmany questions to ask, but the soldier workman, usually so ready totalk and laugh with his sister, answered only in monosyllables orsilently permitted the older man to carry the burden of theconversation. 

When supper was over and it was dark, Charlie, saying that he thoughthe ought to attend Jake Vodell's street meeting that evening, left thehouse. 

But Captain Charlie did not go to hear the agitator's soap-box orationthat night. For an hour or more, under cover of the darkness, theworkman sat on the porch of the old house next door to his home. 

He had pushed aside the broken gate and made his way up theweed-tangled walk so quietly that neither his sister nor his father, who were on the porch of the cottage, heard a sound. So still was hethat two neighborhood lovers, who paused in their slow walk, as iftempted by the friendly shadow of the lonely old place, did not knowthat he was there. Then at something her father said, Mary's laugh rangout, and the lovers moved on. 

A little later Captain Charlie stole softly out of the yard and up thestreet in the direction from which Helen had come the day of her visitto the old house. When the sound of his feet on the walk could not beheard at the cottage, the workman walked briskly, taking the way thatled toward the Interpreter's hut. 

One who knew him would have thought that he was going for an eveningcall on the old basket maker. He saw the light of the little house onthe cliff presently, and for a moment walked slowly, as if debatingwhether or not he should go on as he had intended. Then he turned offfrom the way to the Interpreter's and took that seldom used road thatled up the hill toward the home of Adam Ward. With a strong, easystride he swung up the grade until he came to the corner of the ironfence. Slowly and quietly he moved on now in the deeper shadows of thetrees. When he could see the gloomy mass of the house unobstructedagainst the sky, he stopped. 

The lower floor was brightly lighted. The windows above were dark. Withhis back against the trunk of a tree Captain Charlie waited. 

An automobile came out between the stone columns of the big gate andthundered away down the street with reckless speed. Adam Ward, thoughtthe man under the tree--even John never drove like that. And hewondered where the old Mill owner could be going at such an hour of thenight. 

Still he waited. 

Suddenly a light flashed out from the windows of an upper room. Amoment, and the watcher saw the form of a woman framed in the casementagainst the bright background. For some time she stood there, her face, shaded by her hands, pressed close to the glass, as if she were tryingto see into the darkness of the night. Then she drew back. The shadewas drawn. 

Very slowly Captain Charlie went back down the hill. 

BOOK III

THE STRIKE

 "_O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar; Then let your mighty chorus witness be To them, and Caesar, that we still make war_. "

CHAPTER XVIII

THE GATHERING STORM

In the weeks immediately following her visit to the Mill, Helen Wardmet the demands of her world apparently as usual. If any one noticedthat she failed to enter into the affairs of her associates with thesame lively interest which had made her a leader among those who donothing strenuously, they attributed it to her father's ill health. Andin this they were partially right. Ever since the day when she halfrevealed her fears to the Interpreter, the young woman's feeling thather father's ill health and the unhappiness of her home were the resultof some hidden thing, had gamed in strength. Since her meeting withCaptain Charlie there had been in her heart a deepening convictionthat, but for this same hidden thing, she would have known in all itsfullness a happiness of which she could now only dream. 

More frequently than ever before, she went now to sit with theInterpreter on the balcony porch of that little hut on the cliff. ButBobby and Maggie wished in vain for their princess lady to come andtake them again into the land of trees and birds and flowers andsunshiny hills and clean blue sky. Often, now, she went to meet herbrother when his day's work was done, and, sending Tom home with herbig car, she would go with John in his roadster. And always while hetold her of the Mill and led her deeper into the meaning of theindustry and its relation to the life of the people, she listened witheager interest. But she did not go again to the Martin cottage or visitthe old house. 

Once at the foot of the Interpreter's zigzag stairway she met CaptainMartin and greeted him in passing. Two or three times she caught aglimpse of him among the men coming from the Mill as she waited forJohn in front of the office. That was all. But always she was consciousof him. When from the Interpreter's hut she watched the twistingcolumns of smoke rising from the tall stacks, her thoughts were withthe workman who somewhere under that cloud was doing his full share inthe industrial army of his people. When John talked to her of the Milland its meaning, her heart was glad for her brother's loyal comradeshipwith this man who had been his captain over there. The very sound ofthe deep-toned whistle that carried to Adam Ward the proud realizationof his material possessions carried to his daughter thoughts of what, but for those same material possessions, might have been. 

For relief she turned to McIver. There was a rocklike quality in thefactory owner that had always appealed to her. His convictions were sounwavering--his judgments so final. McIver never doubted McIver. Henever, in his own mind, questioned what he did by the standards ofright and justice. The only question he ever asked himself was, WouldMcIver win or lose? Any suggestion of a difference of opinion on thepart of another was taken as a personal insult that was not to betolerated. Therefore, because the man was what he was, his classconvictions were deeply grounded, fixed and certain. In the turmoil ofher warring thoughts and disturbed emotions Helen felt her own balanceso shaken that she instinctively reached out to steady herself by him. The man, feeling her turn to him, pressed his suit with all the ardorshe would permit, for he saw in his success not only possession of thewoman he wanted, but the overthrow of John's opposition to his businessplans and the consequent triumph of his personal material interests andthe interests of his class. But, in spite of the relief she gained fromthe strength of McIver's convictions, some strange influence withinherself prevented her from yielding. She probably would yield at last, she told herself drearily--because there seemed to be nothing else forher to do. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, from his hut on the cliff, the Interpreter watched theapproach of the industrial storm. 

The cloud that had appeared on the Millsburgh horizon with the comingof Jake Vodell had steadily assumed more threatening proportions untilnow it hung dark with gloomy menace above the work and the homes of thepeople. To the man in the wheel chair, looking out upon the scene thatlay with all its varied human interests before him, there was no bit oflife anywhere that was not in the shadow of the gathering storm. Themills and factories along the river, the stores and banks and interestsof the business section, the farms in the valley, the wretched Flats, the cottage homes of the workmen and the homes on the hillside, wereall alike in the path of the swiftly approaching danger. 

The people with anxious eyes watched for the storm to break and madesuch hurried preparations as they could. They heard the dull, mutteringsound of its heavy voice and looked at one another in silent dread ortalked, neighbor to neighbor, in low tones. A strange hush was overthis community of American citizens. In their work, in their pleasures, in their home life, in their love and happiness, in their very sorrows, they felt the deadening presence of this dread thing that was sweepingupon them from somewhere beyond the borders of their native land. Andagainst this death that filled the air they seemingly knew not how todefend themselves. 

This, to the Interpreter, was the almost unbelievable tragedy--that thepeople should not know what to do; that they should not have given morethought to making the structure of their citizenship stormproof. 

"The great trouble is that the people don't line up right, " saidCaptain Charlie to John and the Interpreter one evening as the workmanand the general manager were sitting with the old basket maker on thebalcony porch. 

"Just what do you mean by that, Charlie?" asked John. The man in thewheel chair was nodding his assent to the union man's remark. 

"I mean, " Charlie explained, "that the people consider only capital andlabor, or workmen and business men. They put loyal American workmen andimperialist workmen all together on one side and loyal Americanbusiness men and imperialist business men all together on the other. They line up _all_ employees against _all_ employers. For example, asthe people see it, you and I are enemies and the Mill is our battleground. The fact is that the imperialist manual workman is as much myenemy as he is yours. The imperialist business man is as much yourenemy as he is mine. "

"You are exactly right, Charlie, " said the Interpreter. "And that isthe first thing that the Big Idea applied to our industries will do--itwill line up the great body of loyal American workmen that yourepresent with the great body of loyal American business men that Johnrepresents against the McIvers of capital and the Jake Vodells oflabor. And that new line-up alone would practically insure victory. Nine tenths of our industrial troubles are due to the fact thatemployers and employees alike fail to recognize their real enemies andso fight their friends as often as they fight their foes. 

"The people must learn to call an industrial slacker a slacker, whetherhe loafs on a park bench or loafs on the veranda of the country clubhouse. They have to recognize that a traitor to the industries is atraitor to the nation and that he is a traitor whether he works at abench or runs a bank. They have to say to the imperialist of businessand to the imperialist of labor alike, 'The industries of this countryare not for you or your class alone, they are for all because the verylife of the nation is in them and is dependent upon them. ' When thepeople of this country learn to draw the lines of class where theyreally belong there will be an end to our industrial wars and to allthe suffering that they cause. "

"If only the people could be lined up and made to declare themselvesopenly, " said John, "Jake Vodell would have about as much chance tomake trouble among us as the German Crown Prince would have had amongthe French Blue Devils. "

Charlie laughed. 

"Which means, I suppose, " said the Interpreter, "that there would be ariot to see who could lay hands on him first. "

 * * * * *

The storm broke at McIver's factory. It was as Jake Vodell had told theInterpreter it would be--"easy to find a grievance. "

McIver declared that before he would yield to the demands of hisworkmen, his factory should stand idle until the buildings rotted tothe ground. 

The agitator answered that before his men would yield they would makeMillsburgh as a city of the dead. 

Two or three of the other smaller unions supported McIver's employeeswith sympathetic strikes. But the success or failure of Jake Vodell'scampaign quickly turned on the action of the powerful Mill workers'union. The commander-in-chief of the striking forces must win JohnWard's employees to his cause or suffer defeat. He bent every effort tothat end. 

Sam Whaley and a few like him walked out. But that was expected byeverybody, for Sam Whaley had identified himself from the day ofVodell's arrival in Millsburgh as the agitator's devoted follower andright-hand man. But this unstable, whining weakling and his fellowsfrom the Flats carried little influence with the majority of thesturdy, clearer-visioned workmen. 

At a meeting of the Millsburgh Manufacturing Association, McIverendeavored to pledge the organization to a concerted effort against thevarious unions of their workmen. 

John Ward refused to enter into any such alliance against the workmen, and branded McIver's plan as being in spirit and purpose identical withthe schemes of Jake Vodell. John argued that while the heads of thevarious related mills and factories possessed the legal right tomaintain their organization for the purpose of furthering such businessinterests as were common to them all, they could not, as loyalcitizens, attempt to deprive their fellow workmen citizens of that sameright. Any such effort to array class against class, he declared, wasnothing less than sheer imperialism, and antagonistic to everyprinciple of American citizenship. 

When McIver characterized Vodell as an anarchist and stated that theunions were back of him and his schemes against the government, Johnretorted warmly that the statement was false and an insult to many ofthe most loyal citizens in Millsburgh. There were individual members ofthe unions who were followers of Jake Vodell, certainly. Butcomparatively few of the union men who were led by the agitator tostrike realized the larger plans of their leader, while the unions as awhole no more endorsed anarchy than did the Manufacturing Association. 

McIver then drew for his fellow manufacturers a very true picture ofthe industrial troubles throughout the country, and pointed out clearlyand convincingly the national dangers that lay in the threateningconditions. Millsburgh was in no way different from thousands of othercommunities. If the employers could not defend themselves by anorganized effort against their employees, he would like Mr. Ward toexplain who would defend them. 

To all of which John answered that it was not a question of employersdefending themselves against their employees. The owners had no more atstake in the situation than did their workmen, for the lives of allwere equally dependent upon the industries that were threatened withdestruction. In the revolution that Jake Vodell's brotherhood wasfomenting the American employers could lose no more than would theAmerican employees. The question was, How could American industries beprotected against both the imperialistic employer and the imperialisticemployee? The answer was, By the united strength of the loyal Americanemployers and employees, openly arrayed against the teachings andleadership of Jake Vodell, on the one hand, and equally against allsuch principles and actions as had been proposed by Mr. McIver, on theother. 

When the meeting closed, McIver had failed to gain the support of theassociation. 

Realizing that without the Mill he could never succeed in his plans, the factory owner appealed to Adam Ward himself. 

The old Mill owner, in full accord with McIver, attempted to force Johninto line. But the younger man refused to enlist in any class waragainst his loyal fellow workmen. 

Adam stormed and threatened and predicted utter ruin. John calmlyoffered to resign. The father refused to listen to this, on the groundthat his ill health did not permit him to assume again the managementof the business, and that he would never consent to the Mill's beingoperated by any one outside the family. 

When Helen returned to her home in the early evening, she found herfather in a state of mind bordering on insanity. 

Striding here and there about the rooms with uncontrollable nervousenergy, he roared, as he always did on such occasions, about his soleownership of the Mill--the legality of the patents that gave himpossession of the new process--how it was his genius and hard workalone that had built up the Mill--that no one should take hispossessions from him--waving his arms and shaking his fists in violent, meaningless gestures. With his face twitching and working and his eyesblazing with excitement and rage, his voice rose almost to a scream:"Let them try to take anything away from me! I know what they are goingto do, but they can't do it. I've had the best lawyers that I couldhire and I've got it all tied up so tight that no one can touch it. 

"I could have thrown Pete Martin out of the Mill any time I wanted. Hehas no claim on me that any court in the world would recognize. Let himtry anything he dares. I'll starve him to death--I'll turn him into thestreets--he hasn't a thing in the world that he didn't get by workingfor me. I made him--I will ruin him. You all think that I am sick--youthink that I am crazy--that I don't know what I am talking about. I'llshow you--you'll see what will happen if they start any thing--"

The piteous exhibition ended as usual. As if driven by some invisiblefiend, the man rushed from the presence of those whom he most loved tothe dreadful company of his own fearful and monstrous thoughts. 

And the room where the wife and children of Adam Ward sat was filledwith the presence of that hidden thing of which they dared not speak. 

 * * * * *

Everywhere throughout the city the people were discussing John Ward'sopposition to McIver. 

The community, tense with feeling, waited for an answer to the vitalquestion, What would the Mill workers' union do? Upon the answer ofJohn Ward's employees to the demands of the agitator for a sympatheticstrike depended the success or failure of Jake Vodell's Millsburghcampaign. 

CHAPTER XIX

ADAM WARD'S WORK

It was evening. The Interpreter was sitting in his wheel chair on thebalcony porch with silent Billy not far away. Beyond the hills on thewest the sky was faintly glowing in the last of the sun's light. TheFlats were deep in gloomy shadows out of which the grim stacks of theMill rose toward the smoky darkness of their overhanging cloud. Hereand there among the poor homes of the workers a lighted window or alonely street lamp shone in the murky dusk. But the lights of thebusiness section of the city gleamed and sparkled like clusters andstrings of jewels, while the residence districts on the hillside weremarked by hundreds of twinkling, starlike points. 

The quiet was rudely broken by a voice at the outer doorway of the hut. The tone was that of boisterous familiarity. "Hello! hello there!Anybody home?"

"Here, " answered the Interpreter. "Come in. Or, I should say, comeout, " he added, as his visitor found his way through the darkness ofthe living room. "A night like this is altogether too fine to spendunder a roof. "

"Why in thunder don't you have a light?" said the visitor, with a loudfreedom carefully calculated to give the effect of old and privilegedcomradeship. But the laugh of hearty good fellowship which followed hisnext remark was a trifle overdone "Ain't afraid of bombs, are you?Don't you know that the war is over yet?"

The Interpreter obligingly laughed at the merry witticism, as heanswered, "There is light enough out here under the stars to think by. How are you, Adam Ward?"

From where he stood in the doorway, Adam could see the dim figure ofthe Interpreter's companion at the farther end of the porch. "Who isthat with you?" demanded the Mill owner suspiciously. 

"Only Billy Rand, " replied the man in the wheel chair reassuringly. "Won't you sit down?"

Before accepting the invitation to be seated, Adam advanced upon theman in the wheel chair with outstretched hands, as if eagerly meeting amost intimate friend whose regard he prized above all otherrelationships of life. Seizing the Interpreter's hand, he clung to itin an excess of cordiality, all the while pouring out between shortlaughs of pretended gladness, a hurried volume of excuses for having solong delayed calling upon his dear old friend. To any one at allacquainted with the man, it would have been very clear that he wantedsomething. 

"It seems ages since I saw you, " he declared, as he seated himself atlast. "It's a shame for a man to neglect an old friend as I haveneglected you. "

The Interpreter returned, calmly, "The last time you called was justbefore your son enlisted. You wanted me to help you keep him at home. "

It was too dark to see Adam's face. "So it was, I remember now. " Therewas a suggestion of nervousness in the laugh which followed his words. 

"The time before that, " said the Interpreter evenly, "was when TomBlair was killed in the Mill. You wanted me to persuade Tom's widowthat you were in no way liable for the accident. "

The barometer of Adam's friendliness dropped another degree. "Thataffair was finally settled at five thousand, " he said, and this time hedid not laugh. 

"The time before that, " said the Interpreter, "was when your old friendPeter Martin's wife died. You wanted me to explain to the workmen whoattended the funeral how necessary it was for you to take that hour outof their pay checks. "

"You have a good memory, " said the visitor, coldly, as he stirreduneasily in the dusk. 

"I have, " agreed the man in the wheel chair; "I find it a greatblessing at times. It is the only thing that preserves my sense ofhumor. It is not always easy to preserve one's sense of humor, is it, Adam Ward?"

When the Mill owner answered, his voice, more than his words, told howdetermined he was to hold his ground of pleasant, friendly comradeship, at least until he had gained the object of his visit. 

"Don't you ever get lonesome up here? Sort of gloomy, ain'tit--especially at nights?"

"Oh, no, " returned the Interpreter; "I have many interesting callers;there are always my work and my books and always, night and day, I haveour Mill over there. "

"Heh! What! _Our_ Mill! Where? Oh, I see--yes--_our_ Mill--that's good!_Our_ Mill!"

"Surely you will admit that I have some small interest in the Millwhere we once worked side by side, will you not, Adam?"

"Oh, yes, " laughed Adam, helping on the jest. "But let me see--I don'texactly recall the amount of your investment--what was it you put in?"

"Two good legs, Adam Ward, two good legs, " returned the old basketmaker. 

Again Adam Ward was at a loss for an answer. In the shadowy presence ofthat old man in the wheel chair the Mill owner was as a wayward childembarrassed before a kindly master. 

When the Interpreter spoke again his deep voice was colored with gentlepatience. 

"Why have you come to me like this, Adam Ward? What is it that youwant?"

Adam moved uneasily. "Why--nothing particular--I just thought I wouldcall--happened to be going by and saw your light. "

There had been no light in the hut that evening. The Interpreterwaited. The surrounding darkness of the night seemed filled withwarring spirits from the gloomy Flats, the mighty Mill, the glitteringstreets and stores and the cheerfully lighted homes. 

Adam tried to make his voice sound casual, but he could not altogethercover the nervous intensity of his interest, as he asked the questionthat was so vital to the entire community. "Will the Mill workers'union go out on a sympathetic strike?"

"No. "

The Mill owner drew a long breath of relief. "I judged you would know. "

The Interpreter did not answer. 

Adam spoke with more confidence. "I suppose you know this agitator JakeVodell?"

"I know who he is, " replied the Interpreter. "He is a well-knownrepresentative of a foreign society that is seeking, through theworking people of this country, to extend its influence and strengthenits power. "

"The unions are going too far, " said Adam. "The people won't stand fortheir bringing in a man like Vodell to preach anarchy and stir up allkinds of trouble. "

The Interpreter spoke strongly. "Jake Vodell no more represents thegreat body of American union men than you, Adam Ward, represent thegreat body of American employers. "

"He works with the unions, doesn't he?"

"Yes, but that does not make him a representative of the union men as awhole, any more than the fact that your work with the great body ofAmerican business men makes you their representative. "

"I should like to know why I am not a representative American businessman. " It was evident from the tone of his voice that the Mill ownercontrolled himself with an effort. 

The Interpreter answered, without a trace of personal feeling, "You donot represent them, Adam Ward, because the spirit and purpose of yourpersonal business career is not the spirit and purpose of our businessmen as a whole--just as the spirit and purpose of such men as JakeVodell is not the spirit and purpose of our union men as a whole. "

"But, " asserted the Mill owner, "it is men like me who have built upthis country. Look at our railroads, our great manufacturing plants, our industries of all kinds! Look what I have done for Millsburgh! Youknow what the town was when you first came here. Look at it now!"

"The new process has indeed wrought great changes in Millsburgh, "suggested the Interpreter. 

"The new process! You mean that _I_ have wrought great changes inMillsburgh. What would the new process have amounted to if it had notbeen for me? Why, even the poor old fools who owned the Mill at thattime couldn't have done anything with it. I had to force it on them. And then when I had managed to get it installed and had proved what itwould do, I made them increase their capitalization and give me a halfinterest--told them if they didn't I would take my process to theircompetitors and put them out of business. Later I managed to gain thecontrol and after that it was easy. " His voice changed to a tone ofarrogant, triumphant boasting. "I may not be a representative businessman in _your_ estimation, but my work stands just the same. No man whoknows anything about business will deny that I built up the Mill towhat it is to-day. "

"And that, " returned the Interpreter, "is exactly what Vodell says forthe men who work with their hands in coöperation with men like you whowork with their brains. You say that you built the Mill because youthought and planned and directed its building. Jake Vodell says the menwhose physical strength materialized your thoughts, the men who carriedout your plans and toiled under your direction built the Mill. And youand Jake are both right to exactly the same degree. The truth is thatyou have _all together_ built the Mill. You have no more right to thinkor to say that you did it than Pete Martin has to think or to say thathe did it. "

When Adam Ward found no answer to this the Interpreter continued. "Consider a great building: The idea of the structure has come downthrough the ages from the first habitation of primitive man. The mentalstrength represented in the structure in its every detail is thecomposite thought of every generation of man since the days when humanbeings dwelt in rocky caves and in huts of mud. But listen: Thecapitalist who furnished the money says he did it; the architect sayshe did it; the stone mason says he did it; the carpenter says he didit; the mountains that gave the stone say they did it; the forests thatgrew the timber say they did it; the hills that gave the metal say theydid it. 

"The truth is that all did it--that each individual worker, whether hetoiled with his hands or with his brain, was dependent upon all theothers as all were dependent upon those who lived and labored in theages that have gone before, as all are dependent at the last upon theforces of nature that through the ages have labored for all. And thisalso is true, sir, whether you like to admit it or not; just as we--youand I and Pete Martin and the others--all together built the Mill, sowe all together built it for all. You, Adam Ward, can no more keep foryourself alone the fruits of your labor than you alone andsingle-handed could have built the Mill. "

The Interpreter paused as if for an answer. 

Adam Ward did not speak. 

A flare of light from, the stacks of the Mill, where the night shiftwas sweating at its work, drew their eyes. Through the darkness camethe steady song of industry--a song that was charged with the life ofmillions. And they saw the lights of the business district, where JakeVodell was preaching to a throng of idle workmen his doctrine of classhatred and destruction. 

The Interpreter's manner was in no way aggressive when he broke thesilence. There was, indeed, in his deep voice an undertone of sorrow, and yet he spoke as with authority. "You were driven here to-night byyour fear, Adam Ward. You recognize the menace to this community and toour nation in the influence and teaching of men like Jake Vodell. Mostof all, you fear for yourself and your material possessions. And youhave reason to be afraid of this danger that you yourself have broughtupon Millsburgh. "

"What!" cried the Mill owner. "You say that I am responsible?--that Ibrought this anarchist agitator here?"

The Interpreter answered, solemnly, "I say that but for you and suchmen as you, Adam Ward, Jake Vodell could never gain a hearing in anyAmerican city. "

Adam Ward laughed harshly. 

But the old basket maker continued as if he had not heard. "Every actof your business career, sir, has been a refusal to recognize those whohave worked with you. Your whole life has been an over assertion ofyour personal independence and a denial of the greatest of alllaws--the law of _dependence_, which is the vital principle of lifeitself. And so you have, through these years, upheld and exemplified tothe working people the very selfishness to which Jake Vodell appealsnow with such sad effectiveness. It is the class pride and intolerancewhich you have fostered in yourself and family that have begotten theclass hatred which makes Vodell's plans against our government adangerous possibility. Your fathers fought in a great war forindependence, Adam Ward. Your son must now fight for a recognition ofthat _dependence_ without which the _independence_ won by your fatherwill surely perish from the earth. "

At the mention of his son, the Mill owner moved impatiently and spokewith bitter resentment. "A fine mess you are making of things with your'dependence. '"

"It is a fine mess that you have made of things, Adam Ward, with your'_in_dependence, '" returned the Interpreter, sternly. 

"I can tell you one thing, " said Adam. "Your unions will neverstraighten anything out with the help of Jake Vodell and his gang ofmurdering anarchists. "

"You are exactly right, " agreed the Interpreter. "And I can tell you athing to match the truth of your statement. Your combinations ofemployers will never straighten anything out with the help of such menas McIver and his hired gunmen and his talk about driving men to workat the point of the bayonet. But McIver and his principles are notendorsed by our American employers, " continued the Interpreter, "anymore than Jake Vodell and his methods are endorsed by our Americanunion employees. The fact is that the great body of loyal Americanemployers and employees, which is, indeed, the body of our nationitself, is fast coming to recognize the truth that our industries mustsomehow be saved from the destruction that is threatened by both theMcIvers of capital and the Vodells of labor. Our Mill, Adam Ward, thatyou and Pete Martin and I built together and that, whether you admit itor not, we built for all mankind, our Mill must be protected againstboth employers and employees. It must be protected, not because theownership, under our laws, happens to be vested in you as an individualcitizen, but because of that larger ownership which, under theuniversal laws of humanity, is vested in the people whose lives aredependent upon that Mill as an essential industry. The Mill must besaved, indeed, for the very people who would destroy it. "

"Very fine!" sneered Adam; "and perhaps you will tell me who is to savemy Mill that is not my Mill for the very people who own it and whowould destroy it?"

The voice of the Interpreter was colored with the fire of prophecy ashe answered, "In the name of humanity, the sons of the men who builtthe Mill will save it for humanity. Your boy John, Adam Ward, and PeteMartin's boy Charlie represent the united armies of American employersand employees that stand in common loyalty against the forces that are, through the destruction of our industries, seeking to bring about thedownfall of our nation. "

Adam Ward laughed. "Tell that to your partner Billy Rand over there; hewill hear it as quick as the American people will. "

But the man in the wheel chair was not disturbed by Adam Ward'slaughing. 

"The great war taught the American people some mighty lessons, AdamWard, " he said. "It taught us that patriotism is not of one class orrank, but is common to every level of our national social life. Ittaught us that heroism is the birthright of both office and shop. Mostof all did the war teach us the lesson of comradeship--that men ofevery rank and class and occupation could stand together, live togetherand die together, united in the bonds of a common, loyal citizenshipfor a common, human cause. And out of that war and its lessons our ownnational saviors are come. The loyal patriot employers and the loyalpatriot employees, who on the fields of war were brother members ofthat great union of sacrifice and death, will together free theindustries of their own country from the two equally menacingterrors--imperialistic capital and imperialistic labor. 

"The comradeship of your son with the workman Charlie Martin, the standthat John has taken against McIver, and the refusal of the Millworkers' union to accept Vodell's leadership--is the answer to yourquestion, 'Who is to save the Mill?'"

"Rot!" exclaimed Adam Ward. "You talk as though every man who went tothat war was inspired by the highest motives. They were not all heroesby a good deal. "

"True, " returned the Interpreter, "they were not all heroes. But therewas the leaven that leavened the lump, and so the army itself washeroic. "

"What about the moral degeneracy and the crime wave that have followedthe return of your heroic army?" demanded Adam. 

"True, again, " returned the Interpreter; "it is inevitable that menwhose inherited instincts and tendencies are toward crime shouldacquire in the school of war a bolder spirit--a more reckless daring intheir criminal living. But again there is the saving leaven thatleavens the lump. If the war training makes criminals more bold, it assurely makes the leaven of nobility more powerful. One splendid exampleof noble heroism is ten thousand times more potent in the world than athousand revolting deeds of crime. No--no, Adam Ward, the world willnot forget the lessons it learned over there. The torch of Flandersfields has not fallen. The world will carry on. "

There was such a quality of reverent conviction in the concluding wordsof the man in the wheel chair that Adam Ward was silenced. 

For some time they sat, looking into the night where the huge bulk ofthe Mill with its towering stacks and overhanging clouds seemed todominate not only the neighboring shops and factories and the immediateFlats, but in some mysterious way to extend itself over the businessdistrict and the homes of the city, and, like a ruling spirit, topervade the entire valley, even unto the distant line of hills. 

When the old basket maker spoke again, that note of strange and solemnauthority was in his voice. "Listen, Adam Ward! In the ideals, theheroism, the suffering, the sacrifice of the war--in shell hole andtrench and bloody No Man's Land, the sons of men have found again theGod that you and men like you had banished from the Mill. Your boy andPete Martin's boy, with more thousands of their comrades than men ofyour mind realize, have come back from the war fields of France toenthrone God once more in the industrial world. And it shall come thatevery forge and furnace and anvil and machine shall be an organ to Hispraise--that every suit of overalls shall be a priestly robe ofministering service. And this God that you banished from the Mill andthat is to be by your son restored to His throne and served by apriesthood of united employers and employees, shall bear a new name, Adam Ward, and that name shall be WORK. "

Awed by the strange majesty of the Interpreter's voice, Adam Ward couldonly whisper fearfully, "Work--the name of God shall be Work!" "Ay, Adam Ward, WORK--and why not? Does not the work of the world expressthe ideals, the purpose, the needs, the life, the _oneness_ of theworld's humanity, even as a flower expresses the plant that puts itforth? And is not God the ultimate flowering of the human plant?"

The Mill owner spoke with timid hesitation, "Could I--do youthink--could I, perhaps, help to, as you say, put God back into theMill?"

"Your part in the building of the Mill is finished, Adam Ward, " camethe solemn answer. "You have made many contracts with men, sir; youshould now make a contract with your God. "

The owner of the new process sprang to his feet with an exclamation offear. As one who sees a thing of horror in the dark, he drew back, trembling. 

That deep, inexorable voice of sorrowful authority went on, "Make acontract with your God, Adam Ward; make a contract with your God. "

With a wild cry of terror Adam Ward fled into the night. 

The Interpreter in his wheel chair looked up at the stars. 

 * * * * *

It seems scarcely possible that the old basket maker could haveforeseen the tragic effect of his words--and yet--

CHAPTER XX

THE PEOPLE'S AMERICA

At his evening meetings on the street, Jake Vodell with stirringoratory kindled the fire of his cause. In the councils of the unions, through individuals and groups, with clever arguments and inflamingliterature, he sought recruits. With stinging sarcasm and witheringscorn he taunted the laboring people--told them they were fools andcowards to submit to the degrading slavery of their capitalist owners. With biting invective and blistering epithet he pictured their employerenemies as the brutal and ruthless destroyers of their homes. Withthrilling eloquence he fanned the flames of class hatred, inspired theloyalty of his followers to himself and held out to them goldenpromises of reward if they would prove themselves men and take thatwhich belonged to them. 

But the Mill workers' union, as an organization, was steadfast in itsrefusal to be dominated by this agitator who was so clearlyantagonistic to every principle of American citizenship. Jake Vodellcould neither lead nor drive them into a strike that was so evidentlycalled in the interests of his cause. And more and more the agitatorwas compelled to recognize the powerful influence of the Interpreter. It was not long before he went to the hut on the cliff with a positivedemand for the old basket maker's open support. 

"I do not know why it is, " he said, "that a poor old cripple like youshould have such power among men, but I know it is so. You shall tellthis Captain Charlie and his crowd of fools that they must help me towin for the laboring people their freedom. You shall, for me, enlistthese Mill men in the cause. "

The Interpreter asked, gravely, "And when you have accomplished thisthat you call freedom--when you have gained this equality that you talkabout--how will your brotherhood be governed?"

Jake Vodell scowled as he gazed at the man in the wheel chair withquick suspicion. "Governed?"

"Yes, " returned the Interpreter. "Without organization of some sortnothing can be done. No industries can be carried on without theconcerted effort which is organization. Without the industry that isnecessary to human life the free people you picture cannot exist. Without government--which means law and the enforcement oflaw--organization of any kind is impossible. "

"There will have to be organization, certainly, " answered Vodell. 

"Then, there will be leaders, directors, managers with authority towhom the people must surrender themselves as individuals, " said theInterpreter, quietly. "An organization without leadership isimpossible. "

The agitator's voice was triumphant, as he said, "Certainly there willbe leaders. And their authority will be unquestioned. And these leaderswill be those who have led the people out of the miserable bondage oftheir present condition. "

The Interpreter's voice had a new note in it now, as he said, "In otherwords, sir, what you propose is simply to substitute _yourself_ forMcIver. You propose to the people that they overthrow their presentleaders in the industries of their nation in order that you and yourfellow agitators may become their masters. You demand that the citizensof America abolish their national government and in its place acceptyou and your fellows as their rulers? What assurance can you give thepeople, sir, that under your rule they will have more freedom forself-government, more opportunities for self-advancement and prosperityand happiness than they have at present?"

"Assurance?" muttered the other, startled by the Interpreter's manner. 

The old basket maker continued, "Are you and your self-constitutedleaders of the American working people, gods? Are you not as human asany McIver or Adam Ward of the very class you condemn? Would you not besubject to the same temptations of power--the same human passions?Would you not, given the same opportunity, be all that you say theyare--or worse?"

Jake Vodell's countenance was black with rage. He started to rise, buta movement of Billy Rand made him hesitate. His voice was harsh withmenacing passion. "And you call yourself a friend of the laboringclass?"

"It is because I am a friend of my fellow American citizens that I askyou what freedom your brotherhood can insure to us that we have notnow, " the Interpreter answered, solemnly. "Look there, sir. " He swept, in a gesture, the scene that lay within view of his balcony porch. "_That_ is America--_my_ America--the America of the _people_. From thewretched hovels of the incompetent and unfortunate Sam Whaleys in theFlats down there to Adam Ward's castle on the hill yonder, it is _our_America. From the happy little home of that sterling workman, PeterMartin, to the homes of the business workers on the hillside overthere, it is _ours_. From the business district to the beautiful farmsacross the river, it belongs to _us all_. And the Mill there--representing as it does the industries of our nation andstanding for the very life of our people--is _our_ Mill. The troublesthat disturb us--the problems of injustice--the wrongs of selfishnessthat arise through such employers as McIver and such employees as SamWhaley, are _our_ troubles, and we will settle our own difficulties inour own way as loyal American citizens. "

The self-appointed apostle of the new freedom had by this time regainedhis self-control. His only answer to the Interpreter was a shrug of histhick shoulders and a flash of white teeth in his black beard. 

The old basket maker with his eyes still on the scene that lay beforethem continued. "Because I love my countrymen, sir, I protest thedestructive teachings of your brotherhood. Your ambitious schemes wouldplunge my country into a bloody revolution the horrors of which defythe imagination. America will find a better way. The loyal Americancitizens who labor in our industries and the equally loyal Americanoperators of these industries will never consent to the ruthless murderby hundreds and thousands of our best brains and our best manhood insupport of your visionary theories. My countrymen will never permit theunholy slaughter of innocent women and children, that would result fromyour efforts to overthrow our government and establish a whollyimpossible Utopia upon the basis of an equality that is contrary toevery law of life. You preach freedom to the working people in order torob them of the freedom they already have. With visions of impossiblewealth and luxurious idleness you blind them to the greater happinessthat is within reach of their industry. In the name of an equality, thepossibility of which your own assumed leadership denies, you incite aclass hatred and breed an intolerance and envy that destroy the goodfeeling of comradeship and break down the noble spirit of that actualequality which we already have and which is our only salvation. "

"Equality!" sneered Jake Vodell. "You have a fine equality in thisAmerica of capitalist-ridden fools who are too cowardly to say thattheir souls are their own. It is the equality of Adam Ward and SamWhaley, I suppose. "

"Sam Whaley is a product of your teaching, sir, " the Interpreteranswered. "The equality of which I speak is that of Adam Ward and PeterMartin as it is evidenced in the building up of the Mill. It is theequality that is in the comradeship of their sons, John and Charlie, who will protect and carry on the work of their fathers. It is theequality of a common citizenship--of mutual dependence of employer andemployee upon the industries, that alone can save our people from wantand starvation and guard our nation from the horrors you would bringupon it. "

The man laughed. "Suppose you sing that pretty song to McIver, heh?What do you think he would say?"

"He would laugh, as you are laughing, " returned the Interpreter, sadly. 

"Tell it to Adam Ward then, " jeered the other. "He will recognize hisequality with Peter Martin when you explain it, heh?"

"Adam Ward is already paying a terrible price for denying it, " theInterpreter answered. 

Again Jake Vodell laughed with sneering triumph. "Well, then I guessyou will have to preach your equality to the deaf and dumb man there. Maybe you can make him understand it. The old basket maker without anylegs and the big husky who can neither hear nor talk--they are equals, I suppose, heh?"

"Billy Rand and I perfectly illustrate the equality of dependence, sir, " returned the Interpreter. "Billy is as much my superiorphysically as I am his superior mentally. Without my thinking andplanning he would be as helpless as I would be without his good bodilystrength. We are each equally dependent upon the other, and from thatmutual dependence comes our comradeship in the industry which alonesecures for us the necessities of life. I could not make basketswithout Billy's labor--Billy could not make baskets without my planningand directing. And yet, sir, you and McIver would set us to fightingeach other. You would have Billy deny his dependence upon me and usehis strength to destroy me, thus depriving himself of the help he musthave if he would live. McIver would have me deny my dependence uponBilly and by antagonizing him with my assumed superiority turn hisstrength to the destruction of our comradeship by which I also live. Your teaching of class loyalty and class hatred applied to Billy and mewould result in the ruin of our basket making and in our consequentstarvation. "

Again the Interpreter, from his wheel chair, pointed with outstretchedarm to the scene that lay with all its varied grades of life--sociallevels and individual interests--before them. "Look, " he said, "to theinequality that is there--inequalities that are as great as thedifference between Billy Rand and myself. And yet, every individuallife is dependent upon all the other individual lives. The Mill yonderis the basket making of the people. All alike must look to it for lifeitself. The industries, without which the people cannot exist, can becarried on only by the comradeship of those who labor with their handsand those who work with their brains. In the common dependence all areequal. 

"The only equality that your leadership, with its progress ofdestruction, can insure to American employers and employees is anequality of indescribable suffering and death. "

The old basket maker paused a moment before he added, solemnly, "Iwonder that you dare assume the responsibility for such a catastrophe. Have you no God, sir, to whom you must eventually account?"

The man's teeth gleamed in a grin of malicious sarcasm. "I should knowthat you believed in God. Bah! An old woman myth to scare fools andchildren. I suppose you believe in miracles also?"

"I believe in the miracle of life, " the Interpreter answered; "and inthe great laws of life--the law of inequality and dependence, that inits operation insures the oneness of all things. "

The agitator rose to his feet, and with a shrug of contempt, said, "Very pretty, Mr. Interpreter, very pretty. You watch now from your huthere and you shall see what men who are not crippled old basket makerswill do with that little bit of your America out there. It is I whowill teach Peter Martin and his comrades in the Mill how to deal withyour friend Adam Ward and his class. "

"You are too late, sir, " said the Interpreter, as the man moved towardthe door. 

Jake Vodell turned. "How, too late?" Then as he saw Billy Rand risingto his feet, his hand went quickly inside his vest. 

The old basket maker smiled as he once more held out a restraining handtoward his companion. "I do not mean anything like that, sir. I toldyou some time ago that you were defeated in your Millsburgh campaign byAdam Ward's retirement from the Mill. You are too late because you areforced now to deal, not with Adam Ward and Peter Martin, but with theirsons. "

"Oh, ho! and what you should say also, is that I am really forced todeal with an old basket maker who has no legs, heh? Well, we shall seeabout that, too, Mr. Interpreter, when the time comes--we shall see. "

CHAPTER XXI

PETER MARTIN'S PROBLEM

It was not long until the idle workmen began to feel the want of theirpay envelopes. The grocers and butchers were as dependent upon thosepay envelopes as were the workmen themselves. 

The winter was coming on. There was a chill in the air. In the homes ofthe strikers the mothers and their little ones needed not only food butfuel and clothing as well. The crowds at the evening street meetingsbecame more ominous. Through the long, idle days grim, sullen-faced menwalked the streets or stood in groups on the corners watching theirfellow citizens and muttering in low, guarded tones. Members of theMill workers' union were openly branded as cowards and traitors totheir class. The suffering among the women and children became acute. 

But Jake Vodell was a master who demanded of his disciples most heroicloyalty, without a thought of the cost--to them. 

McIver put an armed guard about his factory and boasted that he couldlive without work. The strikers, he declared, could either starvethemselves and their families or accept his terms. 

The agitator was not slow in making capital of McIver's statements. 

The factory owner depended upon the suffering of the women and childrento force the workmen to yield to him. Jake Vodell, the self-appointedsavior of the laboring people, depended upon the suffering of women andchildren to drive his followers to the desperate measures that wouldfurther his peculiar and personal interests. 

Through all this, the Mill workers' union still refused to accept theleadership of this man whose every interest was anti-American andforeign to the principles of the loyal citizen workman. But the fire ofJake Vodell's oratory and argument was not without kindling power, evenamong John Ward's employees. As the feeling on both sides of thecontroversy grew more bitter and intolerant, the Mill men felt withincreasing force the pull of their class. The taunts and jeers of thestriking workers were felt. The cries of "traitor" hurt. The sufferingof the innocent members of the strikers' families appealed strongly totheir sympathies. 

When McIver's imperialistic declaration was known, the number who werein favor of supporting Jake Vodell's campaign increased measurably. 

Nearly every day now at some hour of the evening or night, Pete andCaptain Charlie, with others from among their union comrades, mighthave been found in the hut on the cliff in earnest talk with the man inthe wheel chair. The active head of the union was Captain Charlie, ashis father had been before him, but it was no secret that the guidingcounsel that held the men of the Mill steady cane from the old basketmaker. 

For John Ward the days were increasingly hard. He could not but sensethe feeling of the men. He knew that if Jake Vodell could win them, such disaster as the people of Millsburgh had never seen would result. The interest and sympathy of Helen, the comradeship of Captain Charlie, and the strength of the Interpreter gave him courage and hope. Butthere was nothing that he could do. He felt as he had felt sometimes inFrance when he was called upon to stand and wait. It was a relief tohelp Mary as he could in her work among the sufferers. But even thisactivity of mercy was turned against him by both McIver and Vodell. Thefactory man blamed him for prolonging the strike and thus workinginjury to the general business interests of Millsburgh. The strikeleader charged him with seeking to win the favor of the working classin order to influence his own employees against, what he called thefight for their industrial freedom. 

The situation was rapidly approaching a crisis when Peter Martin andCaptain Charlie, returning home from a meeting of their union laid oneevening, found the door of the house locked. 

The way the two men stood facing each other without a word revealed thetension of their nerves. Captain Charlie's hand shook so that his keyrattled against the lock. But when they were inside and had switched onthe light, a note which Mary had left on the table for them explained. 

The young woman had gone to the Flats in answer to a call for help. John was with her. She had left the note so that her father and brotherwould not be alarmed at her absence in case they returned home beforeher. 

In their relief, the two men laughed. They were a little ashamed oftheir unspoken fears. 

"We might have known, " said Pete, and with the words seemed to dismissthe incident from his mind. 

But Captain Charlie did not recover so easily. While his father foundthe evening paper and, settling himself in an easy-chair by the table, cleaned his glasses and filled and lighted his pipe, the younger manwent restlessly from room to room, turning on the lights, turning themoff again--all apparently for no reason whatever. He finished hisinspection by returning to the table and again picking up Mary's note. 

When he had reread the message he said, slowly, "I thought Johnexpected to be at the office to-night. "

Something in his son's voice caused the old workman to look at himsteadily, as he answered, "John probably came by on his way to the Milland dropped in for a few minutes. "

"I suppose so, " returned Charlie. Then, "Father, do you think it wisefor sister to be so much with John?"

The old workman laid aside his paper. "Why, I don't know--I hadn'tthought much about it, son. It seems natural enough, considering theway you children was all raised together when you was youngsters. "

"It's natural enough all right, " returned Captain Charlie, and, with abitterness that was very unlike his usual self, he added, "That's, thehell of it--it's too natural--too human--too right for this day andage. "

Pete Martin's mind worked rather slowly but he was fully arousednow--Charlie's meaning was clear. "What makes you think that Mary andJohn are thinking of each other in that way, son?"

"How could they help it?" returned Captain Charlie. "Sister is exactlythe kind of woman that John would choose for a wife. Don't I know whathe thinks of the light-headed nonentities in the set that he issupposed to belong to? Hasn't he demonstrated his ideas of classdistinctions? It would never occur to him that there was any reason whyJohn Ward should not love Mary Martin. As for sister--when you think ofthe whole story of their childhood together, of how John and I were allthrough the war, of how he has been in the Mill since we came home, oftheir seeing each other here at the house so much, of the way he hasbeen helping her with her work among the poor in the Flats--well, howcould any woman like sister help loving him?"

While the older man was considering his son's presentation of the case, Captain Charlie added, with characteristic loyalty, "God may have madefiner men than John Ward, but if He did they don't live aroundMillsburgh. "

"Well, then, son, " said Peter Martin, with his slow smile, "what aboutit? Suppose they are thinking of each other as you say?"

Captain Charlie did not answer for a long minute. And the father, watching, saw in that strong young face the shadow of a hurt which thesoldier workman could not hide. 

"It is all so hopeless, " said Charlie, at last, in a tone that toldmore clearly than words could have done his own hopelessness. "I--itdon't seem right for Mary to have to bear it, too. "

"I'm sorry, son, " was all that the old workman said, but CaptainCharlie knew that his father understood. 

After that they did not speak until they heard an automobile stop infront of the house. 

"That must be Mary now, " said Pete, looking at his watch. "They havenever been so late before. "

They heard her step on the porch. The sound of the automobile died awayin the distance. 

When Mary came in and they saw her face, they knew that Charlie wasright. She tried to return their greetings in her usual manner butfailed pitifully and hurried on to her room. 

The two men looked at each other without a word. 

Presently Mary returned and told them a part of her evening'sexperience. Soon after her father and brother had left the house forthe meeting of their union, a boy from the Flats came with the wordthat the wife of one of Jake Vodell's followers was very ill. Mary, knowing the desperate need of the case but fearing to be alone in thatneighborhood at night, had telephoned John at the Mill and he had takenher in his car to the place. The woman, in the agonies of childbirth, was alone with her three little girls. The husband and father wassomewhere helping Jake Vodell in the agitator's noble effort to bringhappiness to the laboring class. While Mary was doing what she could inthe wretched home, John went for a doctor, and to bring fuel andblankets and food and other things that were needed. But, in spite oftheir efforts, the fighting methods of McIver and Vodell scored anotherpoint, that they each might claim with equal reason as in his favor--toGod knows what end. 

"I can't understand why you Mill men let them go on, " Mary cried, witha sudden outburst of feeling, as she finished her story. "You couldfight for the women and children during the war. Whenever there is ashipwreck the papers are always full of the heroism of the men who cry'women and children first!' Why can't some one think of the women andchildren in these strikes? They are just as innocent as the women andchildren of Belgium. Why don't you talk on the streets and hold massmeetings and drive Jake Vodell and that beast McIver out of thecountry?"

"Jake Vodell and McIver are both hoping that some one will do justthat, Mary, " returned Captain Charlie. "They would like nothing betterthan for some one to start a riot. You see, dear, an open clash wouldresult in bloodshed--the troops would be called in by McIver, which isexactly what he wants. Vodell would provoke an attack on the soldiers, some one would be killed, and we would have exactly the sort of waragainst the government that he and his brotherhood are working for. "

The old workman spoke. "Charlie is right, daughter; these troubles willnever be settled by McIver's way nor Vodell's way. They will be settledby the employers like John getting together and driving the McIvers outof business--and the employees like Charlie here and a lot of the menin our union getting together with John and his crowd and sending theJake Vodells back to whatever country they came from. " When her fatherspoke John's name, the young woman's face colored with a quick blush. The next moment, unable to control her overwrought emotions, she burstinto tears and started to leave the room. But at the door CaptainCharlie caught her in his arms and held her close until the firstviolence of her grief was over. 

When she had a little of her usual calmness, her brother whispered, "Iknow all about it, dear. "

She raised her head from his shoulder and looked at him with tearfuldoubt. "You know about--about John?" she said, wonderingly. 

"Yes, " he whispered, with an encouraging smile, "I know--father and Iwere talking about it before you came home. I am going to leave youwith him now. You must tell father, you know. Goodnight, dear--good-night, father. "

Slowly Mary turned back into the room. The old workman, sitting therein his big chair, held out his arms. With a little cry she ran to himas she had gone to him all the years of her life. 

When she had told him all--how John that very evening on their way homefrom the Flats had asked her to be his wife--and how she, in spite ofher love for him, had forced herself to answer, "No, " Pete Martin satwith his head bowed as one deep in thought. 

Mary, knowing her father's slow way, waited. 

When the old workman spoke at last it was almost as though, unconsciousof his daughter's presence, he talked to himself. "Your mother and Iused to think in the old days when you children were growing uptogether that some time perhaps the two families would be united. Butwhen we watched Adam getting rich and saw what his money was doing tohim and to his home, we got to be rather glad that you children wereseparated. We were so happy ourselves in our own little home here thatwe envied no man. We did not want wealth even for you and Charlie whenwe saw all that went with it. We did not dream that Adam's successcould ever stand in the way of our children's happiness like this. ButI guess that is the way it is, daughter. I remember the Interpreter'ssaying once that no man had a right to make even himself miserablebecause no man could be miserable alone. "

The old workman's voice grew still more reflective. "It was the newprocess that made Adam rich. He was no better man at the bench than I. I never considered him as my superior. He happened to be born with adifferent kind of a brain, that is all. And he thought more of money, while I cared more for other things. But there is a good reason why hismoney should not be permitted to stand between his children and mychildren. There is a lot of truth, after all, in Jake Vodell's talkabout the rights of men who work with their hands. The law upholds AdamWard in his possessions, I know. And it would uphold him Just the sameif my children were starving. But the law don't make it right. Thereshould be some way to make a man do what is right--law or no law. Youand John--"

"Father!" cried Mary, alarmed at his words. "Surely you are not goingto hold with Jake Vodell about such things. What do you mean aboutmaking a man do what is right--law or no law?"

"There, there, daughter, " said the old workman, smiling. "I was justthinking out loud, I guess. It will be all right for you and John. Runalong to bed now, and don't let a worry come, even into your dreams. "

"I would rather give John up a thousand times than have you like JakeVodell, " she said. "You shan't even _think_ that way. "

When she was gone, Peter Martin filled and lighted his pipe again, andfor another hour sat alone. 

Whether or not his thoughts bore any relation to the doctrines of JakeVodell, they led the old workman, on the following day, to pay a visitto Adam Ward at his home on the hill. 

CHAPTER XXII

OLD FRIENDS

It was Sunday morning and the church bells were ringing over the littlecity as the old workman climbed the hill to Adam Ward's estate. 

There was a touch of frost in the air. The hillside back of theinterpreter's hut was brown. But the sun was bright and warm and inevery quarter of the city the people were going to their appointedplaces of worship. The voice of the Mill was silenced. 

Pete wondered if he would find Adam at home. He had not thought aboutit when he left the cottage--his mind had been so filled with theobject of his visit to the man who had once been his working comradeand friend. 

But Adam Ward was not at church. 

The Mill owner's habits of worship were very simply regulated. If theminister said things that pleased him, and showed a properly humblegratification at Adam's presence in the temple of God, Adam attendeddivine services. If the reverend teacher in the pulpit so far forgothimself as to say anything that jarred Adam's peculiar spiritualsensitiveness, or failed to greet this particular member of his flockwith proper deference, Adam stayed at home and stopped his subscriptionto the cause. Nor did he ever fail to inform his pastor and theofficers of the congregation as to the reason for his nonattendance;always, at the time, assuring them that whenever the minister wouldpreach the truths that he wanted to hear, his weekly offerings to theLord would be renewed. Thus Adam Ward was just and honest in hisreligious life as he was in his business dealings. He was ready always, to pay for that which he received, but, as a matter of principle, hewas careful always to receive exactly what he paid for. 

This Sunday morning Adam Ward was at home. 

When Pete reached the entrance to the estate the heavy gates wereclosed. As Mary's father stood in doubt before the iron barrier a manappeared on the inside. 

"Good-morning, Uncle Pete, " he said, in hearty greeting, when he sawwho it was that sought admittance. 

"Good-morning, Henry--and what are you doing in there?" returned theworkman, who had known the man from his boyhood. 

The other grinned. "Oh, I'm one of the guards at this institution now. "

Pete looked at him blankly. "Guards? What are you guarding, Henry?"

Standing close to the iron bars of the gate, Henry glanced over hisshoulder before he answered in a low, cautious tone, "Adam. "

The old workman was shocked. "What! you don't mean it!" He shook hisgrizzly head sadly. "I hadn't heard that he was that bad. "

Henry laughed. "We're not keepin' the old boy in, Uncle Pete--not yet. So far, our orders are only to keep people out. Dangerous people, Imean--the kind that might want to run away with the castle, or steal alook at the fountain, or sneak a smell of the flowers or something--y'understand. "

Pete smiled. "How do you like your job, Henry?"

"Oh, it's all right just now when the strike is on. But was you wantin'to come in, Uncle Pete, or just passing' by?"

"I wanted to see Adam if I could. "

The man swung open the gate. "Help yourself, Uncle Pete, just so youdon't stick a knife into him or blow him up with a bomb or poison himor something. " He pointed toward that part of the grounds where Helenhad watched her father from the arbor. "You'll find him over theresomewhere, I think. I saw him headed that way a few minutes ago. Therest of the family are gone to church. "

"Is Adam's life really threatened, Henry?" asked Pete, as he steppedinside and the gates were closed behind him. 

"Search me, " returned the guard, indifferently. "I expect if the truthwere known it ought to be by rights. He sure enough thinks it is, though. Why, Uncle Pete, there can't a butterfly flit over thesegrounds that Adam ain't a yellin' how there's an aeroplane a sailin'around lookin' fer a chance to drop a monkey wrench on his head orsomething. "

"Poor Adam!" murmured the old workman. "What a way to live!"

"Live?" echoed the guard. "It ain't livin' at all--it's just bein' inhell before your time, that's what it is--if you ask me. "

 * * * * *

When Peter Martin, making his slow way through the beautiful grounds, first caught sight of his old bench mate, Adam was pacing slowly to andfro across a sunny open space of lawn. As he walked, the Mill owner wastalking to himself and moving his arms and hands in those continuousgestures that seemed so necessary to any expression of his thoughts. Once Pete heard him laugh. And something in the mirthless sound madethe old workman pause. It was then that Adam saw him. 

There was no mistaking the sudden fear that for a moment seemed toparalyze the man. His gray face turned a sickly white, his eyes werestaring, his jaw dropped, his body shook as if with a chill. He lookedabout as if he would call for help, and started as if to seek safety inflight. 

"Good-morning, Adam Ward, " said Pete Martin. 

And at the gentle kindliness in the workman's voice Adam's manner, witha suddenness that was startling, changed. With an elaborate show offriendliness he came eagerly forward. His gray face, twitching withnervous excitement, beamed with joyous welcome. As he hurried acrossthe bit of lawn between them, he waved his arms and rubbed his handstogether in an apparent ecstasy of gladness at this opportunity toreceive such an honored guest. His voice trembled with high-pitchedassurance of his happiness in the occasion. He laughed as one who couldnot contain himself. 

"Well, well, well--to think that you have actually come to see me atlast. " He grasped the workman's hand in both his own with a grip thatwas excessive in its hearty energy. With affectionate familiarity healmost shouted, "You old scoundrel! I can't believe it is you. Wherehave you been keeping yourself? How are Charlie and Mary? Lord, butit's good to see you here in my own home like this. "

While Pete was trying to make some adequate reply to this effusive andstartling reception, Adam looked cautiously about to see if there wereany chance observers lurking near. 

Satisfied that no one was watching, he said, nervously, "Come on, let'ssit over here where we can talk. " And with his hand on Pete's arm, heled his caller to lawn chairs that were in the open, well beyondhearing of any curious ear in the shrubbery. 

Giving the workman opportunity for no more than an occasionalmonosyllable in reply, he poured forth a flood of information about hisestate: The architectural features of his house--the cost; theloveliness of his trees--the cost; the coloring of his flowers--thecost; the magnificence of his view, And all the while he studied hiscaller's face with sharp, furtive glances, trying to find some clew tothe purpose of the workman's visit. 

Peter Martin's steady eyes, save for occasional glances at the objectsof Adam's interest as Adam pointed them out, were fixed on the Millowner with a half-wondering, half-pitying expression. Adam's evidentnervousness increased. He talked of his Mill--how he had built it upfrom nothing almost, to its present magnitude--of the city and what hehad done for the people. 

The old workman listened without comment. 

At last, apparently unable to endure the suspense a moment longer, AdamWard said, nervously, "Well, Pete, out with it! What do you want? I canguess what you are here for. We might as well get done with it. "

In his slow, thoughtful manner of speech that was so different from theMill owner's agitated expressions, the old workman said, "I have wantedfor nothing, Adam. We have been contented and happy in our little home. But now, " he paused as if his thoughts were loath to form themselvesinto words. 

The last vestige of pretense left Adam Ward's face as suddenly as if hehad literally dropped a mask. "It's a good thing you have beensatisfied, " he said, coldly. "You had better continue to be. You knowthat you owe everything you have in the world to me! You need notexpect anything more. "

"Have you not made a big profit on every hour's work that I have donein your Mill, Adam?"

"Whatever profit I have or have not made on your work is none of yourbusiness, sir, " retorted Adam. "I have given you a job all these years. I could have thrown you out. You haven't a thing on earth that you didnot buy with the checks you received from me. I have worn myselfout--made an invalid of myself--building up the business that hasenabled you and the rest of my employees to make a living. Every centthat I ever received from that new process I put back into the Mill. You have had more out of it than I ever did. "

Peter Martin looked slowly about at the evidence of Adam Ward's wealth. When he again faced the owner of the estate he spoke as if doubtingthat he had heard him clearly. "But the Mill is yours, Adam?" he said, at last. "And all this is yours. How--where did it come from?"

"Certainly the Mill is mine. Didn't I make it what it is? As for theplace here--it came from the profits of my business, of course. Youknow I was nothing but a common workman when I started out. "

"I know, " returned Pete. "And it was the new process that enabled youto get control of the Mill--to buy it and build it up--wasn't it? Ifyou hadn't happened to have had the process the Mill would have madeall this for some one else, wouldn't it? We never dreamed that theprocess would grow into such a big thing for anybody when we used totalk it over in the old days, did we, Adam?"

Adam Ward looked cautiously around at the shrubbery that encircled thebit of lawn. There was no one to be seen within hearing distance. 

When he faced his companion again the Mill owner's eyes were blazing, but he controlled his voice by a supreme effort of will. "Look here, Pete, I'm not going even to discuss that matter with you. I have keptyou on at the Mill and taken care of you all these years because of ourold friendship and because I was sorry for you. But if you don'tappreciate what I have done for you, if you attempt to start any talkor anything I'll throw you and Charlie out of your jobs to-morrow. AndI'll fix it, too, so you will never either of you get another day'swork in Millsburgh. That process is my property. No one has anyinterest in the patents in any way. I have it tied up so tight that allthe courts in the world couldn't take it away from me. Law is law and Ipropose to keep what the law says is mine. I have thousands of dollarsto spend in defense of my legal rights where you have dimes. Youneedn't whine about moral obligations either. The only obligations thatare of any force in business are legal! If you haven't brains enough tolook after your own interests you can't expect any one else to lookafter them for you. "

When Adam Ward finished his countenance was distorted with hate andfear. Before this simple, kindly old workman, in whose honest soulthere was no shadow of a wish to harm any one in any way, the Millowner was like a creature of evil at bay. 

"I did not come to talk of the past, Adam Ward, " said Pete, sadly. "AndI didn't come to threaten you or to ask anything for myself. "

At the gentle sadness of his old friend's manner and words, Adam's eyesgleamed with vicious triumph. "Well, out with it!" he demanded, harshly. "What are you here for?"

"Your boy and my girl love each other, Adam. "

An ugly grin twisted the gray lips of Pete's employer. 

But Mary's father went on as though he had not seen. "The children wereraised together, Adam. I have always thought of John almost as if hewere my own son. It seems exactly right that he should want Mary andthat she should want him. There is no man in the world I would ratherit would be. "

Adam listened, still grinning, as the old workman continued in hisslow, quiet speech. 

"I never cared before for all that the new process made for you. Youwanted money--I didn't. But it don't seem right that what youhave--considering how you got it--should stand in the way of Mary'shappiness. I understand that there is nothing I can do about it, but Ithought that, considering everything, you might be willing to--"

Adam Ward laughed aloud--laughed until the tears of his insane gleefilled his eyes. "So that's your game, " he said, at last, when he couldspeak. "You hadn't brains enough to protect yourself to start out withand you have found out that you haven't a chance in the world againstme in the courts. So you try to make it by setting your girl up tocatch John. "

"You must stop that sort of talk, Adam Ward. " Peter Martin was on hisfeet, and there was that in his usually stolid countenance which madethe Mill owner shrink back. "I was a fool, as you say. But my mistakewas that I trusted you. I believed in your pretended friendship for me. I thought you were as honest and honorable as you seemed to be. Ididn't know that your religion was all such a rotten sham. I have nevercared that you grew rich while I remained poor. All these years I havebeen sorry for you because I have had so much of the happiness andcontentment and peace that you have lost. But you must understand, sir, that there are some things that I will do in defense of my childrenthat I would not do in defense of myself. "

Adam, white and trembling, drew still farther away. "Be careful, " hecried, "I can call half a dozen men before you can move. "

Pete continued as if the other had not spoken. "There is no reason inthe world why John and Mary should not marry. "

Adam Ward's insane hatred for the workman and his evil joy over thisopportunity to make his old comrade suffer was stronger even than hisfear. With another snarling laugh he retorted, viciously, "There is thebest reason in the world why they will never marry. _I_ am the reason, Pete Martin! And I'd like to see you try to do anything about it. "

Mary's father answered, slowly, "I do not understand your hatred forme, Adam. All these years I have been loyal to you. I have never talkedof our affairs to any one--"

Adam interrupted him with a burst of uncontrollable rage. "_Talk_, youfool! Talk all you please. Tell everybody anything you like. Who willbelieve you? You will only get yourself laughed at for being theshort-sighted idiot you were. That process is patented in my name. Iown it. You don't need to keep still on my account, but I tell youagain that if you do try to start anything I'll ruin you and I'll ruinyour children. " Suddenly, as if in fear that his rage would carry himtoo far, his manner changed and he spoke with forced coldness. "I amsorry that I cannot continue this interview, Pete. You have all thatyou will ever get from me--children or no children. Go on about yourbusiness as usual and you may hold your job in the Mill as long as youare able to do your work. I had thought that I might give you some sortof a little pension when you got too old to keep up your end with therest of the men. "

And then Adam Ward added the crowning insolent expression of his insaneand arrogant egotism. With a pious smirk of his gray, twitching face, he said, "I want you to know, too, Pete, that you can approach me anytime without any feeling of humiliation. "

He turned abruptly away and a moment later the old workman, watching, saw him disappear behind some tall bushes. 

As Pete Martin went slowly back to the entrance gate he did not knowthat the owner of the estate was watching him. From bush to bush Adamcrept with the stealthy care of a wild creature, following itsprey--never taking his eyes from his victim, save for quick glanceshere and there to see that he himself was not observed. Not until Petehad passed from sight down the hill road did Adam appear openly. Then, going to the watchman at the gate, he berated him for admitting the oldworkman and threatened him with the loss of his position if he sooffended Again. 

 * * * * *

When Peter Martin arrived home he found Jake Vodell and Charliediscussing the industrial situation. The strike leader had come oncemore to try to enlist the support of the old workman and his son in hiswar against the employer class. 

CHAPTER XXIII

A LAST CHANCE

Jake Vodell greeted the old workman cordially. "You have been to churchthis fine morning, I suppose, heh?" he said, with a sneering laugh thatrevealed how little his interview with Captain Charlie was contributingto his satisfaction. 

"No, " returned Pete. "I did not attend church this morning--I do go, though, generally. "

"Oh-ho! you worship the God of your good master Adam Ward, I suppose. "

But Pete Martin was in no way disturbed by the man's sarcasm. "No, " hesaid, slowly, "I do not think that Adam and I worship the same God. "

"Is it so? But when the son goes to war so bravely and fights for hismasters one would expect the father to say his prayers to his masters'God, heh?"

Captain Charlie retorted, sharply, "The men who fought in the warfought for this nation--for every citizen in it. We fought for McIverjust as we fought for Sam Whaley. Our loyalty in this industrialquestion is exactly the same. We will save the industries of thiscountry for every citizen alike because our national life is at stake. Did you ever hear of a sailor refusing to man the pumps on a sinkingship because the vessel was not his personal property?"

"Bah!" growled Jake Vodell. "Your profession of loyalty to your countryamuses me. _Your_ country! It is McIver's country--Adam Ward's country, I tell you. It is my little band of live, aggressive heroes who are theloyal ones. We are the ones who will save the industries, but we willsave them for the laboring people alone. And you shirkers in your Millworkers' union are willing to stand aside and let us do your fightingfor you. Have you no pride for your class at all?"

"Oh, yes, " returned Captain Charlie, "we have plenty of class pride. Only you see, Vodell, we don't consider ourselves in your class. Youare no more loyal to the principles of our American unions than you areto the principles of our government. You don't represent our unions. You represent something foreign to the interests of every Americancitizen. You are trying to use our unions in your business, that isall. And because you manage to get hold of a few poor fellows like SamWhaley, you think you can lead the working people. If you really thinkour loyalty to our country is a joke, drop in at an American Legionmeeting some evening--bring along your foreign flag and all yourforeign friends. I'll promise you a welcome that will, I think, convince you that we have some class pride after all. "

The agitator rose heavily to his feet. "It is your friendship with thisJohn Ward that makes you turn from your own class. I have known how itwould be with you. But it is no matter. You shall see. We will make ademonstration in Millsburgh that will win the men of your union inspite of you and your crippled old basket maker. If you had a personalgrievance against Adam Ward as so many others have you would be with mefast enough. But he and his son have made you blind with theirpretended kindness. "

Pete Martin spoke now with a dignity and pride that moved CaptainCharlie deeply. "Mr. Vodell, you are wrong. My son is too big to beinfluenced in this matter by any personal consideration. Whatever thereis that is personal between Charlie and John or between Adam Ward andmyself will never be brought into this controversy. "

Jake Vodell shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Very well--I will go now. You will see that in the end the working people will know who are fortheir interests and who are against them, and we will know, too, how toreward our friends and punish our enemies. I am sorry. I have given youto-day your last chance. You have a pretty little place here, heh?"

There was a look in his dark face, as he gazed about appraisingly, thatmade Captain Charlie go a step toward him. "_You_ have given us ourlast chance? Is this a sample of the freedom that you offer soeloquently to the people? Instead of the imperialist McIver we are tohave the imperialist Vodell, are we? Between the two of you I preferMcIver. He is at least sane enough to be constructive in hisimperialism. My father and I have lived here all our lives, as most ofour neighbors have. The majority of the workmen in this community owntheir homes just as we do. We are a part of the life of this city. Whathave you at stake? Where is your home and family? What is yournationality? What is your record of useful industry? Before you talkabout giving a last chance to workmen like my father you will need toproduce the credentials of your authority. We have your number, JakeVodell. You may as well go back to the land where you belong, if youbelong anywhere on earth. You will never hang your colors in the unionMill workers' hall. We have a flag there now that suits us. The chanceyou offer, last or first, is too darned big a chance for any saneAmerican workman to monkey with. "

Jake Vodell answered harshly as he turned to go. "At least I know nowfor sure who it is that makes the Mill workers such traitors to theirclass. " He looked at Pete. "Your son has made his position very clear. We shall see now how bravely the noble Captain will hold his ground. Asfor you, well--always the old father can pray to his God for his son. It is so, heh?"

Quickly the man passed through the white gate and disappeared down thestreet toward the Flats. 

"I am afraid that fellow means trouble, son, " said Pete, slowly. 

"Trouble, " echoed Captain Charlie, "Jake Vodell has never meantanything but trouble. "

 * * * * *

Adam Ward did not join his family when they returned from church. Anervous headache kept him in his room. 

In the afternoon John went for a long drive into the country. He feltthat he must be alone--that he must think things out, for both Mary andhimself. 

As he looked back on it all now, it seemed to him that he had alwaysloved this girl companion of his old-house days. In his boyhood he hadaccepted her as a part of his daily life just as he had accepted hissister. Those years of his schooling had been careless, thoughtlessyears, and followed, as they were, by his war experience, they seemednow to have had so small a part in the whole that they scarcely countedat all. His renewed comradeship with Charlie in the army had renewedalso, through the letters that Charlie always shared with him, hisconsciousness of Mary. In the months just passed his love had ripenedand become a definite thing, fixed and certain in his own mind andheart as the fact of life itself. He had no more thought of acceptingas final Mary's answer than he had of turning the management of theMill over to Jake Vodell or to Sam Whaley. But still there were thingsthat he must think out. 

On that favorite hillside spot where he and Charlie had spent so manyhours discussing their industrial problems, John faced squarely thequestions raised by Mary's "no. "

Through the chill of the fall twilight John went home to spend theevening with his mother. But he did not speak to her of Mary. He couldnot, somehow, in the house that was so under the shadow of that hiddenthing. 

His father was still in his room. 

On his way to his own apartment after his mother had retired, Johnstopped at his father's door to knock gently and ask if there wasanything that he could do. 

The answer came, "No, I will be all right--let me alone. "

Later Helen returned from somewhere with McIver. Then John heard McIverleaving and Helen going to her mother for their usual good-night visit. 

Seeing the light under his door, as she passed, she tapped the paneland called softly that it was tune all good little boys were fastasleep. 

It was an hour, perhaps, after John had gone to bed that he wasawakened by the sound of some one stealing quietly into his room. Against the dim night light in the hall, he caught the outline of anarm and shoulder as the intruder carefully closed the door. Reachingout to the lamp at the head of his bed, he snapped on the light andsprang to his feet. 

"Father!"

"Sh--be careful, John, they will hear you!" Adam Ward's gray face wasghastly with nervous excitement and fear, and he was shaking as with achill. 

"No one must know I told you, " he whispered, "but the new process isthe source of everything we have--the Mill and everything. If it wasn'tfor my patent rights we would have nothing. You and I would be workingin the Mill just like Pete and his boy. "

John spoke soothingly. "Yes, father, I understand, but it will be allright--I'll take care of it. "

Adam chuckled. "They're after it. But I've got it all sewed up so tightthey can't touch it. That old fool, Pete, was here to feel me outto-day. "

"Pete--here!"

Adam grinned. "While you folks were at church. "

"But what did he want, father?"

"They've got a new scheme now. They've set Mary after you. They figurethat if the girl can land you they'll get a chance at what I have madeout of the process that way. I told him you was too smart to be caughtlike that. But you've got to watch them. They'll do anything. "

In spite of his pity for his father, John Ward drew from him, overcomeby a feeling of disgust and shame which he could not wholly control. 

Adam, unconscious of his son's emotions, went on. "I've made it all inspite of them, John, but I've had to watch them. They'll be after younow that I have turned things over to you, just as they have been afterme. They'll never get it, though. They'll never get a penny of it. I'lldestroy the Mill and everything before I'll give up a dollar of whatI've made. "

John Ward could not speak. It was too monstrous--too horrible. As onein a hideous dream, he listened. What was back of it all? Why did hisfather in his spells of nervous excitement always rave so about thepatented process? Why did he hate Pete Martin so bitterly? What wasthis secret thing that was driving Adam Ward insane?

Thinking to find an answer to these perplexing questions, if there wasany answer other than the Mill owner's mental condition, John forcedhimself to the pretense of sharing his father's fears. He agreed withAdam's arraignment of Pete, echoed his father's expression of hatredfor the old workman, thanked Adam for warning him, boasted of his ownability to see through their tricks and schemes and to protect theproperty his father had accumulated. 

In this vein they talked in confidential whispers until John felt thathe could venture the question, "Just what is it about the process thatthey are after, father? If I knew the exact history of the thing Iwould be in a much better position to handle the situation as you want, wouldn't I?"

Adam Ward's manner changed instantly. With a look of sly cunning hestudied John's face. "There is nothing about the process, son, " hesaid, steadily. "You know all there is to know about it now. "

But when John, thinking that his father had regained his self-control, urged him to go back to his bed, Adam's painful agitation returned. 

For some moments he paced to and fro as if in nervous indecision, then, going close to John, he said in a low, half whisper, "John, there issomething else I wanted to ask you. You have been to college and overthere in the war, you must have seen a lot of men die--" He paused. "Yes, yes, you must have been close to death a good many times. Tellme, John, do you believe that there is anything after--I mean anythingbeyond this life? Does a man's conscious existence go on when he isdead?"

"Yes, " said John, wondering at this apparent change in his father'sthought. "I believe in a life beyond this. You believe in it, too, don't you, father?"

"Of course, " returned Adam. "We can't know, though, for sure, can we?But, anyway, a man would be foolish to risk it, wouldn't he?"

"To risk what, father?"

"To risk the chance of there being no hell, " came the startling answer. "My folks raised me to believe in hell, and the preachers all teach it. And if there should be such a place of eternal torment a man would be afool not to fix up some way to get out of it, wouldn't he?"

John did not know what to say. 

Adam Ward leaned closer to his son and with an air of secrecywhispered, "That's exactly what I've done, John--I've worked out ascheme to tie God up in a contract that will force Him to save me. Theold Interpreter gave me the idea. You see if it should turn out thatthere is no hell my plan can't do any harm and if there is a hell itmakes me safe anyway. "

He chuckled with insane satisfaction. "They say that God knowseverything--that nobody can figure out a way to beat Him, but I have--Ihave worked out a deal with God that is bound to give me the best ofit. I've got Him tied up so tight that He'll be bound to save me. Somepeople think I'm crazy, but you wait, my boy--they'll find out howcrazy I am. They'll never get me into hell. I have been figuring onthis ever since the Interpreter told me I had better make a contractwith God. And after Pete left this morning I got it all settled. A mancan't afford to take any chances with God and so I made this deal withHim. Hell or no hell, I'm safe. God don't get the best of me, --And youare safe, too, son, with the new process, if you look after your owninterests, as I have done, and don't overlook any opportunities. Iwanted to tell you about this so you wouldn't worry about me. I'll goback to bed now. Don't tell mother and Helen what we have been talkingabout. No use to worry them--they couldn't understand anyway. And don'tforget, John, what Pete told me about Mary. Their scheme won't work ofcourse. I know you are too smart for them. But just the same you've gotto be on your guard against her all the time. Never take anyunnecessary chances. Don't talk over a deal with a man when any one canhear. If you are careful to have no witnesses when you arrange a dealyou are absolutely safe. It is what you can slip into the writtencontract that counts--once you get your man's signature. That's alwaysbeen my way. And now I have even put one over on God. "

He stole cautiously out of the room and back to his own apartment. 

Outside his father's door John waited, listening, until he wasconvinced that sleep had at last come to the exhausted man. 

Late that same Sunday evening, when the street meeting held by JakeVodell was over, there was another meeting in the room back of the poolhall. The men who sat around that table with the agitator were notcriminals--they were workmen. Sam Whaley and two others were men withfamilies. They were all American citizens, but they were under thespell of their leader's power. They had been prepared for thatleadership by the industrial policies of McIver and Adam Ward. 

This meeting of that inner circle was in no way authorized by theunions. The things they said Sam Whaley would not have dared to sayopenly in the Mill workers' organization. The plans they proposed tocarry out in the name of the unions they were compelled to make insecret. In their mad, fanatical acceptance of the dreams that Vodellwrought for them; in their blind obedience to the leadership he had socleverly established; in their reckless disregard of the consequencesunder the spell of his promised protection, they were as insane, infact, as the owner of the Mill himself. 

The supreme, incredible, pitiful tragedy of it all was this: That theseworkmen committed themselves to the plans of Jake Vodell in the name oftheir country's workmen. 

CHAPTER XXIV

THE FLATS

Helen Ward knew that she could not put off much longer giving McIver adefinite answer. When she was with him, the things that so disturbedher mind and heart were less real--she was able to see things clearlyfrom the point of view to which she had been trained. Her father'smental condition was nothing more than a nervous trouble resulting fromoverwork--John's ideals were highly creditable to his heart and sheloved him dearly for them, but they were wholly impossible in a worldwhere certain class standards must be maintained--the Mill took againits old vague, indefinite place in her life--the workman Charlie Martinmust live only in her girlhood memories, those secretly sad memoriesthat can have no part in the grown-up present and must not be permittedto enter into one's consideration of the future. In short, the presenceof McIver always banished effectually the Helen of the old house: withhim the daughter of Adam Ward was herself. 

And Helen was tempted by this feeling of relief to speak the decisiveword that would finally put an end to her indecision and bring at leastthe peace of certainty to her troubled mind. In the light of hereducation and environment, there was every reason why she should say, "Yes" to McIver's insistent pleadings. There was no shadow of a reasonwhy she should refuse him. One word and the Helen of the old housewould be banished forever--the princess lady would reign undisturbed. 

And yet, for some reason, that word was not spoken. Helen told herselfthat she would speak it. But on each occasion she put it off. Andalways when the man was gone and she was alone, in spite of the returnin full force of all her disturbing thoughts and emotions, she was gladthat she had not committed herself irrevocably--that she was stillfree. 

She had never felt the appeal of all that McIver meant to her as shefelt it that Sunday. She had never been more disturbed and unhappy thanshe was the following day when John told her a little of his midnightexperience with their father and how Adam's excitement had been causedby Peter Martin's visit. All of which led her, early in the afternoon, to the Interpreter. 

 * * * * *

She found the old basket maker working with feverish energy. Billy Randat the bench in the corner of the room was as busy with his part oftheir joint industry. 

It was the Interpreter's habit, when Helen was with him, to lay asidehis work. But of late he had continued the occupation of his hands evenas he talked with her. She had noticed this, as women always noticesuch things--but that was all. On this day, when the old man in thewheel chair failed to give her his undivided attention, something inhis manner impressed the trivial incident more sharply on her mind. 

He greeted her kindly, as always, but while she was conscious of nolack of warmth in his welcome, she felt in the deep tones of thatgentle voice a sadness that moved her to quick concern. The dark eyesthat never failed to light with pleasure at her coming were filled withweary pain. The strong face was thin and tired. As he bent his whitehead over the work in his lap he seemed to have grown suddenly veryweak and old. 

With an awakened mind, the young woman looked curiously about the room. 

She had never seen it so filled with materials and with finishedbaskets. The table with the big lamp and the magazines and papers hadbeen moved into the far corner against the book shelves, as though hehad now neither time nor thought for reading. The floor was coveredthick with a litter of chips and shavings. Even silent Billy's face wasfilled with anxiety and troubled care as he looked from Helen to hisold companion in the wheel chair and slowly turned back to his work onthe bench. 

"What is the matter here?" she demanded, now thoroughly aroused. 

"Matter?" returned the Interpreter. "Is there anything wrong here, Helen?"

"You are not well, " she insisted. "You look all worn out--as if you hadnot slept for weeks--what is it?"

"Oh, that is nothing, " he answered, with a smile. "Billy and I havebeen working overtime a little--that is all. "

"But why?" she demanded, "why must you wear yourself out like this?Surely there is no need for you to work so hard, day and night. "

He answered as if he were not sure that he had heard her aright. "Noneed, Helen? Surely, child, you cannot be so ignorant of the want thatexists within sight of your home?"

She returned his look wonderingly. "You mean the strike?"

Bending over his work again, the old basket maker answered, sorrowfully, "Yes, Helen, I mean the strike. "

There was something in the Interpreter's manner--something in theweary, drooping figure in that wheel chair--in the tired, deep-linedface--in the pain-filled eyes and the gentle voice that went to thedeeps of Helen Ward's woman heart. 

With her, as with every one in Millsburgh, the strike was a topic ofdaily conversation. She sympathized with her brother in his anxiety. She was worried over the noticeable effect of the excitement upon herfather. She was interested in McIver's talk of the situation. But in novital way had her life been touched by the industrial trouble. In noway had she come in actual contact with it. The realities of thesituation were to her vague, intangible, remote from her world, asindeed the Mill itself had been, before her visit with John that day. To her, the Interpreter was of all men set apart from the world. In hislittle hut on the cliff, with his books and his basket making, hergentle old friend's life, it seemed to her, held not one thing incommon with the busy world that lay within sight of the balcony-porch. The thought that the industrial trouble could in any way touch him cameto her with a distinct shock. 

"Surely, " she protested, at last, "the strike cannot affect you. It hasnothing to do with your work. "

"Every strike has to do with all work everywhere, child, " returned theman in the wheel chair, while his busy fingers wove the fabric of abasket. "Every idle hand in the world, Helen, whatever the cause of itsidleness, compels some other's hand to do its work. The work of theworld must be done, child--somehow, by some one--the work of the worldmust be done. The little Maggies and Bobbies of the Flats down theremust be fed, you know--and their mother too--yes, and Sam Whaleyhimself must be cared for. And so you see, because of the strike, Billyand I must work overtime. "

Certainly there was no hint of rebuke in the old basket maker's kindlyvoice, but the daughter of Adam Ward felt her cheeks flush with a quicksense of shame. That her old friend in the wheel chair should so acceptthe responsibility of his neighbor's need and give himself thus to helpthem, while she--

"Is there, " she faltered, "is there really so much suffering among thestrikers?"

Without raising his eyes from his work, he answered, "The women andchildren--they are so helpless. "

"I--I did not realize, " she murmured. "I did not know. "

"You were not ignorant of the helpless women and children who sufferedin foreign lands, " he returned. "Why should you not know of the mothersand babies in Millsburgh?"

"But McIver says--" she hesitated. 

The Interpreter caught up her words. "McIver says that by feeding thestarving families of the strikers the strike is prolonged. He reliesupon the hunger and cold and sickness of the women and children for hisvictory. And Jake Vodell relies upon the suffering in the families ofhis followers for that desperate frenzy of class hatred, without whichhe cannot gain his end. Does McIver want for anything? No! Is JakeVodell in need? No! It is not the imperialistic leaders in theseindustrial wars who pay the price. It is always the little Bobbies andMaggies who pay. The people of America stood aghast with horror when anunarmed passenger ship was torpedoed or a defenseless village wasbombed by order of a ruthless Kaiser; but we permit these Kaisers ofcapital and labor to carry on their industrial wars without a thoughtof the innocent ones who must suffer under their ruthless policies. "

He paused; then, with no trace of bitterness, but only sadness in hisvoice, he added, "You say you do not know, child--and yet, you couldknow so easily if you would. Little Bobby and Maggie do not live in afar-off land across the seas. They live right over there in the shadowof your father's Mill--the Mill which supplies you, Helen, with everymaterial need and luxury of your life. "

As if she could bear to hear no more, Helen rose quickly and went fromthe room to stand on the balcony-porch. 

It was not so much the Interpreter's words--it was rather the spirit inwhich they were spoken that moved her so deeply. By her own heart shewas judged. "For every idle hand, " he had said. Her hands were idlehands. Her old white-haired friend in his wheel chair was doing herwork. His crippled body drooped with weariness over his task becauseshe did nothing. His face was lined with care because she was carelessof the need that burdened him. His eyes were filled with sadness andpain because she was indifferent--because she did not know--had notcared to know. 

 * * * * *

The sun was almost down that afternoon when Bobby Whaley came out ofthe wretched house that was his home to stand on the front doorstep. The dingy, unpainted buildings of the Flats--the untidy hovels andshanties--the dilapidated fences and broken sidewalks--unlovely atbest, in the long shadows of the failing day, were sinister with thegloom of poverty. 

High above the Mill the twisting columns of smoke from the tall stackscaught the last of the sunlight and formed slow, changingcloud-shapes--rolling hills of brightness with soft, shadowy valleysand cañons of mysterious depths between--towering domes and crags andcastled heights--grim, foreboding, beautiful. 

The boy who stood on the steps, looking so listlessly about, was notthe daring adventurer who had so boldly led his sister up the zigzagsteps to the Interpreter's hut. He was not the Bobby who had ridden insuch triumph beside the princess lady so far into the unknown country. His freckled face was thin and pinched. The skin was drawn tight overthe high cheek bones and the eyes were wide and staring. His young bodythat had been so sturdy was gaunt and skeletonlike. The dirty rags thatclothed him were scarcely enough to hide his nakedness. The keen autumnair that had put the flush of good red blood into the cheeks of thegolfers at the country club that afternoon whirled about his bare feetand legs with stinging cruelty. His thin lips and wasted limbs wereblue with cold. Turning slowly, he seemed about to reenter the house, but when his hand touched the latch he paused and once more uncertainlyfaced toward the street. There was no help for him in his home. He knewno other place to go for food or shelter. 

As the boy again looked hopelessly about the wretched neighborhood, hesaw a woman coming down the street. He could tell, even at thatdistance, that the lady was a stranger to the Flats. Her dress, simpleas it was, and her veil marked her as a resident of some district moreprosperous than that grimy community in the shadow of the Mill. 

A flash of momentary interest lighted the hungry eyes of the lad. But, no, it could not be one of the charity workers--the charity ladiesalways came earlier in the day and always in automobiles. 

Then he saw the stranger stop and speak to a boy in front of a housetwo doors away. The neighbor boy pointed toward Bobby and the lady cameon, walking quickly as if she were a little frightened at being aloneamid such surroundings. 

At the gap where once had been a gate in the dilapidated fence, sheturned in toward the house and the wondering boy on the front step. Shewas within a few feet of the lad when she stopped suddenly with a lowexclamation. 

Bobby thought that she had discovered her mistake in coming to thewrong place. But the next moment she was coming closer, and he heard, "Bobby, is that really you! You poor child, have you been ill?"

"_I_ ain't been sick, if that's what yer mean, " returned the boy. "Magis, though. She's worse to-day. "

His manner was sullenly defiant, as if the warmly dressed stranger hadin some way revealed herself as his enemy. 

"Don't you know me, Bobby?"

"Not with yer face covered up like that, I don't. "

She laughed nervously and raised her veil. 

"Huh, it's you, is it? Funny--Mag's been a-talkin' about her princesslady all afternoon. What yer doin' here?"

Before this hollow-cheeked skeleton of a boy Helen Ward felt strangelylike one who, conscious of guilt, is brought suddenly into the presenceof a stern judge. 

"Why, Bobby, " she faltered, "I--I came to see you and Maggie--I was atthe Interpreter's this afternoon and he told me--I mean something hesaid made me want to come. "

"The Interpreter, he's all right, " said the boy. "So's Mary Martin. "

"Aren't you just a little glad to see me, Bobby?"

The boy did not seem to hear. "Funny the way Mag talks about yer allthe time. She's purty sick all right. Peterson's baby, it died. "

"Can't we go into the house and see Maggie? You must be nearly frozenstanding out here in the cold. "

"Huh, I'm used to freezin'--I guess yer can come on in though--if yerwant to. Mebbe Mag 'd like to see yer. "

He pushed open the door, and she followed him into the ghastlybarrenness of the place that he knew as home. 

Never before had the daughter of Adam Ward viewed such naked, cruelpoverty. She shuddered with the horror of it. It was so unreal--sounbelievable. 

A small, rusty cookstove with no fire--a rude table with no cloth--arickety cupboard with its shelves bare save for a few dishes--twobroken-backed chairs--that was all. No, it was not all--on a windowledge, beneath a bundle of rags that filled the opening left by abroken pane, was a small earthen flowerpot holding a single scragglyslip of geranium. 

Helen seemed to hear again the Interpreter saying, "A girl with trueinstincts for the best things of life and a capacity for greathappiness. "

At Bobby's call, Mrs. Whaley came from another room. 

The boy did not even attempt an introduction but stood sullenly aside, waiting developments, and the mother in her pitiful distress evidentlyfailed to identify their visitor when Helen introduced herself. 

"I'm pleased to meet you, ma'am, " she said, mechanically, and gazed atthe young woman with a stony indifference, as though her mind, deadenedby fearful anxiety and physical suffering, refused even to wonder atthe stranger's presence in her home. 

Helen did not know what to say--in the presence of this living tragedyof motherhood she felt so helpless, so overwhelmed with the uselessnessof mere words. What right had she, a stranger from another world, tointrude unasked upon the privacy of this home? And yet, something deepwithin her--something more potent in its authority than theconventionalities that had so far ruled her life--assured her that shehad the right to be there. 

"I--I called to see Bobby and Maggie, " she faltered. "I met them, youknow, at the Interpreter's. "

As if Helen's mention of the old basket maker awakened a spark of lifein her pain-deadened senses, the woman returned, "Yes, ma'am--take achair. No, not that one--it's broke. Here--this one will hold you up, Iguess. "

With nervous haste she dusted the chair with her apron. "You'd bestkeep your things on. We don't have no fire except to cook by--whenthere's anything to cook. "

She found a match and lighted a tiny lamp, for it was growing dark. 

"Bobby tells me that little Maggie is ill, " offered Helen. 

Mrs. Whaley looked toward the door of that other room and wrung herthin, toil-worn hands in the agony of her mother fear. "Yes, ma'am--she's real bad, I guess. Poor child, she's been ailin' for sometime. And since the strike--" Her voice broke, and her eyes, dry as ifthey had long since exhausted their supply of tears, were filled withhopeless misery. 

"We had the doctor once before things got so bad; about the time my manquit his work in the Mill to help Jake Vodell, it was. And the doctorhe said all she needed was plenty of good food and warm clothes and achance to play in the fresh country air. "

She looked grimly about the bare room. "We couldn't have the doctor nomore. I don't know as it would make any difference if we could. My man, he's away most of the time. I ain't seen him since yesterday mornin'. And to-day Maggie's been a lot worse. I--I'm afraid--"

Helen wanted to cry aloud. Was it possible that she had asked theInterpreter only a few hours before if there was really much sufferingin the families of the strikers? "You can see Maggie if you want, "said the mother. "She's in there. "

She rose as if to show her visitor to the room. 

But Helen said, quickly, "In just a moment. Mrs. Whaley, won't you tellme first--is there--is there no one to help you?" She asked thequestion timidly, as if fearing to offend. 

The other woman answered, hopelessly, "The charity ladies do a little, and the Interpreter and Mary Martin do all they can. But you see, ma'am, there's so many others just like us that there ain't near enoughto go 'round. "

The significance of the woman's colorless words went to Helen's heartwith appalling force--"so many others just like us. " This stricken homewas not then an exception. With flashing vividness her mind picturedmany rooms similar to the cold and barren apartment where she sat. Shevisioned as clearly as she saw Mrs. Whaley the many other wives andmothers with Bobbies and Maggies who were caught helplessly in themonstrous net of the strike, as these were caught. She knew now why theInterpreter and Billy Rand worked so hard. And again she felt hercheeks burn with shame as when the old basket maker had said, "Forevery idle hand--"

Helen Ward had been an active leader in the foreign relief work duringthe war. Her portrait had even been published in the papers as one whowas devoted to the cause of the stricken women and children abroad. Butthat had all been impersonal, while this--Already in her heart she wasechoing the old familiar cry of the comparative few, "If only thepeople knew! If only they could be made to see as she had been made tosee! The people are not so cruel. They simply do not know. They areignorant, as she was ignorant. "

Aloud she was saying to Bobby, as she thrust her purse in the boy'shand, "You must run quickly, Bobby, to the nearest store and get thethings that your mother needs first, and have some one telephone for adoctor to come at once. "

To the mother she added, hurriedly, as if fearing a protest, "Please, Mrs. Whaley, let me help. I am so sorry I did not know before. Won'tyou forgive me and let me help you now?"

"Gee!" exclaimed Bobby, who had opened the purse. "Look-ee, mom! Gee!"

As one in a dream, the mother turned from the money in the boy's handto Helen. "You ain't meanin', ma'am, for us to use all that?"

"Yes--yes--don't be afraid to get what you need--there will be morewhen that is gone. "

The poor woman did not fill the air with loud cries of hystericalgratitude and superlative prayers to God for His blessing upon this onewho had come so miraculously to her relief. For a moment she stoodtrembling with emotion, while her tearless eyes were fixed upon Helen'sface with a look of such gratitude that the young woman was forced toturn away lest her own feeling escape her control. Then, snatching themoney from the boy's hands, she said, "I had better go myself, ma'am--Bobby can come along to help carry things. If you"--shehesitated, with a look toward that other room--"if you wouldn't mindstayin' with Maggie till we get back?"

A minute later and Helen was alone in that wretched house in theFlats--alone save for the sick child in the next room. 

The door to the street had scarcely closed when a wave of terror sweptover her. She started to her feet. She could not do it. She would callMrs. Whaley back. She would go herself for the needed things. But therewas a strength in Helen Ward that few of her most intimate friends, even, realized; and before her hand touched the latch of the door shehad command of herself once more. In much the same spirit that herbrother John perhaps had faced a lonely night watch in Flanders fields, Adam Ward's daughter forced herself to do this thing that had sounexpectedly fallen to her. 

For some minutes she walked the floor, listening to the noises of theneighborhood. Anxiously she opened the door and looked out into thefast, gathering darkness. No one of her own people knew where she was. She had heard terrible things of Jake Vodell and his creed ofterrorism. McIver had pressed it upon her mind that the strikers wereall alike in their lawlessness. What if Sam Whaley should return tofind her there? She listened--listened. 

A faint, moaning sound came from the next room. She went quickly to thedoorway, but in the faint light she could see only the shadowy outlineof a bed. Taking the lamp she entered fearfully. 

Save for the bed, an old box that served as a table, and one chair, this room was as bare as the other. With the lamp in her hand Helenstood beside the bed. 

The tiny form of little Maggie was lost under the ragged and dirtycoverlet. The child's face in the tangled mass of her unkempt hair wasso wasted and drawn, her eyes, closed under their dark lids, so deeplysunken, and her teeth so exposed by the thin fleshless lips, that sheseemed scarcely human. One bony arm with its clawlike hand encircledthe rag doll that she had held that day when Helen took the twochildren into the country. 

As Helen looked all her fears vanished. She had no thought, now, ofwhere she was or how she came there. Deep within her she felt theawakening of that mother soul which lives in every woman. She did notshrink in horror from this hideous fruit of Jake Vodell's activity. Shedid not cry out in pity or sorrow. She uttered no word of protest. Asshe put the lamp down on the box, her hand did not tremble. Veryquietly she placed the chair beside the bed and sat down to watch andwait as motherhood in all ages has watched and waited. 

While poor Sam Whaley was busy on some mission assigned to him by hisleader, Jake Vodell, and his wife and boy were gone for the foodsupplied by a stranger to his household, this woman, of the class thathe had been taught to hate, held alone her vigil at the bedside of theworkman's little girl. 

A thin, murmuring voice came from the bed. Helen leaned closer. Sheheard a few incoherent mutterings--then, "No--no--Bobby, yer wouldn'tdast blow up the castle. Yer'd maybe kill the princess lady--yer knowyer couldn't do that!"

Again the weak little voice sank into low, meaning less murmurs. Thetiny, clawlike fingers plucked at the coverlet. "Tain't so, theprincess lady _will_ find her jewel of happiness, I tell yer, Bobby, jest like the Interpreter told us--cause her heart is kind--yer knowher heart is--kind--kind--"

Silence again. Some one passed the house. A dog howled. A child in thehouse next door cried. Across the street a man's voice was raised inanger. 

Suddenly little Maggie's eyes opened wide. "An' the princess lady isa-comin' some day to take Bobby and me away up in the sky to herbeautiful palace place where there's flowers and birds an' everythin'all the time an'--an'--"

The big eyes were fixed on Helen's face as the' young woman stoopedover the bed, and the light of a glorious smile transformed the wastedchildish features. 

"Why--why--yer--yer've come!"

CHAPTER XXV

McIVER'S OPPORTUNITY

When the politician stopped at the cigar stand late that afternoon fora box of the kind he gave his admirers, the philosopher, scratching therevenue label, remarked, "I see by the papers that McIver is stilla-stayin'. "

"Humph!" grunted the politician with careful diplomacy. 

The bank clerk who was particular about his pipe tobacco chimed in, "McIver is a stayer all right when it comes to that. "

"Natural born fighter, sir, " offered the politician tentatively. 

"Game sport, McIver is, " agreed the undertaker, taking the place at theshow case vacated by the departing bank clerk. 

The philosopher, handing out the newcomer's favorite smoke, echoed hiscustomer's admiration. "You bet he's a game sport. " He punched the cashregister with vigor. "Don't give a hang what it costs the otherfellow. "

The undertaker laughed. 

"I remember one time, " said the philosopher, "McIver and a bunch wasgoin' fishin' up the river. They stopped here early in the morning andwhile they was gettin' their smokes the judge--who's always handin' outsome sort of poetry stuff, you know--he says: 'Well, Jim, we're goin'to have a fine day anyway. No matter whether we catch anything or notit will be worth the trip just to get out into the country. ' Mac, helooked at the judge a minute as if he wanted to bite him--you know whatI mean--then he says in that growlin' voice of his, 'That may do foryou all right, judge, but I'm here to tell you that when _I_ go fishin'_I go for fish_. '"

The cigar-store philosopher's story accurately described the dominanttrait in the factory man's character. To him business was a sport, agame, a contest of absorbing interest. He entered into it with all thezest and strength of his virile manhood. Mind and body, it absorbedhim. And yet, he knew nothing of that true sportsman's passion whichplays the game for the joy of the game itself. McIver played to win;not for the sake of winning, but for the value of the winnings. Methodswere good or bad only as they won or lost. He was incapable ofexperiencing those larger triumphs which come only in defeat. TheInterpreter's philosophy of the "oneness of all" was to McIver thefanciful theory of an impracticable dreamer, who, too feeble to take aman's part in life, contented himself by formulating creeds of weaknessthat befitted his state. Men were the pieces with which he played hisgame--they were of varied values, certainly, as are the pieces on achess table, but they were pieces on the chess table and nothing more. All of which does not mean that Jim McIver was cruel or unkind. Indeed, he was genuinely and generously interested in many worthy charities, and many a man had appealed to him, and not in vain, for help. But tohave permitted these humanitarian instincts to influence his play inthe game of business would have been, to his mind, evidence of aweakness that was contemptible. The human element, he held, must, ofnecessity, be sternly disregarded if one would win. 

While his fellow townsmen were discussing him at the cigar stand, andmen everywhere in Millsburgh were commenting on his determination tobreak the strikers to his will at any cost, McIver, at his office, wasconcluding a conference with a little company of his fellow employers. 

It was nearly dark when the conference finally ended and the men wenttheir several ways. McIver, with some work of special importancewaiting his attention, telephoned that he would not be home for dinner. He would finish what he had to do and would dine at the club later inthe evening. 

The big factory inside the high, board fence was silent. The night cameon. Save for the armed men who guarded the place, the owner was alone. 

Absorbed in his consideration of the business before him, the man wasoblivious of everything but his game. An hour went by. He forgot thathe had had no dinner. Another hour--and another. 

He was interrupted at last by the entrance of a guard. 

"Well, what do you want?" he said, shortly, when the man stood beforehim. 

"There's a woman outside, sir. She insists that she must see you. "

"A woman!"

"Yes, sir. "

"Who is she?"

"I don't know. "

"Well, what does she look like?"

"I couldn't see her face, she's got a veil on. "

The factory owner considered. How did any one outside of his home knowthat he was in his office at that hour? These times were dangerous. "Vodell is likely to try anything, " he said, aloud. "Better send herabout her business. "

"I tried to, " the guard returned, "but she won't go--says she is afriend of yours and has got to see you to-night. "

"A friend! Huh! How did she get here?"

"In a taxi, and the taxi beat it as soon as she got out. "

Again McIver considered. Then his heavy jaw set, and he growled, "Allright, bring her in--a couple of you--and see that you stand by whileshe is here. If this is a Vodell trick of some sort, I'll beat him toit. "

Helen, escorted by two burly guards, entered the office. 

McIver sprang to his feet with an exclamation of amazement, and histender concern was unfeigned and very comforting to the young womanafter the harrowing experience through which she had just passed. 

Sending the guards back to their posts, he listened gravely while shetold him where she had been and what she had seen. 

"But, Helen, " he cried, when she had finished, "it was sheer madnessfor you to be alone in the Flats like that--at Whaley's place and inthe night, too! Good heavens, girl, don't you realize what a risk youwere taking?"

"I had to go, Jim, " she returned. 

"You had to go?" he repeated. "Why?"

"I had to see for myself if--if things were as bad as the Interpretersaid. Oh, can't you understand, Jim, I could not believe it--it allseemed so impossible. Don't you see that I had to know for sure?"

"I see that some one ought to break that meddlesome old basket maker'shead as well as his legs, " growled McIver indignantly. "The idea ofsending you, Adam Ward's daughter, of all people, alone into that nestof murdering anarchists. "

"But the Interpreter didn't send me, Jim, " she protested. "He did noteven know that I was going. No one knew. "

"I understand all that, " said McIver. "The Interpreter didn't sendyou--oh, no--he simply made you think that you ought to go. That's theway the tricky old scoundrel does everything, from what I am told. "

She looked at him steadily. "Do you think, Jim, the Interpreter's wayis such a bad way to get people to do things?"

"Forgive me, " he begged humbly, "but it makes me wild to think whatmight have happened to you. It's all right now, though. I'll take youhome, and in the future you can turn such work over to the regularcharity organizations. " He was crossing the room for his hat andovercoat. "Jove! I can't believe yet that you have actually been insuch a mess and all by your lonesome, too. "

She was about to speak when he stopped, and, as if struck by a suddenthought, said, quickly, "But Helen, you haven't told me--how did youknow I was here?"

She explained hurriedly, "The doctor sent a taxi for me and Itelephoned your house from a drug store. Your man told me you expectedto be late at the office and would dine at the club. I phoned the cluband when I learned that you were not there I came straight on. I--I hadto see you to-night, Jim. And I was afraid if I phoned you here at theoffice you wouldn't let me come. "

McIver evidently saw from her manner that there was still something inthe amazing situation that they had not yet touched upon. Coming backto his desk, he said, "I don't think I understand, Helen. Why were youin such a hurry to see me? Besides, don't you know that I would havegone to you, at once, anywhere?"

"I know, Jim, " she returned, slowly, as one approaching a difficultsubject, "but I couldn't tell you what I had seen. I couldn't talk toyou about these things at home. "

"I understand, " he said, gently, "and I am glad that you wanted to cometo me. But you are tired and nervous and all unstrung, now. Let me takeyou home and to-morrow we will talk things over. "

As if he had not spoken, she said, steadily, "I wanted to tell youabout the terrible, terrible condition of those poor people, Jim. Ithought you ought to know about them exactly as they are and not in avague, indefinite way as I knew about them before I went to see formyself. "

The man moved uneasily. "I do know about the condition of these people, Helen. It is exactly what I expected would happen. "

She was listening carefully. "You expected them to--to be hungry andcold and sick like that, Jim?"

"Such conditions are always a part of every strike like this, " hereturned. "There is nothing unusual about it, and it is the only thingthat will ever drive these cattle back to their work. They simply haveto be starved to it. "

"But John says--"

He interrupted. "Please, Helen--I know all about what John says. I knowwhere he gets it, too--he gets it from the Interpreter who gave youthis crazy notion of going alone into the Flats to investigatepersonally. And John's ideas are just about as practical. "

"But the mothers and children, Jim?"

"The men can go back to work whenever they are ready, " he retorted. 

"At your terms, you mean?" she asked. 

"My terms are the only terms that will ever open this plant again. Theunions will never dictate my business policies, if every family inMillsburgh starves. "

She waited a moment before she said, slowly, "I must be sure that Iunderstand, Jim--do you mean that you are actually depending upon suchpitiful conditions as I have seen to-night to give you a victory overthe strikers?"

The man made a gesture of impatience. "It is the principle of the thingthat is at stake, Helen. If I yield in this instance it will be onlythe beginning of a worse trouble. If the working class wins this timethere will be no end to their demands. We might as well turn all ourproperties over to them at once and be done with it. This strike inMillsburgh is only a small part of the general industrial situation. The entire business interests of the country are involved. "

Again she waited a little before answering. Then she said, sadly, "Howstrange! It is hard for me to realize, Jim, that the entire businessinterests of this great nation are actually dependent upon the poorlittle Maggie Whaleys. "

"Helen!" he protested, "you make me out a heartless brute. "

"No, Jim, I know you are not that. But when you insist that what I sawto-night--that the suffering of these poor, helpless mothers and theirchildren is the only thing that will enable you employers to break thisstrike and save the business of the country--it--it does seem a gooddeal like the Germans' war policy of frightfulness that we allcondemned so bitterly, doesn't it?"

"These things are not matters of sentiment, Helen. Jake Vodell is notconducting his campaign by the Golden Rule. "

"I know, Jim, but I could not go to Jake Vodell as I have come toyou--could I? And I could not talk to the poor, foolish strikers whoare so terribly deceived by him. Don't you suppose, Jim, that most ofthe strikers think they are right?"

The man stirred uneasily. "I can't help what they think. I can consideronly the facts as they are. "

"That is just what I want, Jim, " she cried. "Only it seems to me thatyou are leaving out some of the most important facts. I can't helpbelieving that if our great captains of industry and kings of financeand teachers of economics and labor leaders would consider _all_ thefacts they could find some way to settle these differences betweenemployers and employees and save the industries of the country withoutstarving little girls and boys and their mothers. "

"If I could have my way the government would settle the difficulty in ahurry, " he said, grimly. 

"You mean the soldiers?"

"Yes, the government should put enough troops from the regular army inhere to drive these men back to their jobs. "

"But aren't these working people just as much a part of our governmentas you employers? Forgive me, Jim, but your plan sounds to me too muchlike the very imperialism that our soldiers fought against in France. "

"Imperialism or not!" he retorted, "the business men of this countrywill never submit to the dictatorship of Jake Vodell and his kind. Itwould be chaos and utter ruin. Look what they are doing in othercountries. "

"Of course it would, " she agreed, "but the Interpreter says that if thebusiness men and employers and the better class of employees like PeterMartin would get together as--as John and Charlie Martin are--that JakeVodell and his kind would be powerless. "

He did not answer, and she continued, "As I understand brother and theInterpreter, this man Vodell does not represent the unions at all--hemerely uses some of the unions, wherever he can, through such men asSam Whaley. Isn't that so, Jim?"

"Whether it is so or not, the result is the same, " he answered. "If theunions of the laboring classes permit themselves to be used as tools bymen like Jake Vodell they must take the consequences. "

He rose to his feet as one who would end an unprofitable discussion. "Come, Helen, it is useless for you to make yourself ill over thesequestions. You are worn out now. Come, you really must let me take youhome. "

"I suppose I must, " she answered, wearily. 

He went to her. "It is wonderful for you to do what you have doneto-night, and for you to come to me like this. Helen--won't you give memy answer--won't you--?"

She put out her hands with a little gesture of protest. "Please, Jim, let's not talk about ourselves to-night. I--I can't. "

Silently he turned away to take up his hat and coat. Silently she stoodwaiting. 

But when he was ready, she said, "Jim, there is just one thing more. "

"What is it, Helen?"

"Tell me truly: you _could_ stop this strike, couldn't you? I mean ifyou would come to some agreement with your factory men, all the otherswould go back to work, too, wouldn't they?"

"Yes, " he said, "I could. "

She hesitated--then falteringly, "Jim, if I--if I promise to be yourwife will you--will you stop the strike? For the sake of the mothersand children who are cold and hungry and sick, Jim--will you--will youstop the strike?"

For a long minute, Jim McIver could not answer. He wanted this woman asa man of his strength wants the woman he has chosen. At the beginningof their acquaintance his interest in Helen had been largely stimulatedby the business possibilities of a combination of his factory and AdamWard's Mill. But as their friendship had grown he had come to love hersincerely, and the more material consideration of their union had fadedinto the background. Men like McIver, who are capable of playing theirgames of business with such intensity and passion, are capable of greatand enduring love. They are capable, too, of great sacrifices toprinciple. As he considered her words and grasped the full force of herquestion his face went white and his nerves were tense with theemotional strain. 

At last he said, gently, "Helen, dear, I love you. I want you for mywife. I want you more than I ever wanted anything. Nothing in the worldis of any value to me compared with your love. But, dear girl, don'tyou see that I can't take you like this? You cannot sell yourself tome--even for such a price. I cannot buy you. " He turned away. 

"Forgive me, Jim, " she cried. "I did not realize what I was saying. I--I was thinking of little Maggie--I--I know you would not do what youare doing if you did not think you were right. Take me home now, please, Jim. "

 * * * * *

Silently they went out to his automobile. Tenderly he helped her intothe car and tucked the robe about her. The guards swung open the biggates, and they swept away into the night. Past the big Mill and theFlats, through the silent business district and up the hill they glidedswiftly--steadily. And no word passed between them. 

They were nearing the gate to the Ward estate when Helen suddenlygrasped her companion's arm with a low exclamation. 

At the same moment McIver instinctively checked the speed of his car. 

They had both seen the shadowy form of a man walking slowly past theentrance to Helen's home. 

To Helen, there was something strangely familiar in the dim outlines ofthe moving figure. As they drove slowly on, passing the man who was nowin the deeper shadows of the trees and bushes which, at this spot grewclose to the fence, she turned her head, keeping her eyes upon him. 

Suddenly a flash of light stabbed the darkness. A shot rang out. Andanother. 

Helen saw the man she was watching fall. 

With a cry, she started from her seat; and before McIver, who hadinvoluntarily stopped the car, could check her, she had leaped from herplace beside him and was running toward the fallen man. 

With a shout "Helen!" McIver followed. 

As she knelt beside the form on the ground McIver put his hand on hershoulder. "Helen, " he said, sharply, as if to bring her to her senses, "you must not--here, let me--"

Without moving from her position she turned her face up to him. "Don'tyou understand, Jim? It is Captain Charlie. "

Two watchmen on the Ward estate, who had heard the shots, came runningup. 

McIver tried to insist that Helen go with him in his roadster to thehouse for help and a larger car, but she refused. 

When he returned with John, the chauffeur and one of the big Wardmachines, after telephoning the police and the doctor, Helen waskneeling over the wounded man just as he had left her. 

She did not raise her head when they stood beside her and seemedunconscious of their presence. But when John lifted her up and sheheard her brother's voice, she cried out and clung to him like afrightened child. 

The doctor arrived just as they were carrying Captain Charlie into theroom to which Mrs. Ward herself led them. The police came a momentlater. 

While the physician, with John's assistance, was caring for hispatient, McIver gave the officers what information he could and wentwith them to the scene of the shooting. 

He returned to the house after the officers had completed theirexamination of the spot and the immediate vicinity just in time to meetJohn, who was going out. Helen and her mother were with the doctor atthe bedside of the assassin's victim. 

McIver wondered at the anguish in John Ward's face. But CaptainCharlie's comrade only asked, steadily, "Did the police find anything, Jim?"

"Not a thing, " McIver answered. "What does the doctor say, John?"

John turned away as if to hide his emotion and for a moment did notanswer. Then he spoke those words so familiar to the men of Flanders'fields, "Charlie is going West, Jim. I must bring his father andsister. Would you mind waiting here until I return? Something mightdevelop, you know. "

"Certainly, I will stay, John--anything that I can do--command me, won't you?"

"Thank you, Jim--I'll not be long. "

 * * * * *

While he waited there alone, Jim McIver's mind went back over thestrange incidents of the evening: Helen's visit to the Whaley home andher coming to him. Swiftly he reviewed their conversation. What was itthat had so awakened Helen's deep concern for the laboring class? Hehad before noticed her unusual interest in the strike and in thegeneral industrial situation--but to-night--he had never dreamed thatshe would go so far. Why had she continued to refuse an answer to hispleading? What was Charlie Martin doing in that neighborhood at thathour? How had Helen recognized him so quickly and surely in thedarkness? The man, as these and many other unanswerable questionscrowded upon him, felt a strange foreboding. Mighty forces beyond hisunderstanding seemed stirring about him. As one feels the gathering ofa storm in the night, he felt the mysterious movements of elementsbeyond his control. 

He was disturbed suddenly by the opening of an outer door behind him. Turning quickly, he faced Adam Ward. 

Before McIver could speak, the Mill owner motioned him to be silent. 

Wondering, McIver obeyed and watched with amazement as the master ofthat house closed the door with cautious care and stole softly towardhim. To his family Adam Ward's manner would not have appeared sostrange, but McIver had never seen the man under one of his attacks ofnervous excitement. 

"I'm glad you are here, Jim, " Adam said, in a shaking whisper. "Youunderstand these things. John is a fool--he don't believe when I tellhim they are after us. But you know what to do. You have the right ideaabout handling these unions. Kill the leaders; and if the men won'twork, turn the soldiers loose on them. You said the right thing, 'Drivethem to their jobs with bayonets. ' Pete Martin's boy was one of them, and he got what was coming to him to-night. And John and Helen broughthim right here into my house. They've got him upstairs there now. Theythink I'll stand for it, but you'll see--I'll show them! What was hehanging around my place for in the night like this? I know what he wasafter. But he got what he wasn't looking for this time and Pete willget his too, if he--"

"Father!"

Unnoticed, Helen had come into the room behind them. In pacing the opendoor she had seen her father and had realized instantly his condition. But the little she had heard him say was not at all unusual to her, andshe attached no special importance to his words. 

Adam Ward was like a child, abashed in her presence. 

She looked at McIver appealingly. "Father is excited and nervous, Jim. He is not at all well, you know. "

McIver spoke with gentle authority, "If you will permit me, I will gowith him to his room for a little quiet talk. And then, perhaps, he cansleep. What do you say, Mr. Ward?"

"Yes--yes, " agreed Adam, hurriedly. 

Helen looked her gratitude and McIver led the Mill owner away. 

When they were in Adam's own apartment and the door was shut McIver'smanner changed with startling abruptness. With all the masterful powerof his strong-willed nature he faced his trembling host, and his heavyvoice was charged with the force of his dominating personality. 

"Listen to me, Adam Ward. You must stop this crazy nonsense. If you actand talk like this the police will have the handcuffs on you before youknow where you are. "

Adam cringed before him. "Jim--I--I--do they think that I--"

"Shut up!" growled McIver. "I don't want to hear another word. I haveheard too much now. Charlie Martin stays right here in this house andyour family will give him every attention. His father and sister willbe here, too, and you'll not open your mouth against them. Do youunderstand?"

"Yes--yes, " whispered the now thoroughly frightened Adam. 

"Don't you dare even to speak to Mrs. Ward or John or Helen as you haveto me. And for God's sake pull yourself together and remember--youdon't know any more than the rest of us about this business--you werein your room when you heard the shots. "

"Yes, of course, Jim--but I--I--"

"Shut up! You are not to talk, I tell you--even to me. "

Adam Ward whimpered like a child. 

For another moment McIver glared at him; then, "Don't forget that I sawthis affair and that I went over the ground with the police. I'm goingback downstairs now. You go to bed where you belong and stay there. "

He turned abruptly and left the room. 

But as he went down the stairway McIver drew his handkerchief from hispocket and wiped the perspiration from his brow. 

"What in God's name, " he asked himself, "did Adam Ward's excited fearsmean? What terrible thing gave birth to his mad words? What awfulpattern was this that the unseen forces were weaving? And what part washe, with his love for Helen, destined to fill in it all?" That his lifewas being somehow woven into the design he felt certain--but how and towhat end? And again the man in all his strength felt that dreadforeboding. 

 * * * * *

When Peter Martin and his daughter arrived with John at the big houseon the hill, Mrs. Ward met them at the door. 

The old workman betrayed no consciousness of the distance the years ofAdam Ward's material prosperity had placed between these two familiesthat in the old-house days had lived in such intimacy. 

Mary hesitated. It must have been that to the girl, who saw it betweenherself and the happy fulfillment of her womanhood, the distance seemedeven greater than it actually was. 

But her hesitation was only for an instant. One full look into thegentle face that was so marked by the years of uncomplainingdisappointment and patient unhappiness and Mary knew that in the heartof John Ward's mother the separation had brought no change. In the armsof her own mother's dearest friend the young woman found, even as achild, the love she needed to sustain her in that hour. 

When they entered the room where Captain Charlie lay unconscious, Helenrose from her watch beside the bed and held out her hands to hergirlhood playmate. And in her gesture there was a full surrender--aplea for pardon. Humbly she offered--lovingly she invited--while sheheld her place beside the man who was slowly passing into that shadowwhere all class forms are lost, as if she claimed the right before acourt higher than the petty courts of human customs. No word wasspoken--no word was needed. The daughter of Peter Martin and thedaughter of Adam Ward knew that the bond of their sisterhood wassealed. 

In that wretched home in the Flats, little Maggie Whaley smiled in hersleep as she dreamed of her princess lady. 

The armed guards at their stations around McIver's dark and silentfactory kept their watch. 

The Mill, under the cloud of smoke, sang the deep-voiced song of itsindustry as the night shift carried on. 

In the room back of the pool hall, Jake Vodell whispered with two ofhis disciples. 

In the window of the Interpreter's hut on the cliff a lamp gleamedstarlike above the darkness below. 

CHAPTER XXVI

AT THE CALL OF THE WHISTLE

Everywhere in Millsburgh the shooting of Captain Charlie was the onetopic of conversation. As the patrons of the cigar stand came and wentthey talked with the philosopher of nothing else. The dry-goodspessimist delivered his dark predictions to a group of his fellowcitizens and listened with grave shakes of his head to the counteropinions of the real-estate agent. The grocer questioned the garage manand the lawyer discussed the known details of the tragedy with thepostmaster, the hotel keeper and the politician. The barber asked thebanker for his views and reviewed the financier's opinion to the judgewhile a farmer and a preacher listened. The milliner told her customersabout it and the stenographer discussed it with the bookkeeper. In thehomes, on the streets, and, later in the day, throughout the country, the shock of the crime was felt. 

Meanwhile, the efforts of the police to find the assassin werefruitless. The most careful search revealed nothing in the nature of aclew. 

Millsburgh had been very proud of Captain Martin and the honors he hadwon in France, as Millsburgh was proud of Adam Ward and hissuccess--only with a different pride. The people had known Charlie fromhis birth, as they had known his father and mother all their years. There had been nothing in the young workman's life--as every oneremarked--to lead to such an end. 

It is doubtful if in the entire community there was a single soul thatdid not secretly or openly think of the tragedy as being in some darkway an outcome of the strike. And, gradually, as the day passed, theconjectures, opinions and views crystallized into two opposingtheories--each with its natural advocates. 

One division of the people held that the deed was committed by some oneof Jake Vodell's followers, because of the workman's known oppositionto a sympathetic strike of the Mill workers' union. Captain Charlie'sleadership of the Mill men was recognized by all, and it was concededgenerally that it was his active influence, guided by the Interpreter'scounsel, that was keeping John Ward's employees at work. Without theassistance of the Mill men the strike leader could not hope forvictory. With Captain Charlie's personal influence no longer a factor, it was thought that the agitator might win the majority of the Millworkers and so force the union into line with the strikers. 

This opinion was held by many of the business men and by the morethoughtful members of the unions, who had watched with graveapprehension the increasing bitterness of the agitator's hatred ofCaptain Charlie, because of the workman's successful opposition to hisschemes. 

The opposing theory, which was skillfully advanced by Jake Vodellhimself and fostered by his followers, was that the mysterious assassinwas an agent of McIver's and that the deed was committed for the verypurpose of charging the strikers with the crime and thus turning publicsympathy against them. 

This view, so plausible to the minds of the strikers, prepared, as theywere, by hardship and suffering, found many champions among the Millmen themselves. Not a few of those who had stood with Charlie in hisopposition to the agitator and against their union joining the strikenow spoke openly with bitter feeling against the employer class. Theweeks of agitation--the constant pounding of Vodell's arguments--thesteady fire of his oratory and the continual appeal to their classloyalty made it easy for them to stand with their fellow workmen, nowthat the issue was being so clearly forced. 

So the lines of the industrial battle were drawn closer--the opposingforces were massed in more definite formation--the feeling was moreintense and bitter. In the gloom and hush of the impending desperatestruggle that was forced upon it by the emissary of an alienorganization, this little American city waited the coming of the darkmessenger to Captain Charlie. It was felt by all alike that theworkman's death would precipitate the crisis. 

And through it all the question most often asked was this, "Why was theworkman, Charlie Martin, at the gate to Adam Ward's estate at that hourof the night?"

To this question no one ventured even the suggestion of a satisfactoryanswer. 

All that long day Helen kept her watch beside the wounded man. Otherswere there in the room with her, but she seemed unconscious of theirpresence. She made no attempt, now, to hide her love. There was nopretense--no evasion. Openly, before them all, she silentlyacknowledged him--her man--and to his claim upon her surrenderedherself without reserve. 

James McIver called but she would not see him. 

When they urged her to retire and rest, she answered always with thesame words: "I must be here when he awakens--I must. "

And they, loving her, understood. 

It was as if the assassin's hand had torn aside the curtain of materialcircumstances and revealed suddenly the realities of their inner lives. They realized now that this man, who had in their old-house days wonthe first woman love of his girl playmate, had held that love againstall the outward changes that had taken her from him. John and hismother knew, now, why Helen had never said "Yes" to Jim McIver. PeterMartin and Mary knew why, in Captain Charlie's heart, there had seemedto be no place for any woman save his sister. 

At intervals the man on the bed moved uneasily, muttering low words anddisconnected fragments of speech. Army words--some of them were--as ifhis spirit lived for the moment again in the fields of France. At othertimes the half-formed phrases were of his work--the strike--his home. Again he spoke his sister's name or murmured, "Father, " or "John. " Butnot once did Helen catch the word she longed to hear him speak. It wasas if, even in his unconscious mental wanderings, the man still guardedthe name that in secret he had held most dear. 

Three times during the day he opened his eyes and lookedabout--wonderingly at first--then as though he understood. As onecontented and at peace, he smiled and drifted again into the shadows. But now at times his hand went out toward her with a little movement, as though he were feeling for her in the dark. 

About midnight he seemed to be sleeping so naturally that theypersuaded Helen to rest. At daybreak she was again at her post. 

Mrs. Ward and Mary had gone, in their turn, for an hour or two ofsorely needed rest. Peter Martin was within call downstairs. John, whowas watching with his sister, had left the room for the moment andHelen was at the bedside alone. 

Suddenly through the quiet morning air came the deep-toned call of theMill whistle. 

As a soldier awakens at the sound of the morning bugle, Captain Charlieopened his eyes. 

Instantly she was bending over him. As he looked up into her face shecalled his name softly. She saw the light of recognition come into hiseyes. She saw the glory of his love. 

"Helen, " he said--and again, "Helen. "

It was as if the death that claimed him had come also for her. 

For the first time in many months the voice of the Mill was not heardby the Interpreter in his little hut on the cliff. Above the silentbuildings the smoke cloud hung like a pall. From his wheel chair theold basket maker watched the long procession moving slowly down thehill. 

There were no uniforms in that procession--no military band withmuffled drums led that solemn march--no regimental colors in honor ofthe dead. There were no trappings of war--no martial ceremony. And yet, to the Interpreter, Captain Charlie died in the service of his countryas truly as if he had been killed on the field of battle. 

Long after the funeral procession had passed beyond his sight, theInterpreter sat there at the window, motionless, absorbed in thought. Twice silent Billy came to stand beside his chair, but he did not heed. His head was bowed. His great shoulders stooped. His hands were idle. 

There was a sound of some one knocking at the door. 

The Interpreter did not hear. 

The sound was repeated, and this time he raised his head questioningly. 

Again it came and the old basket maker called, "Come in. "

The door opened. Jim McIver entered. 

CHAPTER XXVII

JAKE VODELL'S MISTAKE

Since that night of the tragedy McIver had struggled to grasp thehidden meaning of the strange series of incidents. But the more hetried to understand, the more he was confused and troubled. Nor had hebeen able, strong-willed as he was, to shake off the feeling that hewas in the midst of unseen forces--that about him mysterious influenceswere moving steadily to some fixed and certain end. 

In constant touch, through his agents, with the strike situation, hehad watched the swiftly forming sentiment of the public. He knew thatthe turning point of the industrial war was near. He did not deceivehimself. He knew Jake Vodell's power. He knew the temper of thestrikers. He saw clearly that if the assassin who killed CaptainCharlie was not speedily discovered the community would suffer under areign of terror such as the people had never conceived. And, what wasof more vital importance to McIver, perhaps, if the truth was not soonrevealed, Jake Vodell's charges that the murder was inspired by McIverhimself would become, in the minds of many, an established fact. Withthe full realization of all that would result to the community and tohimself if the identity of the murderer was not soon established, McIver was certain in his own mind that he alone knew the guilty man. 

To reveal what he believed to be the truth of the tragedy would be tosave the community and himself--and to lose, for all time, the woman heloved. McIver did not know that through the tragedy Helen was alreadylost to him. 

In his extremity the factory owner had come at last to the man who wassaid to wield such a powerful influence over the minds of the people. He had never before seen the interior of that hut on the cliff nor metthe man who for so many years had been confined there. Standing justoutside the door, he looked curiously about the room with theunconscious insolence of his strength. 

The man in the wheel chair did not speak. When Billy looked at him hesignaled his wishes in their silent language, and, watching hisvisitor, waited. 

For a long moment McIver gazed at the old basket maker as if estimatinghis peculiar strength, then he said with an unintentional touch ofcontempt in his heavy voice, "So _you_ are the Interpreter. "

"And you, " returned the man in the wheel chair, gently, "are McIver. "

McIver was startled. "How did you know my name?"

"Is McIver's name a secret also?" came the strange reply. 

McIver's eyes flashed with a light that those who sat opposite him inthe game of business had often seen. With perfect self-control he said, coolly, "I have been told often that I should come to see you but--" hepaused and again looked curiously about the room. 

The Interpreter, smiling, caught up the unfinished sentence. "But youdo not see how an old, poverty-stricken and crippled maker of basketscan be of any use to you. "

McIver spoke as one measuring his words. "They tell me you help peoplewho are in trouble. "

"Are you then in trouble?" asked the Interpreter, kindly. 

The other did not answer, and the man in the wheel chair continued, still kindly, "What trouble can the great and powerful McIver have? Youhave never been hungry--you have never felt the cold--you have nochildren to starve--no son to be killed. "

"I suppose you hold me personally responsible for the strike and forall the hardships that the strikers have brought upon themselves andtheir families?" said McIver. "You fellows who teach thisbrotherhood-of-man rot and never have more than one meal aheadyourselves always blame men like me for all the suffering in theworld. "

The Interpreter replied with a dignity that impressed even McIver. "Whoam I that I should assume to blame any one? Who are you, sir, thatassume the power implied by either your acceptance or your denial ofthe responsibility? You are only a part of the whole, as I am a part. You, in your life place, are no less a creature of circumstances--anaccident--than I, here in my wheel chair--than Jake Vodell. We areall--you and I, Jake Vodell, Adam Ward, Peter Martin, Sam Whaley--weare all but parts of the great oneness of life. The want, the misery, the suffering, the unhappiness of humanity is of that unity no lessthan is the prosperity, peace and happiness of the people. Before wecan hope to bring order out of this industrial chaos we must recognizeour mutual dependence upon the whole and acknowledge the equality ofour guilt in the wretched conditions that now exist. "

As the Interpreter spoke, James McIver again felt the movement of thoseunseen forces that were about him. His presence in that little hut onthe cliff seemed, now, a part of some plan that was not of his making. He was awed by the sudden conviction that he had not come to theInterpreter of his own volition, but had been led there by somethingbeyond his understanding. 

"Why should your fellow workmen not hate you, sir?" continued the oldbasket maker. "You hold yourself apart, superior, of a class distinctand separate. Your creed of class is intolerance. Your very businesspolicy is a declaration of class war. Your boast that you can livewithout the working people is madness. You can no more live withoutthem than they can live without you. You can no more deny the mutualdependence of employer and employee with safety to yourself than Samsonof old could pull down the pillars of the temple without being himselfburied in the ruins. "

By an effort of will McIver strove to throw off the feeling thatpossessed him. He spoke as one determined to assert himself. "We cannotrecognize the rights of Jake Vodell and his lawless followers todictate to us in our business. It would mean ruin, not only of ourindustries, but of our government. "

"Exactly so, " agreed the Interpreter. "And yet, sir, you claim foryourself the right to live by the same spirit of imperialism thatanimates Vodell. You make the identical class distinction that hemakes. You appeal to the same class intolerance and hatred. You andJake Vodell have together brought about this industrial war inMillsburgh. The community itself--labor unions and business menalike--is responsible for tolerating the imperialism that you and thisalien agitator, in opposition to each other, advocate. The community ispaying the price. "

The factory owner flushed. "Of course you would say these things toJake Vodell. "

"I do, " returned the Interpreter, gently. 

"Oh, you _are_ in touch with him then?"

"He comes here sometimes. He is coming this afternoon--at four o'clock. Will you not stay and meet him, Mr. McIver?" McIver hesitated. Hedecided to ignore the invitation. With more respect in his manner thanhe had so far shown, he said, courteously, "May I ask why Jake Vodellcomes to you?"

The Interpreter replied, sadly, as one who accepts the fact of hisfailure, "For the same reason that McIver came. "

McIver started with surprise. "You know why I came to you?"

The man in the wheel chair looked steadily into his visitor's eyes. "Iknow that you are not personally responsible for the death of theworkman, Captain Martin. "

McIver sprang to his feet. He fairly gasped as the flood of questionsraised by the Interpreter's words swept over him. 

"You--you know who killed Charlie Martin?" he demanded at last. 

The old basket maker did not answer. 

"If you know, " cried McIver, "why in God's name do you not tell thepeople? Surely, sir, you are not ignorant of the danger that threatensthis community. The death of this union man has given Vodell just theopportunity he needed and he is using it. If you dare to shield theguilty man--whoever he is--you will--"

"Peace, McIver! This community will not be plunged into the horrors ofa class war such as you rightly fear. There are yet enough sane andloyal American citizens in Millsburgh to extinguish the fire that youand Jake Vodell have started. "

 * * * * *

When Jake Vodell came to the Interpreter's hut shortly after McIver hadleft, he was clearly in a state of nervous excitement. 

"Well, " he said, shortly, "I am here--what do you want--why did yousend for me?"

The Interpreter spoke deliberately with his eyes fixed upon the darkface of the agitator. "Vodell, I have told you twice that your campaignin Millsburgh was a failure. Your coming to this community was amistake. Your refusal to recognize the power of the thing that madeyour defeat certain was a mistake. You have now made your third andfinal mistake. "

"A mistake! Hah--that is what you think. You do not know. I tell youthat I have turned a trick that will win for me the game. Already thepeople are rallying to me. I have put McIver at last in a hole fromwhich he will not escape. The Mill workers are ready _now_ to doanything I say. You will see--to-morrow I will have these employers andall their capitalist class eating out of my hand. To me they shall begfor mercy. I--I will dictate the terms to them and they will pay. Youmay take my word--they will pay. "

The man paced to and fro with the triumphant air of a conqueror, andhis voice rang with his exultation. 

"No, Jake Vodell, " said the Interpreter, calmly. "You are deceivingyourself. Your dreams are as vain as your mistake is fatal. "

The man faced the old basket maker suddenly, as if arrested by apossible meaning in the Interpreter's words that had not at firstcaught his attention. 

"And what is this mistake that I have made?" he growled. 

The answer came with solemn portent. "You have killed the wrong man. "

The agitator was stunned. His mouth opened as if he would speak, but noword came from his trembling lips. He drew back as if to escape. 

The old man in the wheel chair continued, sadly, "_I_ am the one youshould have killed--I am the cause of your failure to gain the supportof the Mill workers' union. "

The strike leader recovered himself with a shrug of his heavyshoulders. 

"So that is it, " he sneered; "you would accuse me of shooting yourCaptain Charlie, heh?"

"You have accused yourself, sir. "

"But how?"

"By the use you are making of Captain Charlie's death. If you did notknow who committed the crime--if you did not feel sure that theidentity of the assassin would remain a mystery to the people--youwould not dare risk charging the employers with it. "

With an oath the other returned, "I tell you that McIver or his hiredgunmen did it so they could lay the blame on the strikers and so turnthe Mill workers' union against us. That is what the Mill men believe. "

"That is what you want them to believe. It is an old trick, Vodell. Youhave used it before. "

The agitator's eyes narrowed under his scowling brows. "Look here, " hegrowled, "I do not like this talk of yours. Perhaps you had betterprove what you charge, heh?"

"Please God, I will prove it, " came the calm answer. 

Jake Vodell, as he looked down upon the seemingly helpless old man inthe wheel chair, was thinking, "It would be safer if this old basketmaker were not permitted to speak these things to others--hisinfluence, after all, is a thing to consider. "

"No, Jake Vodell, " said the Interpreter gently, "you won't do it. BillyRand is watching us. If you make a move to do what you are thinking, Billy will kill you. "

The Interpreter raised his hand and his silent companion came quicklyto stand beside his chair. 

With a shrug of his shoulders Vodell drew back a few steps toward thedoor. 

"Bah! Why should I waste my time with a crippled old basket maker--Ihave work to do. If you watch from the window of your shanty you willsee to-morrow whether or not the Mill workers are with me. I will makefor you a demonstration that will be known through the country. I toldyou at the first that the working people would find out who is theirfriend. Now you shall see what they will do to the enemies of theirclass. Who can say, Mr. Interpreter, perhaps your miserable hut so highup here would make a good torch to signal the beginning of the show, heh?"

When the door had closed behind Jake Vodell, the Interpreter said, aloud, "So he has set to-morrow night for his demonstration. We mustwork fast, Billy--there is no time to lose. "

With his hands he asked his companion for paper and pencil. When Billybrought them he wrote a few words and folding the message gave it tothe big man who stood waiting. 

For a few minutes they talked together in their silent way. Then BillyRand put the Interpreter's message carefully in his pocket andhurriedly left the hut. 

 * * * * *

That evening Jake Vodell addressed the largest crowd that had yetassembled at his street meetings. With characteristic eloquence theagitator pictured Captain Charlie as a martyr to the unprincipledschemes of the employer class. 

"McIver and his crew are charging the strikers with this crime in orderto set our union brothers against us, " he shouted. "They think that bysetting up a division among us they can win. They know that if theworking people stand together, true to their class, loyal to theircomrades, they will rule the world. Why don't the police produce themurderer of Captain Charlie? I will tell you the answer, my brotherworkmen: it is because the law and the officers of the law are underthe control of those who do not want the murderer produced--that iswhy. They dare not produce him. The life of a poor working man--what isthat to these masters of crime who acknowledge no law but the laws theymake for themselves. You workers have no laws. A slave knows no justicebut the whim of his master. Think of the mothers and children in yourhomes--you slaves who create the wealth of your lords and masters. Andnow they have taken the life of one of your truest and most loyal unionleaders. Where will they stop? If you do not stand like men againstthese cruel outrages what have you to hope for? You know as well as Ithat no workman in Millsburgh would raise his hand against such afellow worker as Captain Charlie Martin. "

While the agitator was speaking, Billy Rand moved quickly here andthere through the crowd, as if searching for some one. 

After the mass meeting on the street there was a meeting of the Millworkers' union. 

Later, Vodell's inner circle met in the room back of Dago Bill's poolhall. 

It was midnight when Billy Rand finally returned to the waitingInterpreter. 

Evidently he had failed in the mission entrusted to him by the oldbasket maker. 

The next morning, Billy Rand again went forth with the Interpreter'smessage. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE MOB AND THE MILL

On the morning following the day of the funeral scarcely half of theusual force of workmen appeared at the Mill. The men who did choose towork were forced to pass a picket line of strikers who with jeers andthreats and arguments sought to turn them from their purpose. 

The death of Captain Charlie, by defining more clearly the two lines ofpublic sentiment, had increased Jake Vodell's strength materially, butthe Mill workers' union had not yet officially declared for thesympathetic strike that would deliver the community wholly into thehands of the agitator. The Mill men, who were still opposed to JakeVodell's leadership and coolly refused to hold the employers guilty ofthe death of Captain Charlie upon the mere unsupported assertions ofthe strike leader, were therefore free to continue their work. Thisaction of the members of the Mill workers' union who were loyal toJohn, however, quite naturally increased the feeling of their comradeswho had accepted Vodell's version of the murder. Thus, the final crisisof the industrial battle centered about the Mill. 

Every hour that John Ward could keep the Mill running lessened Vodell'schances of final victory. The strike leader knew that if these daysimmediately following Captain Charlie's death passed without closingthe Mill, his cause was lost. The workmen were now aroused to thehighest pitch of excitement. The agitator realized that if they werenot committed by some action to his cause before the fever of theirmadness began to abate, his followers would, day by day, in everincreasing numbers go back to work under John. The successful operationof the Mill was a demonstration to the public that Vodell's campaignagainst the employers was not endorsed by the better and strongerelement of employees. To the mind of the strike leader a counterdemonstration was imperative. To that immediate end the man now bentevery effort. 

All day the members of the agitator's inner circle were active. Whenevening came, a small company of men gathered in a vacant storebuilding not far from the Mill. There was little talk among them. Whenone did speak it was to utter a mere commonplace or perhaps to greetsome newcomer. They were as men who meet at a given place by agreementto carry out some definite and carefully laid plan. Moment by momentthe company grew in numbers until the gathering assumed suchproportions that it overflowed the building and filled the street. Andnow, scattered through the steadily growing crowd, the members of thatinner circle were busy with exhortations and arguments preparing theworkmen for what was to follow. 

Presently from the direction of the strike headquarters came anothercompany with Jake Vodell himself in their midst. These had assembled atthe strike headquarters. Without pausing they swept on down the streettoward the Mill, taking with them the crowd that was waiting at the oldstore. Scarcely had they reached the front of the large main buildingwhen they were joined by still another crowd that had been gathering inthe neighborhood of McIver's factory. Thus, with startling suddenness, a great company of workmen was assembled at the Mill. 

But a large part of that company had yet to be molded to Vodell'spurpose. Many had gone to the designated places in response to thesimple announcement that a labor meeting would be held there. Onlythose of the agitator's trusted inner circle had known of the plan tounite these smaller gatherings in one great mass meeting. Only thesechosen few knew the real purpose of that meeting. There were hundredsof workmen in that throng who were opposed to Vodell and his methods, but they were unorganized, with no knowledge of the strike leader'splans. And so it had been easy for the members of that inner circle tolead these separate smaller gatherings to the larger assembly in frontof the Mill. 

To accomplish the full purpose of his demonstration against theemployer class, the strike leader must make it appear to the public asthe united action of the working people of Millsburgh. The requirementsof his profession made Jake Vodell a master of mob psychology. With theleaven of his chosen inner circle and the temper of the many strikerswhose nerves were already strained to the breaking point by their weeksof privation, the agitator was confident that he could bend theassembled multitude to his will. Those who were opposed to hisleadership and to his methods--disorganized and taken by surprise asthey were--would be helpless. At the same time their presence in themob would appear to give their sanction and support to whatever wasaccomplished. 

Quickly word of the gathering spread throughout the community. Fromevery direction--from the Flats, from the neighborhood of the Martinhome--and from the more distant parts of the city--men were movingtoward the Mill. With every moment the crowd increased in size. Everywhere among the mass of men Vodell's helpers were busy. 

A block away an automobile stopped at the curb in front of a desertedhouse. A man left the car, and, keeping well out of the light from thestreet lamps, walked swiftly to the outskirts of the mob. With his facehidden by the turned-up collar of his overcoat and the brim of his hatpulled low, he moved here and there in the thin edge of the multitude. 

The agitator, standing on a goods box on the street opposite the bigdoors of the main Mill building, began his address. As one man, thehundreds of assembled workmen turned toward the leader of the strike. Ahush fell over them. But there was one in that great crowd to whom thewords of Jake Vodell meant nothing. Silent Billy Rand, pushing his waythrough the press of men, searched face after face with simple, untiring purpose. 

A squad of police arrived. Vodell, calling attention to them, facetiously invited the guardians of the law to a seat of honor on therostrum. The crowd laughed. 

At that moment Billy Rand caught sight of the face he was seeking. Whenthe Interpreter's messenger grasped his arm, the man, who was standingwell back in the edge of the crowd, started with fear. Billy thrust thenote into his hand. As he read the message he shook so that the paperrattled in his fingers. Helplessly he looked about. He seemed paralyzedwith horror. Again Billy Rand grasped his arm and this time drew himaside, out of the crowd. 

Helpless and shaken, the man made no effort to resist, as theInterpreter's deaf and dumb companion hurried him away down the street. 

At the foot of the zigzag stairway Billy's charge sank down on thelower step, as if he had no strength to go on. Without a moment's pauseBilly lifted him to his feet and almost carried him up the stairs andinto the hut to place him, cowering and whimpering, before the man inthe wheel chair. 

 * * * * *

John and Helen had gone to the Martin cottage that evening to spend anhour with the old workman and his daughter. They had just arrived whenthe telephone rang. 

It was the watchman at the Mill. He had called John at the Ward home, and Mrs. Ward had directed him to call the cottage. 

In a few words John told the others of the crowd at the Mill. He mustgo at once. 

"But not alone, boy, " said Peter Martin. "This is no more your job than'tis mine. "

As they were leaving, John said hurriedly to Helen, "Telephone Tom tocome for you at once and take Mary home with you. Mother may need you, and Mary must not be left here alone. I'll bring Uncle Pete home withme. "

A moment later the old workman and the general manager, in John'sroadster, were on their way to the Mill. 

When Tom arrived at the cottage with Helen's car the two young womenwere ready. They were entering the automobile when Billy Rand appeared. It was evident from his labored breathing that he had been running, buthis face betrayed no excitement. With a pleased smile, as one who wouldsay, "Luckily I got here just in time, " he handed a folded paper toMary. 

By the light of the automobile lamp she read the Interpreter's messagealoud to Helen. "

"Telephone John to come to me at once with a big car. If you can't getJohn tell Helen. "

For an instant they looked at each other questioningly. Then Helenspoke to the chauffeur. "To the Interpreter's, Tom. " She indicated toBilly Rand that he was to go with them. 

 * * * * *

It was not Jake Vodell's purpose to call openly in his address to theassembled workmen for an attack on the Mill. Such a demonstrationagainst the employer class was indeed the purpose of the gathering, butit must come as the spontaneous outburst from the men themselves. Hisspeech was planned merely to lay the kindling for the fire. The actuallighting of the blaze would follow later. The conflagration, too, wouldbe started simultaneously from so many different points in the crowdthat no one individual could be singled out as having incited the riot. 

The agitator was still speaking when John and Peter Martin arrived onthe scene. Quietly and carefully John drove through the outskirts ofthe crowd to a point close to the wall and not far from the main doorof the building, nearly opposite the speaker. Stopping the motor thetwo men sat in the car listening to Vodell's address. 

The agitator did not call attention to the presence of the manager ofthe Mill as he had to the police, nor was there any noticeable break inhis speech. But throughout the great throng there was a movement--aripple of excitement--as the men looked toward John and the oldworkman, and turned each to his neighbor with low-spoken comments. Andthen, from every part of the crowd, the agitator saw individuals movingquietly toward the manager's car until between the two men in theautomobile and the main body of the speaker's audience a small compactgroup of workmen stood shoulder to shoulder. They were the men of theMill workers' union who had refused to follow Jake Vodell. And everyman, as he took his place, greeted John and the old workman with a lowword, or a nod and a smile. The agitator concluded his address, andamid the shouts and applause left his place on the goods box to moveabout among his followers. 

Presently, a low murmur arose like a growling undertone. Now and then avoice was raised sharply in characteristic threat or epithet againstthe employer class. The murmur swelled into a heavy menacing roar. Thecrowd, shaken by some invisible inner force, swayed to and fro. Ashrill yell rang out and at the signal scores of hoarse voices wereraised in shouts of mad defiance--threats and calls for action. As thewhirling waters of a maelstrom are drawn to the central point, the mobwas massed before the doors of the Mill. 

The little squad of police was struggling forward. John Ward sprang tohis feet. The loyal union men about the car stood fast. 

At the sound of the manager's voice the mob hesitated. In all thatmaddened crowd there was not a soul in ignorance of John Ward'scomradeship with his fellow workmen. In spite of Jake Vodell's carefulteaching--in spite of his devilish skill in using McIver as an examplein his appeals and arguments inciting their hatred against allemployers as a class, they were checked in their madness by thepresence of Captain Charlie's friend. 

But it was only for the moment. The members of Vodell's inner circlewere at work among them. John had spoken but a few sentences when hewas interrupted by voices from the crowd. 

"Tell us where your old man got this Mill that he says is his?"

"Where did Adam get his castle on the hill?"

"We and our families live in shanties. "

"Who paid for your automobile, John?"

"We and our children walk. "

As the manager, ignoring the voices, continued his appeal, theinterruptions came with more frequency, accompanied now by groans, shouts, hisses and derisive laughter. 

"You're all right, John, but you're in with the wrong bunch. "

"We're going to run things for a while now and give you a chance to dosome real work. "

The police pleaded with them. The mob jeered, "Go get a job withMcIver's gunmen. Go find the man who murdered Captain Charlie. "

Once more the growling undertones swelled into a roar. "Come on--comeon--we've had enough talk--let's do something. "

As the crowd surged again toward the Mill doors, there was a forwardmovement of the close-packed group of workmen about the ear. John, leaning over them, said, sharply, "No--no--not that--men, not that!"

Then suddenly the movement of the mob toward the Mill was again checkedas Peter Martin raised his voice. "If you won't listen to Mr. Ward, "said the old man, when he had caught their attention, "perhaps you'llnot mind hearin' me. "

In the stillness of the uncertain moment, a voice answered, "Go ahead, Uncle Pete!"

Standing on the seat of the automobile, the kindly old workman lookeddown into the grim faces of his comrades. And, as they saw him thereand thought of Captain Charlie, a deep breath of feeling swept over thethrong. 

In his slow, thoughtful way the veteran of the Mill spoke. "There'll beno one among you, I'm thinkin', that'll dare say as how I don't belongto the workin' class. An' there'll be no man that'll deny my right tobe heard in any meeting of Millsburgh working men. I helped theInterpreter to organize the first union that was ever started in thiscity--and so far we've managed to carry on our union work without anyhelp from outsiders who have no real right to call themselves Americancitizens even--much less to dictate to us American workmen. "

There was a stir among Vodell's followers. A voice rose but wassilenced by the muttered protest which it caused. Jake Vodell, quick tograsp the feeling of the crowd, was making his way toward his goods boxrostrum. Here and there he paused a moment to whisper to one of hisinner circle. 

The old workman continued, "You all know the principles that my boyCharlie stood for. You know that he was just as much against employerslike McIver as he was against men like this agitator who is leading youinto this trouble here to-night. Jake Vodell has made you believe thatmy boy was killed by the employer class. But I tell you men thatCharlie had no better friend in the world than his employer, John Ward. And I tell you that John and Charlie were working together here for thebest interests of us all--just as they were together in France. Youknow what my boy would say if he was here to-night. He would say justwhat I am saying. He would tell you that we workmen have got to standby the employers who stand by us. He would tell you that we Americanunion workmen must protect ourselves and our country against thisanarchy and lawlessness that has got you men here to-night so allexcited and beside yourselves that you don't know what you're doing. InCaptain Charlie's name I ask you men to break up this mob and goquietly to your homes where you can think this thing over. We--"

From his position across the street Jake Vodell suddenly interruptedthe old workman with a rapid fire of questions and insinuations andappeals to the mob. 

Peter Martin, poorly equipped for a duel of words with such a master ofthe art, was silenced. 

Slowly the mob swung again to the agitator. Under the spell of hisinfluence they were responding once more to his call, when a bigautomobile rolled swiftly up to the edge of the crowd and stopped. 

John Ward was the first to recognize his sister's car. With a word tothe men near him he sprang to the ground and ran forward. The loyalworkmen went with him. 

In the surprise of the moment, not knowing what was about to happen, Jake Vodell stood silent. In breathless suspense every eye in the crowdwas fixed upon that little group about Helen's car. 

Another moment and the assembled workmen witnessed a sight that theywill never forget. Down the lane that opened as if by magic through themass of men came the loyal members of the Mill workers' union. High ontheir shoulders they carried the Interpreter. 

In a silence, deep as the stillness of death, they bore him throughthose close-packed walls of humanity, straight to the big doors of theMill. With their backs against the building they held him high--face toface with Jake Vodell and the mob that the agitator was swaying to hiswill. 

The old basket maker's head was bare and against the dark background ofthe dingy walls his venerable face with its crown of silvery hair wasas the face of a prophet. 

They did not cheer. In silent awe they stood with tense, upturnedfaces. 

A voice, low but clear and distinct, cut the stillness. 

"Hats off!"

As one man, they uncovered their heads. 

The Interpreter's deep voice--kindly but charged with strangeauthority--swept over them. 

"Workmen--what are you doing here? Are you toys that you giveyourselves as playthings into the hands of this man who chooses to useyou in his game? Are you children to be led by his idle words and movedby his foolish dreams? Are you men or are you cattle to be stampeded byhim, without reason, to your own destruction? Would you, at thisstranger's bidding, dig a pit for your fancied enemies and fall into ityourselves?"

Not a man in that great crowd of workmen moved. In breathless silencethey stood awed by the majesty of the old basket maker'spresence--hushed by the sorrowful authority of his voice. 

Solemnly the Interpreter continued, "The one who took the life of yourcomrade workman, Captain Charlie, was not a tool in the hands of youremployers as you have been led to believe. Neither was that dreadfulact inspired by the workmen of Millsburgh. Captain Charlie was killedby a poor, foolish weakling who was under the same spell that to-nighthas so nearly led you into this blind folly of destroying that whichshould be your glory and your pride. Sam Whaley has confessed to me. Hehas surrendered himself to the proper authorities. But the instigatorof the crime--the one who planned, ordered and directed it--the leaderwho dominated and drove his poor tool to the deed is this man JakeVodell. "

The sound of the Interpreter's voice ceased. For a moment longer thatdead silence held--then as the full import of the old basket maker'swords went home to them, the crowd with a roar of fury turned towardthe spot where the agitator had stood when the arrival of theInterpreter interrupted his address. 

But Jake Vodell had disappeared. 

CHAPTER XXIX

CONTRACTS

They had carried the Interpreter back to his wheel chair in the hut onthe cliff. 

John, Peter Martin and the two young women were bidding the old basketmaker goodnight when suddenly they were silenced by the dull, heavysound of a distant explosion. 

A moment they stood gazing at one another, then John voiced thethoughts that had gripped the minds of every one in that little group:

"The Mill!"

Springing to the door that opened on to the balcony porch, John threwit open and they went out, taking the Interpreter in his chair. Inbreathless silence they strained their eyes toward the dark mass of theMill with its forest of stacks and its many lights. 

"Everything seems to be all right there, " murmured John. 

But as the last word left his lips a chorus of exclamations came fromthe others. Farther up the river a dull red glow flushed the sky. 

"McIver's!"

"The factory!"

The Interpreter said, quietly, "Jake Vodell. "

With every second the red glow grew brighter--reaching higher andhigher--spreading wider and wider over the midnight sky. Then theycould see the flames--threadlike streaks and flashes in the dark cloudof smoke at first but increasing in volume, climbing and climbing inwrithing, twisting columns of red fury. The wild, long-drawn shriek ofthe fire whistles, the clanging roar of the engines, the frantic rushof speeding automobiles awoke the echoes of the cliffs and aroused thesleeping creatures on the hillsides. The volume of the leaping, whirling mass of flames increased until the red glare shut out thestars. 

The officers of the law who were hunting Jake Vodell heard thatexplosion and telephoned their stations for orders. The business men ofthe little city, awakened from their sleep, looked from their windows, muttered drowsy conjectures and returned to their beds. Mothers andchildren in their homes heard and turned uneasily in their dreams. Thedwellers in the Flats heard and wondered fearfully. 

Before morning dawned the telegraph wires would carry the wordthroughout the land. In every corner of our country the people wouldread, as they have all too often read of similar explosions. They wouldread, offer idle comments, perhaps, and straightway forget. That is thewonder and the shame of it--that with these frequent warnings ringingin our ears we are not warned. With these things continually forcedupon our attention we do not heed. With the demonstration before oureyes we are not convinced. We are not aroused to the meaning of it all. 

In his cell in the county jail, Sam Whaley heard that explosion andknew what it was. 

The Interpreter was right when he said, "Jake Vodell. "

It was an hour, perhaps, after the Interpreter's friends had left thehut when the old basket maker, who was still sitting at the windowwatching the burning factory, heard an automobile approaching at afrightful pace from the direction of the fire. The noise of thespeeding machine ceased with startling suddenness at the foot of thestairway, and the Interpreter heard some one running up the steps withheadlong haste. Without pausing to knock, Adam Ward burst into the roomand stood panting and shaking with mad excitement before the man in thewheel chair. 

The Mill owner's condition was pitiful. By his eyes that wereglittering with wild, unnatural light, by the gray, twitching features, the grotesque gestures, the trembling, jerking limbs, the Interpreterknew that the last flickering gleam of reason had gone out. The hourtoward which the man himself had looked with such dread had come. AdamWard was insane. 

With a leering grin of triumph the madman went closer to the old basketmaker. "I got away again. They were right after me but they couldn'tcatch me. That roadster of mine is the fastest car in the county--costme four thousand dollars. I knew if I could get here I would be safe. They wouldn't think of looking for me here in your shanty, would they?They can't get in anyway if they should come. You wouldn't--youwouldn't let them get me, would you?"

"Peace, Adam Ward! You are safe here. "

The insane man chuckled. "The folks at the house think I am in my roomasleep. They don't know that I never sleep. I'll tell you something. Ifa man sleeps he goes to hell--hell--hell--" His voice rose almost to ascream and he shook with terror. 

"Did you see it? Did you see when hell broke out to-night over therewhere McIver's factory used to be? I did--I was there and I heard themroaring in the fibres of torment and screaming in the flames. Theycalled for me but I laughed and came here. They'll never get Adam Wardinto hell. They don't know it yet, but I've got a contract with God. Ifixed it up myself just like you told me to and God signed it withoutreading it just as Peter Martin did. I'll show them! It'll take morethan God to get the best of Adam Ward in a deal. "

He walked about the room, waving his arms and laughing in hideoustriumph, muttering mad boasts and mumbling to himself or taunting thephantom creatures of his disordered brain. 

The helpless Interpreter could only wait silently for whatever was tofollow. 

At last the madman turned again to the old basket maker. Placing achair close in front of the Interpreter, he seated himself and in aconfidential whisper said, "Did you know that everybody thinks I amgoing insane? Well, I am not. Nobody knows it, but it's not me that'scrazy--it's John. He's been that way ever since he got home fromFrance. The poor boy thinks the world is still at war and that he canrun the Mill just as he fought the Germans over there. There's anotherthing that you ought to know, too--you are crazy yourself. Don't beafraid, I won't tell anybody else. But you ought to know it. If a manknows it when he is going crazy it gives him a chance to fix things upwith God so they can't get him into hell for all eternity, you see. SoI thought I had better tell you. "

The Interpreter spoke in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. "Thank you, Adam, I appreciate your kindness. "

"I was there at the Mill tonight, " Adam continued, "and I heard youtell them who killed Charlie Martin. And then those crazy fools wenttearing off to hunt Jake Vodell. " He chuckled and laughed. "Whatdifference does it make who killed Charlie Martin? I own the patentedprocess. I am the man they want. But they can't touch me. I hired thebest lawyers in the country and I've got it sewed up tight. I put oneover on Pete Martin in that deal and I've put one over on God, too. I've got God sewed up tight, I tell you, just like I sewed up PeterMartin. They can howl their heads off but they'll never get me intohell. "

He leaned back in his chair with the satisfied air of a business mancrediting himself with having closed a successful transaction. 

Then, with a manner and voice that was apparently normal, he said, "DidI ever tell you about how I got that patented process of mine, Wallace?" The Interpreter knew by his use of that name, so seldom heardin these later years, that Adam's mind was back in the old days when, with Peter Martin, they had worked side by side at the same bench inthe Mill. 

Hoping to calm him, the old basket maker returned indifferently, "No, Adam, I don't remember that you ever told me, but don't you think someother time would be better perhaps than to-night? It is getting lateand you--"

The other interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Oh, that's all right. It's safe enough to talk about it now. Besides, " he added, with acunning leer, "nobody would believe you if you should tell them thetruth. You're nothing but a crazy old basket maker and I am Adam Ward, don't forget that for a minute. " He glared threateningly at the man inthe wheel chair, and the Interpreter, fearing another outburst, said, soothingly, "Certainly, Adam, I understand. I will not forget. "

With the manner of one relating an interesting story in which hehimself figured with great personal credit, Adam Ward said:

"It was Pete Martin, you see, who actually discovered the new process. But, luckily for me, I was the first one he told about it. He hadworked it all out and I persuaded him not to say a thing to any oneelse until the patents were secured. Pete didn't really know the valueof what he had. But I knew--I saw from the first that it wouldrevolutionize the whole business, and I knew it would make a fortunefor the man that owned the patents. 

"Pete and I were pretty good friends in those days, but friendshipdon't go far in business. I never had a friend in my life that Icouldn't use some way. So I had Pete over to my house every evening andmade a lot over him and talked over his new process and madesuggestions how he should handle it, until finally he offered to giveme a half interest if I would look after the business details. That, ofcourse, was exactly what I was playing for. And all this time, you see, I took mighty good care that not a soul was around when Pete and Italked things over. So we fixed it all up between us--with no one tohear us, mind you--that we were to share equally--half and half--inwhatever the new process brought. 

"After that, I went ahead and got all the patents good and tight andthen I fixed up a nice little document for Pete to sign. But I waitedand I didn't say a word to Pete until one evening when he and his wifewere studying and figuring out the plans for the house they were goingto build. I sat and planned with them a while until I saw how Pete'smind was all on his new house, and then all at once I put my littledocument down on the table in front of him and said, 'By the way, Pete, those patents will be coming along pretty soon and I have had a littlecontract fixed up just as a matter of form--you know how we planned itall. Here's where you sign--'"

Adam Ward paused to laugh with insane glee. "Pete did just what I knewhe'd do--he signed that document without even reading a line of it andwent on with his house planning and figuring as if nothing hadhappened. But something had happened--something big had happened. Instead of the way we had planned it together when we were talkingalone with nobody to witness it, Pete signed to me outright for onedollar all his rights and interests in that new patented process. "

Again the madman laughed triumphantly. "Pete never even found out whathe'd done until nearly a year later. And then he wouldn't believe ituntil the lawyers made him. He couldn't do anything of course. I had itsewed up too tight. That process is mine, I tell you--mine by all thelaws in the country. What if I did take advantage of him! That'sbusiness. A man ought to have sense enough to read what he puts hissignature to. You don't catch me trusting anybody far enough to signanything he puts before me without reading it. Why--why--what are youcrying for?"

Adam Ward was not mistaken--the Interpreter's eyes were wet with tears. 

The sight of the old basket maker's grief sent the insane man off onanother tangent. "Don't you worry about me. Helen and John and theirmother worry a lot about me. They think I'm going to hell. "

He sprang to his feet with a hoarse inarticulate cry. "They'll neverget me into hell! God has got to keep His contracts and I've fixed itall up so He'll have to save me whether He wants to or not. The papersare all signed and everything. My lawyer has got them in his safe. Godcan't help Himself. You told me I'd better do it and I have. I'm notafraid to meet God now! I'll show Him just like I showed Pete. "

He rushed from the room as abruptly as he had entered. The Interpreterheard him plunging down the stairs. The roar of his automobile diedaway in the distance. 

In an early morning extra edition, the Millsburgh _Clarion_ announcedthe death of two of the most prominent citizens. 

James McIver was killed in the explosion that burned his factory. 

Adam Ward's body was found in a secluded corner of his beautifulestate. He died by his own hand. 

The cigar-store philosopher put his paper down and reached into theshow case for the box that the judge wanted. "It looks like McIverplayed the wrong cards in his little game with Jake Vodell, " heremarked, as the judge made a careful selection. 

"I am afraid so, " returned the judge. 

The postmaster took a handful from the same box and said, as he droppeda dollar on the top of the show case, "I see Sam Whaley has confessedthat the blowing up of the factory was all set as part of theirprogram. Their plan was to wreck the Mill first then McIver's place. Where do you suppose Jake Vodell got away to?"

"Hard to guess, " said the judge. 

The philosopher put the proper change before them. "There's one thingsure--the people of these here United States had better get good andbusy findin' out where he is. "

It was significant that neither the philosopher nor his customersmentioned the passing of Adam Ward. 

BOOK IV

THE OLD HOUSE

"_Tell them, O Guns, that we have heard their call, That we have sworn, and will not turn aside, That we will onward tillwe win or fall, That we will keep the faith for which they died_. "

CHAPTER XXX

"JEST LIKE THE INTERPRETER SAID"

It is doubtful if in all Millsburgh there was a soul who felt apersonal loss in the passing of their "esteemed citizen" Adam Ward. During the years that followed his betrayal of Peter Martin'sfriendship the man had never made a friend who loved him forhimself--who believed in him or trusted him. In business circles hisreputation for deals that were always carefully legal but oftenobviously dishonest had caused the men he met to accept him only so faras their affairs made the contact necessary. Because of the power hehad through his possession of the patented process he was known. Hisplace in the community had been fixed by what he took from thecommunity. His habit of boasting of his possessions, of his power, andof his business triumphs, and his way of considering the people as hispersonal debtors had been a never-failing subject of laughing comment. Men spoke of his death in a jocular vein--made jests aboutit--wondering what he was really worth. But one and all invariablyconcluded their comments with some word of sincere sympathy for hisfamily. 

Because of the people's estimation of the Mill owner's character, thepublication of his will created a sensation the like of which was neverbefore known in the community. 

One half of his estate, including the Mill, Adam Ward gave to hisfamily. The other half he gave to his old workman friend, Peter Martin. 

Millsburgh was stunned, stupefied with amazement and wonder. But no oneoutside the two families, save the Interpreter, ever knew the realreason for the bequest. The old basket maker alone understood that thiswas Adam Ward's deal with God--it was the contract by which he was toescape the hell of his religious fears--the horrors of which he had sooften suffered in his dreams and the dread of which had so preyed uponhis diseased mind. 

When the necessary time for the legal processes in the settlement ofAdam Ward's estate had passed, John called the Mill workers together. In his notice of the meeting, the manager stated simply that it was toconsider the mutual interests of the employers and employees bysafeguarding the future of the industry. When the workmen hadassembled, they wondered to see on the platform with their generalmanager, Helen and her mother, Mary and Peter Martin, the city mayor, with representative men from the labor unions and from the businesscircles of the community, and, sitting in his wheel chair, theInterpreter. 

To the employees in the Mill and to the representatives of the peoplethe announcement of the final disposition of Adam Ward's estate wasmade. 

The house on the hill with the beautiful grounds surrounding it becamein effect the property of the people--with an endowment fixed for itsmaintenance. It was to be converted into a center of communityinterest, one feature of which was to be an institute for the study ofpatriotism. 

"We have foundations for the promotion of the sciences, of art and ofbusiness, " said the legal gentleman who made the announcements. "Whynot an institution for the study and promotion of patriotism--researchin the fields of social and industrial life that are peculiarlyAmerican--lectures, classes, and literature on the true Americanizationof those who come to us from foreign countries--the promotion of trueAmerican principles and standards of citizenship in our public schoolsand educational institutions and among our people--the collection andstudy of authentic data from the many industrial and social experimentsthat are being carried on--these are some of the proposed activities. "

This Institute of American Patriotism would be under the leadership ofthe Interpreter and would stand as a memorial to the memory of CaptainCharlie Martin. 

When the mayor, in behalf of the people, had made a fitting response tothis presentation, John told the Mill men that their employer, PeteMartin, would make an announcement. 

The old workman was greeted with cheers. Some one in the crowd called, good-naturedly, "How does it feel to be an owner, Uncle Pete?"Everybody laughed and the veteran himself grinned. 

"I guess I'm too old to change my feelings much, Bill Sewold, " heanswered. "And that's about what I was going to tell you. The lawyerssay that I own half of our Mill here and that I can do what I pleasewith it. But I can't some way make it seem any more mine than it alwayswas. Mary and I are agreed that we'd like to do what we know Charliewould be in for if he was here, and we've talked it over with John andhis folks and they feel just like we do about it. 

"The lawyers can explain the workin's of the plan to you better than Ican; but this is the main idea: The whole thing has been made over intoa company with John and his mother and sister owning one half and methe other. What John wants me to tell you is that he and his folks areturning one half of their interest and Mary and me are turning one halfof our interest back to you workmen. So that from now on all theemployees of the Mill will be employers--and all the employers will beemployees. With John and me and our folks owning one half, you can seethat we're figuring on keeping the management in the proper hands, Johnwill be in the office where he belongs and the rest of us will be wherewe belong. Considering our recent demonstration, I guess you'll allagree that a lot of us need to be protected by the rest of us from allof us. And now all we have to do is to work. And I'd like to see JakeVodell or any other foreign agitator try to start another industrialwar in Millsburgh. "

It was the Interpreter who asked the assembled workmen to endorse apetition to the governor asking clemency for Sam Whaley. The groundupon which the petition was based was that the guilty principal in thecrime was still at liberty--that others, still unknown, were involvedwith him--that Sam Whaley by his confession had saved the Mill and thecommunity from the full horrors planned by the agitator, and that underthe new standard of industrial citizenship the former follower of theanarchist might in time become a useful member of society. 

A solemn hush fell over the company when Peter Martin, Mary, John andHelen were the first to sign the petition. 

The old house is no longer empty, deserted and forlorn. Repaired andrepainted from the front gate to the back-yard fence--with well-keptlawn, flowers and garden--it impresses the passer-by with its air ofmodest home happiness. To Helen and her mother who live there, to Johnand his wife, Mary, and to the old workman who live in the cottage nextdoor, the spirit of the old days has returned. 

The neighbors in passing always stop for a word with the gray-hairedwoman who works among her flowers just as she used to do before thediscovery of the new process, or with her sweet-faced daughter. Theworkmen going to or from the Mill always have a smile or a word ofgreeting for the mother and the sister of their comrade manager. 

Nor is there a man or woman in all the city or in the country roundabout who does not know and love this Helen of the old house, who isgiving herself so without reserve to the people's need, who has, as theInterpreter says, "found herself in service. "

But when the deep tones of the Mill whistle sound over the city, thevalley and the hillsides, there is a look in Helen's eyes that onlythose who know her best understand. 

And often in these days the neighborhood of the old house rings withthe merry voices of Bobby and Maggie and their playmates. From theFlats--from the tenement houses--from the homes of the laborers, theycome, these children, to this beautiful woman who loves them all andwho calls them, somewhat fancifully, her "jewels of happiness. "

"Yer see, " explained little Maggie, "the princess lady, she jest couldn'thelp findin' them there happiness jewels--'cause her heart was sokind--jest like the Interpreter said. "

THE END