Part 37 (1/2)

”Every strike has to do with all work everywhere, child,” returned the man in the wheel chair, while his busy fingers wove the fabric of a basket. ”Every idle hand in the world, Helen, whatever the cause of its idleness, compels some other's hand to do its work. The work of the world must be done, child--somehow, by some one--the work of the world must be done. The little Maggies and Bobbies of the Flats down there must be fed, you know--and their mother too--yes, and Sam Whaley himself must be cared for. And so you see, because of the strike, Billy and I must work overtime.”

Certainly there was no hint of rebuke in the old basket maker's kindly voice, but the daughter of Adam Ward felt her cheeks flush with a quick sense of shame. That her old friend in the wheel chair should so accept the responsibility of his neighbor's need and give himself thus to help them, while she--

”Is there,” she faltered, ”is there really so much suffering among the strikers?”

Without raising his eyes from his work, he answered, ”The women and children--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 suffered in foreign lands,” he returned. ”Why should you not know of the mothers and babies in Millsburgh?”

”But McIver says--” she hesitated.

The Interpreter caught up her words. ”McIver says that by feeding the starving families of the strikers the strike is prolonged. He relies upon the hunger and cold and sickness of the women and children for his victory. And Jake Vodell relies upon the suffering in the families of his followers for that desperate frenzy of cla.s.s hatred, without which he cannot gain his end. Does McIver want for anything? No! Is Jake Vodell in need? No! It is not the imperialistic leaders in these industrial wars who pay the price. It is always the little Bobbies and Maggies who pay. The people of America stood aghast with horror when an unarmed pa.s.senger s.h.i.+p was torpedoed or a defenseless village was bombed by order of a ruthless Kaiser; but we permit these Kaisers of capital and labor to carry on their industrial wars without a thought of the innocent ones who must suffer under their ruthless policies.”

He paused; then, with no trace of bitterness, but only sadness in his voice, he added, ”You say you do not know, child--and yet, you could know so easily if you would. Little Bobby and Maggie do not live in a far-off land across the seas. They live right over there in the shadow of your father's Mill--the Mill which supplies you, Helen, with every material need and luxury of your life.”

As if she could bear to hear no more, Helen rose quickly and went from the room to stand on the balcony-porch.

It was not so much the Interpreter's words--it was rather the spirit in which they were spoken that moved her so deeply. By her own heart she was judged. ”For every idle hand,” he had said. Her hands were idle hands. Her old white-haired friend in his wheel chair was doing her work. His crippled body drooped with weariness over his task because she did nothing. His face was lined with care because she was careless of the need that burdened him. His eyes were filled with sadness and pain because she was indifferent--because she did not know--had not cared to know.

The sun was almost down that afternoon when Bobby Whaley came out of the wretched house that was his home to stand on the front doorstep.

The dingy, unpainted buildings of the Flats--the untidy hovels and shanties--the dilapidated fences and broken sidewalks--unlovely at best, in the long shadows of the failing day, were sinister with the gloom of poverty.

High above the Mill the twisting columns of smoke from the tall stacks caught the last of the sunlight and formed slow, changing cloud-shapes--rolling hills of brightness with soft, shadowy valleys and canons of mysterious depths between--towering domes and crags and castled heights--grim, foreboding, beautiful.

The boy who stood on the steps, looking so listlessly about, was not the daring adventurer who had so boldly led his sister up the zigzag steps to the Interpreter's hut. He was not the Bobby who had ridden in such triumph beside the princess lady so far into the unknown country.

His freckled face was thin and pinched. The skin was drawn tight over the high cheek bones and the eyes were wide and staring. His young body that had been so st.u.r.dy was gaunt and skeletonlike. The dirty rags that clothed him were scarcely enough to hide his nakedness. The keen autumn air that had put the flush of good red blood into the cheeks of the golfers at the country club that afternoon whirled about his bare feet and legs with stinging cruelty. His thin lips and wasted limbs were blue with cold. Turning slowly, he seemed about to reenter the house, but when his hand touched the latch he paused and once more uncertainly faced toward the street. There was no help for him in his home. He knew no other place to go for food or shelter.

As the boy again looked hopelessly about the wretched neighborhood, he saw a woman coming down the street. He could tell, even at that distance, that the lady was a stranger to the Flats. Her dress, simple as it was, and her veil marked her as a resident of some district more prosperous 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 ladies always came earlier in the day and always in automobiles.

Then he saw the stranger stop and speak to a boy in front of a house two doors away. The neighbor boy pointed toward Bobby and the lady came on, walking quickly as if she were a little frightened at being alone amid such surroundings.

At the gap where once had been a gate in the dilapidated fence, she turned in toward the house and the wondering boy on the front step. She was within a few feet of the lad when she stopped suddenly with a low exclamation.

Bobby thought that she had discovered her mistake in coming to the wrong 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. ”Mag is, though. She's worse to-day.”

His manner was sullenly defiant, as if the warmly dressed stranger had in 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.