# The Unhallowed Harvest/Chapter 16

There was no abatement in the vigor with which the rector of Christ Church attacked the sins of capitalism, the curse of wage-slavery, the glaring inequalities of the existing social order. In the pulpit, on the platform, to the man in the street, anywhere, everywhere, in season and out of season, he preached his new gospel of the brotherhood of man. But he did not call it a new gospel. He called it the old gospel, proclaimed by Jesus Christ as the one foundation on which all human character and conduct must be built. He was acclaimed by the toiler, and cursed by the capitalist. His fame spread beyond the borders of his city and his state. The newspapers reported his sermons and speeches as matters of interest to the general public. Soap-box orators quoted him with approval. Socialists regarded him as one of their own kind; not quite, but almost persuaded to an acceptance of all their tenets and beliefs. There were some things in the socialistic creed to which he could not yet subscribe. He had little sympathy with the purely materialistic conception of the cause and basis of either happiness or misery in this life. He believed, with his Lord, that "The life is more than meat, and the body more than raiment."
He could not concede the right of men and women to free themselves from a marriage bond which has become burdensome save for the one cause set down in Holy Scripture.
He could not quite assent to the doctrine that confiscation of private property by the state, beyond the customary exercise of the right of eminent domain, in ​order that it might be administered for the economic betterment of all, was either politically wise or ethically correct.
Certainly he was not ready to participate in a sudden and violent overturning of the existing social order for the purpose of hastening the coming of the social commonwealth.
But he was absorbed in the idea of, and immersed in the plans for alleviating the hardships of the poor. He looked to and labored for such a rearrangement of the social order, that all men who toiled, either with hand or brain, should share alike in the largess of the fruitful earth, and in the material bounty of God.
It was his aim so to instil the religion of Christ into the hearts of the classes that ultimately there would be no classes, no swollen fortunes, no dire poverty, no social distinctions, but that all men would dwell together in Christian fellowship as did the brethren of the early Church.
And it was his desire and ambition that this plan of Christian living should have its foremost modern exemplification in the parish of Christ Church.
In his night interview with the bishop he had stated his position with such cogent reasoning, with such eloquent appeal, that that dignitary of the Church was not prepared to confound his argument or to suppress his enthusiasm either by episcopal wisdom or by fatherly remonstrance. Moreover he taught nothing in contravention of the doctrines of the Church. He preached no gospel that had not been preached by the Carpenter of Nazareth among the hills of Galilee, on the shores of Gennesareth, or in the shadow of the temple at Jerusalem. No wonder the bishop could not decide which horn of the dilemma to take concerning the matter in controversy. No wonder the protesting parishioners became impatient at his delay. Many of them, indeed, grew discouraged and then indifferent. Some of them severed their connection with the parish ​absolutely and attached themselves to St. Timothy's up-town. Others absented themselves entirely from divine service, or became occasional attendants at other Protestant churches in the city. The prominent and pompous woman who had threatened to go over to the Church of Rome carried out her threat. She felt that now she ran no farther risk of contamination, that she was where socialism is practically, if not officially, anathema.
But there was no diminution in the attendance at the services of Christ Church. As familiar faces disappeared from the pews new ones, stamped with the insignia of toil, took their places. No magnet ever drew to itself the filings of steel with surer power than this magnetic preacher drew to himself the human filings from the social mass.
But the institutional life of the church suffered. As the old workers, displeased or disheartened, or unduly influenced, forsook their tasks, it was with extreme difficulty that others were found with sufficient zeal and adaptability and religious culture to fill their places. Indeed, many places remained wholly unfilled, and the rector and his curate were obliged to do double duty by taking up the neglected work and doing it as best they could. Funds for these church activities were also lacking. Many of the rich and the well-to-do who had contributed liberally in the past were now giving niggardly sums, or were withholding their contributions altogether. And in the absence of both workers and money it was not strange that the work itself should languish.
But the rector was not discouraged. He felt that the tide would eventually turn; that God would not permit the institutions of His Church permanently to suffer, nor His poor always to go uncared for. And who could say that it was not His plan to bring "trouble and distress" upon His people in order to make more emphatic the ushering in of that new social ​régime in which poverty and trouble and distress could never gain a foothold.
It was not only the guilds of the church that suffered for lack of money; the church itself was deplorably short of funds. Receipts from pew rents had fallen off sadly. Pewholders, reminded of their obligations, replied that those obligations were conditioned on the preaching of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and not the gospel of Karl Marx, from the pulpit of Christ Church. The alms-basins which in the old days had been presented at the altar heaped with the bank bills placed thereon by the wealthy and the well-to-do, came now, sparsely lined instead, with the nickels and the pennies of the poor. And while widows' mites might be gloriously acceptable in the eyes of God, it needed vastly more of them than were received to carry on successfully the activities of Christ Church. The Episcopal and Convention Fund assessment was hopelessly in arrears; so was the missionary allotment; even the rector's salary was in jeopardy by reason of the lack of funds. When that salary was paid to him he found it necessary to use a good part of it to relieve cases of destitution, and to meet other emergencies which could not, in these days, otherwise be met. But he did not complain. He simply set about to see what he could personally do without, and he admonished his wife that the cost of living at the rectory would need to be reduced. On the following Sunday, after reading the announcements, he called the attention of the congregation to the fact that, owing to the withdrawal of financial support by many members of the parish, the funds of the church, available for carrying on its work, had been exhausted, and the treasury was facing a serious deficit. He therefore appealed to all attendants on the services, and to all those interested in supporting the activities and maintaining the dignity of Christ Church, to be liberal in their contributions, that the Lord's work might be unhampered and undiminished. ​From a few there came an immediate response to his appeal. But many heard it with indifference, or else doled out grudgingly a few more pennies. One hard-handed toiler, as he shuffled down the aisle at the close of the service, was heard to say:
"I t'ought religion was free. If I got to pay money for it like I do for beer, w'y I guess I can git along wit'out it."
There were many more, not so outspoken, across whose minds trickled the same thought. It is strange how the ardor of men in any cause, not even excepting the cause of religion, will become suddenly dampened by an appeal to them to support it by liberal contributions of money.
Of those who had espoused the cause of the rector from the start, the ranks were practically unbroken. Those who believed in him and adhered to him were still faithful, and devoted to the carrying out of his purpose. Yet some among them, especially men of experience and business training, began to be doubtful of the outcome. More than one of them, watching the course of events, noting the depletion of funds and the circumscribing of activities, expressed frankly to the rector their fears for the future. He made light of their doubts and urged them to still greater zeal. He assured them that the battle would eventually be won, that the principles of the Christian religion were at stake, and that God would not permit the integrity of His Church to be successfully assailed, nor the upholders of His gospel to go down to defeat. So he inspired them anew, and the fight went on.
But no person in the entire parish kept in closer touch with the situation, or was better informed concerning the progress of events, than was Mary Bradley. She exhausted all possible sources of information to keep herself conversant with conditions. Passionately desirous of seeing the rector of Christ Church win his battle for social righteousness, she knew, nevertheless, ​that he was waging a losing fight, and that he had already reached the point where capitulation was necessary, if he would save himself. She had said as much to Barry Malleson weeks ago. She longed to say it now to the rector himself. She could as little bear to see him go on, unwittingly, to sure destruction, as she could bear to see him yield the splendid position he had taken in behalf of humble humanity.
When Barry came in one day he told her he had heard that the vestry was about to curtail the rector's salary, or to refuse payment of it altogether, on the ground that he had violated his contract with the parish by engaging in activities antagonistic to the Church and to the Christian religion.
"Barry," she said, "I want you to go with me to the rectory."
He looked up inquiringly.
"What—what for?" he asked.
"I want to tell that man to call quits, and save his life," she replied. "If he doesn't, they'll murder him."
Barry stared at her in astonishment.
"Why," he stammered, "it—it isn't as bad as that."
"It's just the same as murder," she said. "They're taking the clothes off his back, the bread out of his mouth, the heart that strengthens and glorifies him out of his body. Come!"
She had already put on her hat and coat, and was drawing on her gloves. Barry followed her in blind obedience. Why she had asked him to go with her he did not stop to inquire. It was enough that she wished it. He would have followed her, at her bidding, to the end of the world. But she knew why she had asked him. In these crucial days the rector's name must be kept above the slightest taint of suspicion. Therefore Mary Bradley must not go alone to visit him. And Barry Malleson was the only person on earth whom she would be willing to have hear her message, save the person to whom she should speak it. For Barry ​was absolutely faithful, honorable and simple-minded. So, together, they went out and walked up the street in the mild sunlight of the January day, paying little heed to the glances cast at them, ignorant of the comments that their appearance in each other's company aroused; comments wise and foolish, grave and gay, scandalous and laudatory, according to the cleanness of heart and clearness of vision of those who made them.
Some one, mischievously inclined, entering a department store, saw Jane Chichester sitting at a counter, and said: "Jane, the king of comedy and the queen of fallacy are passing by."
"What's that?" asked Miss Chichester.
"Oh, Barry Malleson and Mrs. Bradley just went up the sidewalk together."
"The idea!" exclaimed Miss Chichester. And with nervous fingers she thrust her change into her purse and her purchases into her shopping-bag, and hurried to the street. Sure enough, just turning the next corner, she saw them—and she followed after them. When she too reached the corner they were half-way down the block on the side street, and at the next crossing they turned and went over toward the rectory of Christ Church. Miss Chichester saw them pass up the walk, mount the steps, and enter the house. A wave of mad jealousy swept into her heart; an unreasoning fear settled down upon her. What did it mean? Why did they appear to be so absorbed in each other? Why were they seeking the rector of Christ Church? Had there been some sudden resolve upon matrimony? some sudden decision to have the marriage service performed before any restraining influence or actual force could be exerted by Barry's family?
So Miss Chichester, too, crossed the street, went up the rectory steps, rang the bell and was admitted to the house.
Barry and Mrs. Bradley were in the study with the ​minister. A maid announced that Miss Chichester was in the drawing-room and desired to see Mr. Farrar at once.
"Say to her that I will soon be at liberty," said the rector.
"We shall keep you but a few minutes," declared Mrs. Bradley.
But Barry looked up with startled eyes and exclaimed:
"Oh, I'm sure Jane is in no haste. It's—nothing important. She needn't wait. Let her come back later."
But the maid had already disappeared, and Mr. Farrar made no effort to modify the message sent to his waiting guest.
"What I came for," said Mrs. Bradley, "is to tell you that in my judgment the time has come for you to drop your fight against the opposing forces in your church, and make terms with your vestry."
"Mrs. Bradley! Why do you come to me with that message? You have been one of my most valiant supporters."
"Because they are going to crush you unless you yield. Your church is already on the way to destruction."
"That's treason, Mrs. Bradley. Have you changed your opinion about the righteousness of my cause?"
"Not in the slightest degree."
"And do you think then that God will permit unrighteousness to prevail?"
"I know little about God's purposes. I only know what power these men have to destroy you, and I know they are going to use their power without mercy."
Barry broke in. "That's right, Farrar," he said. "Phil and Boston and the rest of them have got you in their grip. I heard to-day that they're going to choke off your salary. That's where the shoe will pinch. So Mary and I have decided that you'd better call the ​whole thing off, and get back into harness as it were."
"Let me understand you," said the rector. "It is not because either of you think that I am in the wrong that you advocate surrender?"
"No," came the answer in unison.
"But because you believe it to be expedient?"
"Exactly," replied Barry. But Mrs. Bradley added:
"I am thinking of your family."
"I, too, have thought of my family," came the response. "We are all in God's hands. I have no doubt, if the worst should come to the worst, He will point out to me a way to provide for them."
"And I am thinking also of your career," she added.
"A career," he said, "built upon the suppression of honest thought, and made successful by fawning upon the rich while the poor are crying out for social, spiritual and material bread, would be a most inglorious and unhallowed thing."
Then she spoke more bluntly.
"You are too visionary," she said. "You are too spiritual, too religious and high-minded to cope with the crowd that is hunting you. They have planned your destruction, and they are going to accomplish it. There isn't any God anywhere who can save you. You've got to save yourself or you'll perish. I know it. I had to tell you this. I wouldn't be human if I kept it to myself."
He did not reprove her or try to reason with her. The argumentative stage in the struggle had long passed by. But he was equally blunt and insistent in his answer.
"Mrs. Bradley," he said, "if I were sure that my crusade would bring me to the debtor's prison or the hangman's rope, I would not abate one jot or tittle from my effort. My reason and my conscience have convinced me that I am right; and my duty to God ​and myself and my fellow-men impels me irresistibly forward."
He said it with such intensity of expression, both of looks and voice, that Barry, easily moved as he always was, half rose from his chair, and brought his hands together with a resounding whack.
"That's the stuff!" he exclaimed. "Farrar, you're game to the backbone! I'm with you, old man; count on me!" Then his eyes fell upon Mrs. Bradley, and he began to apologize. "Pardon me, Mary! I didn't think. You don't want him to stick it out, do you?"
She did not answer him at once. Her eyes were moist, and her lip was trembling. When she did speak she said:
"You don't need to apologize, Barry. You've spoken for me."
She rose and held out her hand to the minister in farewell. "I have done my errand," she said. "I came on it sincerely and earnestly and with a good conscience, and—I thank God it has failed."
It was not an expression of piety, for she was not pious; but no other words, in that moment, could have embodied her thought. She turned toward the door.
"Come, Barry," she said, "we'll go now."
But Barry, suddenly remembering the waiting guest in the drawing-room, replied:
"Why, I—I think I'll stay here in Farrar's study for a while. I—he's got some books here I want to look at."
"No, Barry. I want you with me. I want you to go to the street with me, and walk back with me to my office."
This time he did not demur. He saw that she was in earnest. He knew that she had some good reason for wishing him to go, and he went.
As they passed down the hall they met Jane Chichester at the door of the drawing-room. Her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes were wild.
​"What does this mean?" she exclaimed. "Barry Malleson, what have you been doing?"
"Why," stammered Barry, "I—we—we've been calling on the rector."
"What for?" she demanded.
"Is it necessary," asked Mary Bradley, quietly, "that you should know?"
"I've a right to know," she replied. "I've a right to protect this man. You've bewitched him and deceived him till he doesn't know his own mind. Mr. Farrar!" she cried, "what has happened here? I must know! I will know!"
The rector, standing in the doorway of his study, had looked on amazed at this spectacle of insane jealousy. He realized, suddenly, that he must take control of the situation.
"Jane Chichester," he said, "come into my study at once." He spoke quietly, but with a voice and manner that compelled obedience to his command. And Jane Chichester went, but she went in a storm of tears, a woman's last and most effective weapon of defense.
The siege being thus raised, Mrs. Bradley and her escort left the house, descended the steps, and passed down the walk to the street. There Barry paused long enough to bare his head to the winter air, and mop the perspiration from his brow.
"Barry," said Mrs. Bradley, "you're a lucky man. I congratulate you."
"It was," panted Barry, "a devilish narrow escape."
"I don't mean that. You're not married to the woman, are you?"
"Good Lord, no!"
"Nor engaged to her?"
"Heaven forbid!"
"Well, a man who is capable of arousing such insane jealousy as that in the breast of a woman to whom he is neither married nor engaged is one among ten thousand. I beg that you'll not lose your head over it."
​"My head," replied Barry, "is safe enough, but about one more adventure like that would send my mind to the scrap-heap."
On a certain day, late in January, Bricky Hoover was peremptorily dismissed from the employ of the Malleson Manufacturing Company. It was charged against him that he had been guilty of gross negligence, of sabotage, of impertinence to the manager of the mills. But all of his fellow-employees knew, indeed all of the wage-workers in the city knew that the real reason for his dismissal was that he had been too aggressive in behalf of union labor, and that his aggressiveness and persistency had resulted in a victory for the men. He was the first to go because he had been the most prominent. Others would follow; there was little doubt of that. It was apparent that the company had started in on a policy of weeding out agitators and strike-promoters. The only question was who would be the next one to be dismissed. Feeling among the men ran high. Sympathy with the discharged employee was general among the laboring classes. Resentment over the manner in which he had been thrust out was deep and wide-spread. Would union labor stand for it? Of course union labor would not.
The discharge was on Friday. On the afternoon of the following Sunday a mass-meeting of the Malleson employees was held at Carpenter's Hall, and, with scarcely a dissenting vote, a resolution was adopted to the effect that if Thomas Hoover was not reinstated in his position, without condition, within twenty-four hours from the time of presenting the resolution to the officers of the company, there would be a walk-out of every workman employed in the mills.
The committee in charge of the resolution presented it to the president of the company at his office on Monday morning. He called the attention of his visitors to the fact that his employees had recently signed a ​contract, agreeing to remain in the employ of the company for one year. They replied that the agreement also contained a clause to the effect that no one should be discriminated against on account of any part he had taken in procuring the new wage-scale, or by reason of his affiliation with union labor.
It was in vain that the president endeavored to convince them that Hoover's discharge was due solely to his reprehensible personal conduct. They would not be convinced. He called the manager of the mills and the foreman of the shop in which Hoover had worked as his witnesses. The committee saw in this only a carefully worked out plan to betray the men whom the company feared, and throttle union labor. They would have no excuses, no subterfuges, they would listen to no argument. Their demand was clear and imperative; it must be answered by a categorical yes or no. The president asked for a week within which he might sift the evidence, and consider the demand. They replied that they had no discretionary power; that if the demand was not complied with by noon of the following day every laborer in the company's employ would quit his job and stay out until Hoover was reinstated. This was their ultimatum.
Mr. Malleson dismissed the committee with a wave of his hand. He had nothing further to say to them. But his jaws were set, and his eyes were like steel.
In the afternoon he called the members of his board together and presented the situation to them. It was plainly apparent to all of them that Hoover's conduct, leading to his dismissal, was but part of a plan to force a strike, with or without cause, at the Malleson mills. What ulterior purpose lay back of it all they could not understand. It was clear that the men were being led, by designing persons, to their own destruction. But for whose benefit? That was the mystery of it. And what was to be done? If Hoover were to be reinstated now doubtless a similar situation would be ​created within a week. It might be better to meet the issue squarely, and settle the matter once for all. Of course a fight would spell disaster; but, if the men were bound to strike, they might as well strike now and have done with it. The whole thing was so absurd, so unreasonable, so outrageously unjust, that the sooner it was disposed of the better.
Barry Malleson, sitting at the directors' table, had heard the discussion thus far without comment. His suggestions at the meetings of the board had, theretofore, been given such scant consideration that he had grown tired of making them. But he raised his voice now in mild protest at what was plainly the belligerent attitude of his fellow-members.
"Oh, say," he inquired, "can't this thing be fixed up somehow? Why not take Bricky back? What harm would it do? I know the fellow personally. He's not at all a bad sort."
The president of the company turned his head away in ill-concealed disgust; but Philip Westgate, sitting at a corner of the table, seemed to find Barry's comment of interest and began to cross-question him.
"Has any one requested you," he asked, "to intercede for Hoover?"
"Not a soul," replied Barry. "I'm doing it on my own responsibility."
"You say you are personally acquainted with the man; do you happen to know whether he is on terms of particular friendship with Stephen Lamar?"
"Why, yes. I've seen them together a good deal. They both belong to the Socialist League in which I myself am somewhat interested."
The president of the Malleson Manufacturing Company turned his head still farther away, and a look of deeper disgust spread over his usually immobile face.
"And the secretary of that League," continued Westgate, "is the woman known as Mary Bradley?"
"That's her name, yes."
​"Lamar is in love with her, isn't he?"
"I don't know, Phil, but I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he was. I'm in love with her myself."
Westgate turned to the board.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I think I can solve the mystery."
But before he had an opportunity to explain, Richard Malleson swung around in his office chair and confronted his son. His face was scarlet, and his eyes shot fire.
"How dare you," he exclaimed, "in a company of gentlemen, boast openly of your disgraceful relation with this notorious woman! I'll not permit it!"
Barry's eyes opened wide with surprise. He was not angry. Nothing ever angered him. But he appeared to be deeply grieved.
"Why, father," he began, "Mrs. Bradley is a genuinely good woman——"
But his father, in a rage now, interrupted him.
"Not a word!" he cried. "I'll not listen to you. I'll not permit you to sit on this board. If you don't leave the room at once, I'll adjourn this meeting."
The gentlemen who sat at the directors' table gazed fearfully from father to son and held their tongues. It was not their quarrel.
Barry rose slowly from his chair, looking at his father with wide and inquiring eyes. He did not seem quite to understand it all, except that he had been ordered to leave the room.
"All right, father," he said; "I'll go. I'll go."
He crossed uncertainly to the door, turned and looked back for a moment, in apparent wonder, at the astonished and apprehensive faces of the silent group, and then went out. He got his hat and coat and put them on, and walked straight to the headquarters of the Socialist League in the Potter Building.
After he had left the room Westgate explained to the board his theory of the threatened strike. He had ​heard that Mary Bradley had declared, in court, at the termination of her unsuccessful suit, that she would have revenge. She was having it, that was all. Shrewd, persistent, resourceful, she was using Lamar to turn labor loose on Richard Malleson and his company. And what, then, could be done? If Barry only had brains, thought Westgate, he might be of some service in this crisis. But Barry was as useless now as a baby. The woman herself was unapproachable, and Lamar, who, on former occasions, had been found to be secretly pliable, would hardly be so base now as to sell out both his constituents and his sweetheart. Moreover, it was fairly certain that labor, having taken the bit in its teeth, would be uncontrollable. And an answer must be forthcoming within twenty-four hours. The board decided that there could be but one answer.
When the committee called, on the following day, they received a "categorical no" in reply to their demand. And, after twelve o'clock of the same day, every wheel and lathe and trip-hammer in the Malleson mills was left without its attendant. Only the seven non-union men remained at work, and they, perforce, were given a holiday.
So the oft-repeated struggle between capital and labor, with the strike as labor's weapon, began anew. Capital and the friends of capital in the entire city felt that labor had been unjust in its demand, and that the strike was nothing more nor less than an outrage. Labor and the friends of labor, on the other hand, felt that capital, in attempting to choke the life out of unionism, and set its heel more firmly on the neck of the workingman, had gone too far and must be taught that the dignity of labor and the rights of the individual laborer would, at all hazards, be maintained.
The Reverend Mr. Farrar was one of those who warmly espoused the cause of the striking employees. He saw, in the discharge of Bricky Hoover, and in the company's refusal to reinstate him, only the opening ​shot in a new war on the rights of the city's workingmen; and he did not hesitate to so express himself, nor did he hesitate to offer his sympathy, and such assistance as he was able to give, to the strikers.
The businessmen of the city, whose interests were likely to suffer severely in the event of a prolonged strike, presented a formal request, both to the company and to its employees, to submit the matter in dispute between them to arbitration. And both refused. The men on the ground that their demand was too unequivocally plain and just to be submitted to the uncertain judgment of arbitrators; and the company on the ground that it could not, without loss of self-respect, concede to any one the right to say whom it should or should not employ at its works.
So the strike went on. The plant remained idle. The fires in the furnaces were drawn. Only watchmen remained on duty. Some half-finished orders, sent to a smaller mill of another company to be completed, precipitated a strike at that plant also; and then the workmen of a third mill, infected with the spirit of revolt, determined to take advantage of the situation to better their own condition, and joined in the general upheaval. The original strike had not been called in exact accordance with union rules. The men had been too precipitate in their action, and some of the union officials felt that they should have been sent back to work in order that union discipline might prevail. But their cause was so entirely just, the conduct of the company had been so flagrant, and its purpose so plain, the sympathy of union labor in the city was so overwhelmingly with the men, that their strike was endorsed, not only by the union to which they belonged, but by the federated unions of the city as well. With this backing the fight went on. Silence hung over the Malleson mills. No smoke ascended from the chimneys. No roar of forge or rattle of machinery was heard there. No sight or sound or soul of industry ​gave life or movement to the place. The very snow upon the paths that crossed the yard, paths trodden daily in happier times by human hundreds, lay now untracked and undisturbed. Idle men loitered along the streets of the city, or stood aimlessly on sunny corners. Merchants were despondent and fearful. The business of the town was in a state of alarming depression. The saloons alone retained their normal prosperity. By and by came hardship, destitution, misery. Not all workmen are sufficiently provident to lay by enough to tide them over a rainy day. Many of those who were, found their resources drained as the days of the strike grew long. The strike-fund voted by the union was but a pittance in comparison with the needs which it helped to supply, and even that fund drew toward exhaustion with the prolongation of the struggle.
Perhaps those who suffered most were day-laborers not affiliated with any union, employed outside the mills and factories, whose occupations, indirectly affected by the strike, and by the general business depression, were now closed to them. They, indeed, were in sore straits. Public aid was asked for, but the response was neither quick nor liberal. It is one thing to sympathize with the victims of disaster; it is quite another thing to open your purse to them.
It was the first of February when the strike was called. Through all that month severe weather prevailed. There were howling blizzards, unprecedented snowfalls, arctic temperatures. It is no wonder that by the first of March the suffering among the poor had become wide-spread, intense and tragic.
And all because the Malleson Manufacturing Company had dismissed, and would not take back into its employ, one big, red-haired, raw-boned, good-natured workman; and because his fellow-laborers would not work without him.
High cause indeed for which to plunge and hold a ​city in distress. The rights of capital! The dignity of labor! Strange shibboleths to be bandied about the streets while idle men grew desperate, and women and little children were starving and freezing in destitute and miserable homes.