Part 59 (2/2)

One horrible scream was all they heard from little Ben. Grant was at his side in a moment. There, stuck to the rail, were two little legs and an arm. Grant stooped, picked up the little body, pulled it loose from the tracks, and carried it, running, to the company hospital.

As Grant ran, tears fell in the little, coal-stained face, and made white splotches on the child's cheeks.

CHAPTER XLV

IN WHICH LIDA BOWMAN CONSIDERS HER UNIVERSE AND TOM VAN DORN WINS ANOTHER VICTORY

For a long and weary night and a day of balancing doubt, and another dull night, little Ben Bowman lay limp and crumpled on his cot--a broken lump of clay hardly more than animate. Lida Bowman, his mother, all that time sat in the hall of the hospital outside the door of his room. The stream of sorrow that winds through a hospital pa.s.sed before her unheeded. Her husband came, sat with her silently for a while, went, and came again, many times. But she did not go. In the morning of the second day as she stood peering through the door crack at the child she saw his little body move in a deep sigh, and saw his black eyes open for a second and close as he smiled. Dr. Nesbit, who stood beside her, grasped her hand and led her away.

”I think the worst is over, Lida,” he said, and held her hand as they walked down the hall. He sat with her in the waiting room, into which the earliest tide of visitors had not begun to flow, and promised her that if the child continued to rally from the shock, she might stand by his bed at noon. Then for the first time she wept. He stood by the window looking out at the great pillars of smoke that were smudging the dawn, at the smelter fumes that were staining the sky, at the hurrying crowd of men and women and children going into the mines, the mills, the shops, hurrying to work with the prod of fear ever in their backs--fear of the disgrace of want, fear of the shame of beggary, fear to hear some loved one ask for food or warmth or shelter and to have it not. When the great motherly body had ceased its paroxysms, he went to Mrs. Bowman and touched her shoulder.

”Lida,” he said, ”it isn't much--but I'm glad of one thing. My bill is on the statutes to give people who are hurt, as Ben was, their money from the company without going to law and dividing with the lawyers. It is on the books good and tight; referred to the people and approved by them and ground clear through the state supreme court and sustained. It isn't much, Lida--Heaven knows that--but little Ben will get his money without haggling and that money will help to start him in life.”

She turned a tear-swollen face to him, but again her grief overcame her.

He stood with one wrinkled hand upon her broad shoulder, and with the other patted her coa.r.s.e hair. When she looked up at him, again he said gently:

”I know, Lida, that money isn't what you mothers want--but--”

”But we've got to think of it, Doc Jim--that's one of the curses of poverty, but, oh, money!--It won't bring them back strong and whole--who leave us to go to work, and come back all torn and mashed.”

She sat choking down the sobs that came surging up from her great bosom, and weaving to and fro as she fought back her tears. The Doctor sat beside her and took her red unshapely hands unadorned except by the thin gold wedding ring that she had worn in toil for over thirty years.

”Lida, sometimes I think only G.o.d and the doctors know how heavy women's loads are,” said the Doctor.

”Ain't that so--Doc Jim!” she cried. ”Ain't that the truth? I've had a long time to think these two days and nights--and I've thought it all over and all out. Here I am nearly fifty and eight times you and I have fought it out with death and brought life into this world. I'm strong--I don't mind that. I joyed at their coming, and made the others edge over at the table, and snuggle up in the bed, and we've been happy. Even the three that are dead--I'm glad they came; I'm thankful for 'em. And d.i.c.k he's been so proud of each one, and cuddled it, and muched it--”

Her voice broke and she sobbed, ”Oh, little Ben--little Ben, how pappy made over his hair--he was born with hair--don't you mind, Doc Jim?”

The Doctor laughed and looked into the past as he piped, ”Curliest headed little tyke, and don't you remember Laura gave him Lila's baby things she'd saved for all those years?”

”Yes, Doc Jim--don't I? G.o.d knows, Doc, she's been a mother to the whole Valley--when I got up I found I was the twentieth woman up and down the Valley she'd given Lila's little things to--just to save our pride when she thought we would not take 'em any other way. Don't I know--all about it--and she's still doing it--G.o.d bless her, and she's been here every morning, noon and night since--since--she came with a little beef tea, or some of her own wine, or a plate of hot toast in her basket--that she made me eat. Why, if it wasn't for her and Henry and Violet and Grant--what would G.o.d's poor in this Valley do in trouble--I sure dunno.”

There came an unsteady minute, when the Doctor stroked her hand and piped, ”Well, Lida--you folks in the Valley don't get half the fun out of it that the others get. It's pie for them.”

The woman folded her hands in her lap and sighed deeply. ”Doc Jim,” she began, ”eight times I've brought life into this world. The three that went, went because we were poor--because we couldn't buy life for 'em.

They went into the mills and the mines with d.i.c.k's muscle. One is at home, waiting till the wheels get hungry for her. Four I've fed into the mills that grind up the meat we mothers make.” She stared at him wildly and cried ”O G.o.d--G.o.d, Doc Jim--what justice is there in it? I've been a kind of brood-mare bearing burden carriers for Dan Sands, who has sold my blood like cheese in his market. My mother sent three boys to the war who never came back and I've heard her cry and thank G.o.d He'd let her.

But my flesh and blood--the little ones that d.i.c.k and me have coddled and petted and babied--they've been fed into the wheels to make profits--profits for idlers to squander--profits to lure women to shame and men to death. That's what I've been giving my body and soul for, Doc Jim. Little Ben up there has given his legs and his arms--oh, those soft little arms and the cunning little legs I used to kiss--for what? I'll tell you--he's given them so that by saving a day's work repairing a car, some straw boss could make a showing to a superintendent, and the superintendent could make a record for economy to a president, and a president could increase dividends--dividends to be spent by idlers. And idleness makes drunkards who make harlots who make h.e.l.l--and all my little boy's arms and legs will go for is for sin and shame.”

The Doctor returned to the window and she cried bitterly: ”Oh, you know that's the truth--the G.o.d's truth, Doc Jim. Where's my Jean? She went into the gla.s.s factory--worked twelve hours a day on a job that would have crippled her for life in another year, and then went away with that Austrian blower--and when he threw her out, she was ashamed to write--and for a long time now I've read the city papers of them women who kill themselves--hoping to find she was dead. And Mugs--you know what South Harvey's made of him--”

She rose and walked to the window. Standing beside him she cried:

”I tell you, Doc Jim--I hate it.” She pointed to the great black mills and mine shafts and the piles of brick and lumber and sheet iron that stretched before her for a mile. ”I hate it, and I'm going to hit it once before I die. Don't talk peace to me. I've got a right to hit it and hit it hard--and if my time ever comes--”

A visitor was shown into the room, and Mrs. Bowman ceased speaking. She was calm when the Doctor left her and at noon she stood beside the cot, and saw little Ben smile at her. Then she went away in tears. As she pa.s.sed out of the door of the hospital into the street, she met Grant Adams coming in to inquire about little Ben.

<script>