After three days of fruitless search for work, Stephen’s outlook upon life grew very gloomy. Dominion was over-supplied with laborers. In looking backward, Stephen felt that he had applied for every sort of position from bank president to day laborer, but everywhere the answer had been the same: “Sorry, but we have nothing for you. We are even turning off our old workmen.” In the West, in time of prosperity, positions and opportunities of every sort go begging. In time of depression there is no harder place in which to get work.
To make matters worse, Stephen from principle had always refused to affiliate himself with one of the labor organizations, and in Dominion the power of the union is paramount. Once he had almost persuaded the foreman at one of the smelters to put him on the rolls; but when the fact had appeared that he was a non-union man the official had changed his mind.
[164]
“I can’t risk it. It is all wrong; but if I was to hire you to-day, why to-morrow I wouldn’t have three men working.” This had been his final answer.
Shortly after this experience, Loring had been approached by a delegate who had tried to persuade him to join the Miners’ union. The delegate had enumerated the advantages, and they were many,—a sick benefit of ten dollars a week, friends wherever he should go, work at high wages, and a seventy-five dollar funeral when he died. The delegate had asked Stephen if it were fair that when the union, by concerted action, had brought about the prevailing high scale of wages, outsiders should both share the advantage, and yet weaken the union position by working contrary to the fixed scale. At the end, as a peroration, the man had cited the possibilities of crushing capital at the polls, arguing with the general point of view of such men, that the chief aim of capital was to crush labor.
“You needn’t pay your dues until you get your first month’s wages,” he had concluded.
Stephen had begun to feel that perhaps his anti-union convictions had been prejudiced, for[165] the man had clearly shown many good arguments. Then the delegate, seeing that Stephen was weakening, had thought to clinch the matter. Changing his manner, he had shaken his finger in Loring’s face and said: “If you don’t join the union, we’ll see to it that you don’t get a job in the territory. We’ll send your picture to every camp in Arizona, and life will be hell for you. There was a man only last week who wouldn’t join. He is in the hospital now, and, by Gawd, he will stay there for a while.”
“That settles it,” Loring had answered.
The man had become all smiles again.
“I thought you would see it that way,” he had rejoined.
“I think that you misunderstand me,” had been Stephen’s reply. “I would not join your union if you hired me to do so. As a matter of fact, the Miners’ union here is not a true labor union. It is a thugs’ union, and the sooner all honest workingmen find it out, the better for the cause of unionism throughout the country.”
The scuffle that had ensued had resulted in Loring’s favor, but it had not helped him to find work.
[166]
One morning, rather from want of occupation than from any definite expectations, Stephen took his place in the post-office at the general delivery window. He was greatly surprised when, in answer to his inquiry, the clerk slipped a letter through the grating. It bore the Quentin postmark; but the writing was unfamiliar. Stephen walked across the room, and leaning in the doorway opened the letter with curiosity. It was from Mr. Cameron, and ran in this fashion:
“Quentin, September 20th.
“Stephen Loring.
“Dear Sir: I suppose that you realize how final your actions here must be in regard to any trust being placed in you. I shall say no more upon the subject. The fact remains that unfortunately I am in your debt.”
Stephen read this sentence over several times before continuing:
“I feel bound to make one more effort to repay you, which must be regarded as final. I have interests in several companies in Montana, and I will offer you a position with one of them, on the understanding that you will never come into my way again or—”
here several words were scratched out
“You must realize how unpleasant it is for my daughter to be under any obligation to a man, who, to put the[167] matter plainly, is a worthless drunkard. In offering this position to you, I may as well say that this is the only motive which actuates me. The position is one in which no responsibility is involved, being merely clerical. The pay would be sufficient to maintain you as long as you remain steady. The condition I impose would be absolute.
“Yours truly,
“Donald H. Cameron.”
Stephen noticed with interest the character of the signature.
“I don’t believe that man ever failed at anything,” he thought. “There is only one thing that he never learned, and that is how to deal with a failure.”
It was the noon hour, and the various whistles told of lunch, for some. Stephen read the letter over and over.
“Why not accept the offer?” he questioned. Mr. Cameron could certainly feel no more disrespect for him than he did now, and the blatant fact that he was hungry and without work forced itself upon his attention.
“It means another chance,” he muttered, and now that he was sure of himself, he knew that a chance meant success. He thrust the letter into his pocket.
[168]
“Hang it, I’ll take him up,” he thought. “I have been everything else; I may as well be a grafter.”
As he slid his hand out of his coat pocket, he felt another envelope. He pulled it out, and looked longingly at it. It was Jean’s note. He hesitated, then tore it open.
“I need it now, if ever I shall,” he said to himself. There was only a line, signed with Jean’s initials.
“I still believe in you.”
Stephen read it with bowed head. His shoulders shook. The paper danced up and down before his eyes. Over and over he read the note. Unconsciously he stretched out his hand, as if to press in gratitude and devotion the hand of some one before him. At length, with a start, he came to himself. He returned the note to his pocket, and in a determined fashion walked up to a man who was standing near him.
“I would like to borrow two cents for a stamp,” he said.
The stranger roared with laughter.
“Well, you are broke! Say, friend, I’ll stake you to a meal, if you’re that hard up.”
[169]
Stephen shook his head: “No, thank you. I have still my coat, which I can pawn; but I am much obliged for the stamp.”
He found an odd envelope lying on a table. Going over to the desk, he addressed this to Mr. Cameron. Then taking from the waste basket a sheet of paper, he wrote quickly upon it five words:
“I’m damned if I will.”
He put on the stamp with a hard pound of his fist, and threw the letter into the mail-box. Then, with his heart beating joyously, he walked out of the post-office. Inside his coat a note lay warm against his heart.
On the corner stood a pawnbroker’s shop. The brightness of the gilding upon the three balls showed that it was a successful one. The place was crowded with men who were disposing of everything that duty, a mild sense of decency, or necessity did not for the moment require. Loring entered the shop, and elbowing his way to the desk, laid down his coat. The proprietor picked it up, prodded the cloth with his thumb-nail, shook his head over the worn lining, then said:
[170]
“Two bits on that.”
Stephen silently took the proffered quarter, and went out.
“That means one meal, anyhow,” he thought.
A gaudy sign attracted his attention: “Chinese-American Restaurant”—“All you can eat for two bits.”
“I think that they do not lose much on their sign,” he reflected when, a few minutes later, seated at a counter, he gnawed at some bread and stew, and drank bitter coffee. “Any man who ate more than a quarter’s worth would die.”
Having eaten, he sauntered over to the cashier’s window and nonchalantly slid his quarter across the counter. Then no longer a capitalist, but also no longer hungry, he stepped out into the street again. He looked to right and left wondering in what direction to turn his footsteps. The sight of a crowd in front of the post-office determined him. He questioned a man on the outskirts of the group, and found that the excitement was caused by a telegram, the contents of which was posted in the window. Working his way through the crowd, Loring reached a position whence he[171] could make out the notice. The telegram was from the governor of Sonora, the Mexican province which lay just across the line from Dominion.
“Outbreak of Yaquis. No troops near. Would deeply appreciate help from Dominion.”
The crowd was laughing and cheering.
“Me for Old Mexico!............