Rock Island daily Argus. (Rock Island, Ill.) 1886-1893, 1888-02-11

young man to sec il he might 90 on, but he
could not read his masters face, He hest
tated moment aud then he continued.
There amt poor bent girl in the mill
but might live a life so happy it would make
a strong man cry 20 think Of it. We are Of
more account than your machinery, No
beltin' or patent self acting springs could do
our work; it takes immortal souls, and intel
lects in the image of God to do it. It's the
same sort of work you do, and compare what
the two of us gets We amt fairly paid till
we gets, the weakest of US, a taste of the
sweet things in this world we have longed for
so long 1 don't care what yer wise book
men says Was the young proprietor angry,
he stood so grave and stilli Whit changel
Time was when pity would have shone on
every line of his face But he might have
been statue for all appearance of melting in
him now.
~ pay You the market price, as much as
the other mill owners"
Well, God have mercy on his poor children,
if Philip Breton could make that excused
The man sat down without AN invitation, and
leaned his brawny elbows on the table.
"Now see here, you told me TO speak my
mind, and am agoin' to. We are poor; we
amt got nothin; we can't lay back and wait
for olr price. We want somethin to eat
today, We come TO you for work; we
must have work, If it only earns us
a loaf Of bread. Is it right, then, TO value
us at what we can lie got fori If we could
haggle with ye, and hang Off the way a little
ready cash lets Il man do there might be
some sense in II. But you never let us get
enough ahead for that. Its work or go
hungry with us. The poorer we gets the
tighter ye can squeeze US, and sometimes
wonder why We gives us Hs much as We do. /
s'pose a man might live on "a little less. Aud
it's all business, as We say
Philip had seated himself, hut he said
nothing. lie had given the man the priv
ilege of his tongue, and he did not seem dis
posed to stop him.
as the right price Of thing what man
II give for IT. If they had the money, men
would give 10000 for a breath of air,
when they're stihed Would it he right 10
pump OIL the air, and then let it on at 81 Co.,
600 a breathiug' If you was drowning,
you'd give $1,000, 900 to In saved if it was
only to hold out pole to yer Is that a fair
price for hOldin' out polei We're starvin'
unless We can get a bite to eat Is it any
more right to bargain with us for life Of
hard work, for just enough olive on: A man
wants somethln more than food. He wants
to send his children to school, to get loatin'
hour now and then, to make himself some
thin besides a brute. He wants-he wants
some such things and chances as you have.
Why, squire, we're all men trgether," The
mans eyes looked across at Philip with a
vague usefulness, as if he We're thinking of
the beautiful possibilities of life 30 far all
drudgery aud want
But what is there to dor exclaimed
Philip in an impatient tone that put to fight
all the worlIman's foolish fancies. The young
mans heart seemed changed to flint. You
don't want to be objects Of charity, do youfn
John Graves Strengthened his arms along
the table; then he stood up.
CHARITY! Well, no, not such charity as
picks creature up today as soft us a baby,
and drops him tomorrow like dog. But if
payin' yer help enough of yer gain so they
can know what life is-if that is charity, as
you call it, give it to us. Ye needn't be so
precious fraid of hurtin' the lahoring classes,
as they call EN-, by treatin' 'em too well.
They're sinsin' every day lower and lower,
and lots of fellows in specs keep a warnin'
you not to spoil em, not to hurt their pride,
or break their spirit by givin' 'em something.
As if kindness ever hurt any human soul.
Not that would call it charity; they earns
every mite yen ever give EN-
"But if the mills or employers don't make
such gains as you seem to take for grant
ed"-
"If there amt money made, why, nobody
eau find no fault not to get big pay. All | |
mean is when money is made, and that's
pretty often, We ought to have some Share
in it,
Don't 60, John, want to ask you"----
II must; | asked ont for today and the
door closed after the man. For quite a while
after his last visitor had gone, Philip sat
with his eyes fixed on the door knob in in
tense abstraction. Was he angry at the |
of the common laborerf When he |
pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, |
running his hands through his hair, he made |
one exclamation: |
"How blind" But whom he meant, |
his class or the laborers, did not |
appear from his tone or from the bitter smile |
on his lips. John Graves would have told in |
a moment that the young proprietor meant |
no good to his help. The man had had |
glimmcr of hope that Philip Breton might |
only be waiting for an opportunity, but this |
had dispelled it from his mind.
1t was some little time afterwards that |
Philip left his counting room and made his |
way up the street. He was dressed in SOM
berest black. and his silk hat was subdusd
with a wide band Of Grape. But his dress
was no more melancholy than his face
When under pressure Of business, one would
not have noticed it so especially, but the in
slant he was thrown back upon himself, his
face became as sad and hopeless as the face of
the most wretched laborer i'll his mill. He
was tasting the most bitter dreGs in life, he
thought What soul could he more crushed
than hiss The time was when it would have
been impossible for him to see human crea-
ture suffer without thrill OF sympathy 1t
would have seemed cruel and unnatural
stroke OF fortune, which it was for him to
prevent or cure. But he had learned better,
be thought Suffering was common to all;
there was no good Of trying to patch up this
life or that; the terrible disease was forever
at work Conditions made but little differ
ence; rich and poor, high and low, agonzed
together over some form of broken hope,
some unsatisfied hunger.
The chapel door stood open, and he stopped
md looked in. II was here Bertha and he
we're to have been married. And it would
nave been before this-but now. He saw the
place where they would have stood together.
The church was empty and he walked softly
H. as if afraid of disturbing the ghosts of his
lead hopes, who haunted yet, perhaps, the
'acred spot they gloliied in all the dreams of
lis early manhood. He walked YEARLY up
The echoing aisle and threw himself into
eat He bowed his head upon the back of
he pew in front of him. Had he no shame
% come to the rescue of his broken healtl
would he grieve forever over a woman that
lad become another mans wife! She had
,alled on the laws of the land for her protcc-
ion; he had no right TO even think Of her
low. She was shut away from him forever.
It had become sin for him now to long for
ler, though she had been SO nearly his own
wife. There was no place in the world for
minated lovers like him. If she had not
married that man! How strange that he had
heard nothing of that marriage her note had
lot mentioned it, and no one had spoken Of
t since. Why, his belief in her purity was so
absolute he had not even thought to question
Ter marriage, and now it was like guilty
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