title: When things were doing
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"^0, x-*^ ^0' . -Y *,s' . 0 ' ^ ^ d > </>, ® % c^ * O ^ A ' ^ 't ■<:> » V I A >» s’’/ ^ , s^ ^ ff C' *A ^xOx^ <'■ 'i WHEN THINGS WERE DOING t WHEN THINGS WERE DOING BY C. A. STEERE t# CHICAGO CHARLES H. KERR & COMPANY 1908 LIBRARY of C0N3RE5S Two Copies Received DEC 26 190/ Copyriarm tntry ph^ '5 ffo7 CLASSA XXc. No. 'ZS'f COPY B. Copyright 1907 By CHAS. H. KERR & COMPANY When Things Were Doing CHAPTER I. The Honorable Bill. Tempest solemnly lifted the glass of what, after due assiduity and ex- treme pains in compounding, he was pleased to call Roman punch. The sun was dropping swiftly down toward the Palisades of the Hud- son and his approaching exit from a wintry world of frozen fields and bare branches was attended by a gorgeousness as unusual for the season as it was spectacular. In a veritable blaze of glory his blood-red disc, framed in a sea of crimson satellites, bathed with an un- earthly radiance the still snow-covered land- scape of the Bronx, the crisp shining stretches of road where an occasional chime of sleigh bells lingered in the frosty air, the picturesque cottages of the well-to-do, the deserted parks, the skating ponds where bands of shouting youngsters scudded and circled with their hockey sticks, the many towers and spires that looked enchanted in the soft red winter haze. 6 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING Very critically, like the connoisseur he was, the honorable Bill poised his glass in the mel- low glow that radiated from the west and gazed at the amber liquid. “Madame,’' he said at last, “since you decline to join me on this festive occasion, which comes but once a year, permit me to drink to your con- tinued health and happiness and he tossed off the contents of his glass at a gulp, smacking his lips approvingly. He reached for the de- canter to repeat the process, but madame was contrary minded and snatched the prize out of his reach, depositing it upon the sideboard. “Don’t be such a glutton. Bill,” she pro- tested, her red lips pouting saucily, her dark eyes glinting mischief. “I actually believe you’d swallow that horrid stuff to the last drop right before my face and eyes, if I’d let you — but I won’t let you.” “No,” argued her husband, selecting a fat Havana from his pocket case, “that’s where you’re wrong; I wouldn’t — not if you turn your face and eyes the other way.” With a sudden rush a low lying bank of clouds, just thrusting its somber bulk over the horizon, swallowed the glory of the sunset and brought twilight to the cozy and daintily-ap- pointed dining room and its occupants. Mad- WHEN THINGS WERE DOING 7 ame switched on the electric lights, drew the curtains and, donning a voluminous apron, pro- ceeded to clear the table aided and abetted by Liza, temporarily their only domestic help, the other servants having been given their liberty for the day. The head of the family meanwhile, with sun- dry grunts of what he thought was satisfac- tion, but which were more than likely due to a distended stomach, lolled in a capacious leather-upholstered Morris chair, elevated his slippered feet, puffed his irreproachable Ha- vana, and watched with mingled admiration and envy the energetic movements of his wife ; for it was Christmas and the elaborate dinner, prepared by madame’s own dainty hands, had been a revelation to her lord and master ac- customed though he was to her exquisite me- nus. In an incredibly short time the debris of the feast had been removed to the kitchen, the dining room put in order by the fair young chatelaine and nothing remained of Christmas dinner but the memory — a mighty pleasant one, by the way, to judge by the beatific expression of the honorable Bill. “Josephine,” coaxed that worthy, ingratiat- ingly, “you might — er — if you would be so kind ” 8 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING “Oh — you want that punch ?” queried madame. “Well, it would be a burning shame if you had to leave your chair and get it. All right ; don’t move for the world,” and placing the desired, nectar on a tray, together with some glasses and a box of cigars, she set the tray upon a lit- tle inlaid table and wheeled the outfit across the room to his elbow. “Seems to me,” she remarked, with mock se- verity not unmixed with mild wonder at her lord’s undeniable storage capacity, “that you have about contributed your share for one day toward your Uncle Sam’s internal revenue tax. It was sundry cocktails before breakfast; then it was highballs, gin rickeys, milk punches and the Lord knows what else, until luncheon time ; your luncheon, out of deference to the fact that you were to have an early Christmas dinner, consisted of a whole pumpkin pie, washed down with a half gallon — I should say — of rus- set cider; at dinner it was oyster cocktails to start off with, a bottle of Madeira with the soup, a bottle of Rhine wine with the fish, a botle of Chianti with the sweetbreads, followed by a half pint of claret, burgundy, sherry, port, sauterne or hock with every other course ex- cept that you drowned the turkey with two pints of champagne, had burnt brandy with WHEN THINGS WERE DOING 9 your coffee and now, although it is only 4 :45 and dinner is scarcely off the table, you are wrestling with a quart of Roman punch. It is a long time to midnight, and what other feats of bibulosity you are destined to accomplish goodness only knows. Judging, however, from — ” “By George \” interrupted the unabashed spouse, anxiously, “did you save a half pint of that Jersey cream — and some eggs? — Pve got to mix an egg-nogg for a nightcap, made with some of that 1847 Jamaica rum. Nothing like it to make a fellow sleep, don’t you know.” “Well, did anybody ever!” expostulated mad- ame, incredulously. “Oh, goodness, yes ; I imagine you will find some cream and eggs in the pantry — that is,” she added, sarcastically, “if you think you can stop drinking long enough to require a nightcap.” “That’s the stuff !” he commented, greatly re- lieved, and totally ignoring the sarcasm. “Say, Josie, you’re a peach — a positive treasure — don’t know what the dickens I’d do without you. Now get your violin, that’s a good girl, and we’ll have some Schopenhaur — heavens! no, I mean Schubert, Tschaikowski, Adamowski, or some other Owski — gad ! you’ve got ’em all faded to a finish, whether it’s music, menus or 10 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING miscellaneous. There aren’t many of ’em in your class, old girl. When I married the daughter of old Pierre Mercereau, the best chef and cafetier that ever hit Broadway, I didn’t make any mistake ” “Whoa, Bill; put on the brakes. “William Tempest! I’m ashamed of you. What! actually getting tipsy on Christmas night? I wouldn’t have believed it.” Which was a fact. She wouldn’t have be- lieved it on evidence less convincing than ocu- lar demonstration. She had seen him jauntily carry ofif too many loads to believe in her hus- band’s vulnerability to the arch mocker. WHEN THINGS WERE DOING 11 deny the soft — soft ’mpeachment,” de- clared the crestfallen Bill, struggling valorously to his feet. “It's confounded close room — be all right in a minute." With his wife’s assistance he managed to pre- serve his equilibrium and his dignity long enough to gain the hallway and let himself out onto the veranda. The wind was rising and its gusty buffeting down from the north was a life-saver. While he stood there drinking in the grateful tonic and reviving every instant a big four-seated touring car, with much skidding of tires on the hard-trodden snow and much mer- ry badinage on the part of its occupants, was brought up in front of the house and a party of young folks piled out and dashed up the steps onto the veranda. “Why, Mr. Tempest!" they cried, “What is the matter? — you’ll catch your death of cold out here.’’ “Oh, nothing; just enjoying a breath of fresh air,’’ he replied carelessly, “come in.’’ “We’re going to the theatre,’’ explained Dar- by Blake, when the party had removed their wraps and filed into the sitting room,’’ and as Mrs. Tempest told Madge you were going we thought we’d pick you up.’’ “Thanks, old man. Well, Josie, what do you I 12 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING say? Fact is, folks, Fd forgotten all about it until she reminded me of it a few minutes ago. It's early yet, though. But wait — come to think of it I can’t go — Josie you run and get ready, but it’s all off with me. I’ve got those infernal proofsheets to correct. Beastly bother, but the publishers have to have them in the morning. It’s a good four or five hours’ job, too, and I’d rather be hanged than fuss with them tonight.” ^‘If you can’t go, I’ll stay and keep you com- pany,” declared Mrs. Tempest. “Nonsense !” he cried, “you’d have the time of your life moping around the house all alone Christmas night, for I shouldn’t let you so much as poke your nose into the den. So you see this chance is a godsend for you. Go and dress, now, like a good girl.” “Come on !” chorused the others, “he doesn’t want you and we do.” Thus adjured, madame yielded and went up- stairs to get ready. Of course there had to be mixed another bowl of punch, for the ex-assem- blyman was the quintessence of hospitality, and by the time Mrs. Tempest came down look- ing like a prize winner, as one of the young men had the temerity to hazard as his opinion, the whole company was in an exalted frame of mind and her husband, having recovered his WHEN THINGS WERE DOING 13 second wind, was in the midst of a most elo- quent and learned disquisition upon the points of resemblance between a certain baffled gov- ernor and Diogenes. So sympathetic was the audience that it was on the point of starting a subscription to buy a lantern for the unhappy chief executive. "‘Well, girls, get into your coon-skins,” said Blake, “weVe got to be scorching down town ; but for my part I call it pretty hard lines to have to ride several miles on a cold night to see a counterfeit presentment when weVe got the real thing right here.” “Oh, he’s a wonder,” remarked Mrs. Bill, in a sotto voce cadence, and having in mind his recuperative, rather than his histrionic powers. Then the crowd said good night and left the honorable Bill to his own devices; and while he is skirmishing around in the pantry assem- bling the component parts of his egg-nog, a short sketch of his previous condition of servi- tude may the better prepare the reader for what is to follow. ^ ^ ^ 5fc * Born and reared on a New Hampshire farm where the Saco threads its way to the sea through giant mountains, William Tempest’s boyhood was much the same as that of thousands of 14 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING country youths. He attended the district schools, hunted, trapped and cast his flies in whirling trout pools, often helping out at farm work in summer, often guiding tourist parties through the Presidential range. His father, being com- fortably well-to-do, allowed the lad for the most part to follow his own bent. If there was any one thing at which the young man particularly excelled it was probably his ability to take a yardful of school boys, younger or older than himself — it didn’t seem to matter much — and pile them in a heap at his feet, holding them there at his sweet will while he stuffed their neckbands full of snow. This was his long suit, and it not only conduced to give him a certain eclat and standing among the husky young mountain- eers of his bailiwick, but it also not inconceiv- ably operated as a stretcher for his hat-band. When he was sixteen Bill thought he had absorbed about all the culture in the line of book learning that the home schools had on tap, and decided to tackle a ^‘prep” institution in a neigh- boring state ; but a dude schoolmaster from Boston, coming to board at the farm, put it up to Old Man Tempest that he could divide some of his all-embracing knowledge and still retain enough to do him. Bill, being open to conviction, a bargain was struck and the young man had a tutor to tute. WHEN THINGS WERE DOING 15 As long as daylight lasted a yoke of oxen couldn’t have dragged Bill up to a tangled and perfidious snarl of Greek and Latin roots. He vastly preferred to strap on his snow-shoes, call the dogs and, gun on his shoulder, disappear in the heavy timber that densely clothed the lower altitudes of the mountains. On these occasions he would generally have something to show for his trip — an otter or mink taken in his traps, a raccoon skin, a deer, a big-horned owl, shot from his perch in the depths of the forest, a covey of quail caught napping in the lee of some projecting rock, a half grown cub; and not so very infrequently a full grown bear would be toted in on travois poles through the deep snow and the only light thing about that load would be the heart of the youthful hunter. But when supper was over and the long evenings stretched out interminably Bill would throw off his coat, get into his moccasins, drag his book- laden table over to one corner of the huge fire- place, grit his teeth, dig his toes into the rag carpet and sweat blood while his dude school- master put him through Greek and Latin de- clensions, regular and irregular conjugations, rules and their exceptions, translation, composi- tion, and other things, till the cows came home. Then for a change he would switch off into arcs, 16 WHEN TTIINCS WERE DOING tangents, truncated sections, cosines, radii, bi- nomial theorems and much other fierce tommy- rot that lies between the cup and the lip of a candidate for matriculation honors at our univer- sities.. Once or twice during the first six weeks of his martyrdom the desperate youth, after the usual seance was over and he had retired for the night, lay awake all of five or ten minutes deliberating the most plausible pretext for alluring to some inaccessible ravine and there choking and hurl- ing to destruction his pedagogical nemesis. That particular phase of his existence was as evanes- cent as it was absorbing while it lasted. Before spring, so deadly in earnest was the pupil and so tenacious his memory, he had made such progress that Mr. Dude had to sit up and take notice. He found that when driven to a cprner he couldn't draw upon his imagination with the same freedom he at first enjoyed. He com- menced to earn his money. All spring and summer Bill plugged away like a six-day tourna- ment rider and by fall concluded he’d make a presentable showing in Dartmouth’s football squad. He passed his examinations all right and his dream of getting on the football team turned out to have been an incontestable hunch. When WHEN THINGS WERE DOING 17 one is seventeen — at least he wouldn’t be eigh- teen until the following December — and stands five feet ten in his stockings, weighs 180 pounds without an ounce of superfluous adipose tissue and, when stripped, looks for all the world like the pictures of Hercules as delineated in school mythologies, one isn’t very apt to get lost in the shuffle when the powers that be go gunning for gridiron timber. But the dream was doomed to be suddenly and rudely shattered. He hadn’t been there three weeks when some breach of etiquette, unintentional on his part but none the less a breach, marked him for discipline by the Sophies. The affair came off at the appointed hour ; but so many sophomore heads were broken and so many sophomore arms were twisted out of their sockets that the indignant faculty, amazed that such things could be and unanimous in the resolve that a repetition was simply un- thinkable, incontinently bounced the innocent, yet from their point of view inexcusable, author of so much sophomoric woe. However, what Dartmouth lost on the gory grill-ground proved a conspicious gain to the jubilant sons of Old Eli who welcomed the out- law with wide-open arms. What feats of valor and of strength the prodigy there performed and what forlorn hopes he led to victory, what laurel 18 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING chaplets, twined by fair hands graced his not over-modest brow would furnish the theme for a second and modern Aeneid. Suffice it here to say that our hero was during his day the most conspicuous figure, socially and athletically con- sidered, in the university contingent of the Elm City and that his reputation in drinking bouts was all that the most ambitious gridiron non- pareil could desire. After graduating he went back to the old farm for a year’s rest among the mountains. Being an idol of flesh and blood is rather strenuous business, and although his granite physique had stood up under the strain remark- ably well young Tempest concluded that tramp- ing the hills awhile with rod and gun and a change to sparkling spring water from the “hot and rebellious” fluids he had been wont to throw into his blood would do him no particular harm. And the correctness of his diagnosis was amply attested by the results. At the end of his pastoral retirement he was fit as a fiddle and longed to get into the game. Accordingly, one fine September morning nearly fifteen months after his graduation, he packed his grip and boarded the train for New York. He was in his twenty- third year, tanned like a Mojave Indian, erect as a crowbar, massive yet agile as an eel, tipped WHEN THINGS WERE DOING 19 the scales somewhere around the two-hundred- pound mark, and was physically as fine a speci- men of his genus as the Granite or any other state ever turned loose to compete in the cut- throat game of life. The game was all ahead, but it had no terrors for him. Behind a round, smoothly shaven, almost boyish face and ingenuous blue eyes that looked out upon the world with the wide-open candor of a doll’s in a china shop, there was an iron will and a cool, calculating brain — the temperament that takes punishment stoically and inflicts it remorselessly. He had a modest fortune of about $25,000 and that he took along for luck. He was at first undecided whether he would apply for the position of president of some prosperous railroad or run on an independent ticket for mayor of the town. He finally compromised the matter by butting into Columbia university as a law student. Here his career was smooth and for the most part uneventful. He attended the lectures with commendable regularity, studiously and heroically assimilated the prescribed amount of flimflam, dry rot and other rot, and in general conducted himself with decorum, earnestness and a sobriety unexpected to those familiar with his Yale rec- ord. He was a regular attendant at the gym- nasium, his superb vitality necessitating some 20 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING exhaust valve. Boxing was his favorite exer- cise but nobody there could stand up under his playful wallops so he took to fencing. There was a young fellow about his own age, Victor Mercereau, with whom he became acquainted. This youth was an all-round athlete, but took special pride in his swordsmanship, which was the real thing, being the result of many years’ training under some of the best fencing-masters of Europe where he had received much of his education. He was a New Yorker by birth, his grandfather having been one of the aristo- cratic refugees who by flight saved their necks from the guillotine at the time of the French revolution. The family had prospered in New York and when Pierre Mercereau, his father, died he was not only proprietor of one of the swellest catering establishments in the metrop- olis, but a millionaire twice over. Under these circumstances Victor and his sister, Josephine, both of whom had spent half their school days on the Continent, decided to drop the catering business and take life easy. The two young men became a regular Damon-and-Pythias team and Mercereau not only taught his friend the art of fencing but, what was a far more practical service, introduced him to New York’s inner cir- cle — to clubdom, to the professional lights, poli- WHEN THINGS WERE DOING - 21 ticians and statesmen.' And, as if this were not enough, he put his friend under a still deeper obligation by introducing him to his sister Josie, a tall, vivacious, highly accomplished and ex- quisitely beautiful brunette whose many graces of mind and person were further enhanced by the fact that she was a fastidious housekeeper and a positive genius in the culinary art — to say nothing of her ample fortune. It was a case of love at first sight, and after a brief but ardent courtship they were married. ' Nothing succeeds like success, and things were certainly coming Bill Tempest’s way. The big law student not only took highest honors in his classes, but he was rapidly acquiring a repu- tation for much forensic ability. In the student debating societies and elsewhere his eloquence, his sonorous voice, commanding presence, re- sourcefulness, parliamentary skill and grasp of public questions had already marked him as a prodigy and presaged a career at the bar or in politics which need have no bounds but his own ambition. In due time he was graduated with honors, admitted to the bar and the following autumn, in a whirlwind campaign, marked by strenuous opposition and bitter personalities, was elected to the Assembly on the Republican ticket. 22 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING It was in this legislative body that the young Demosthenes learned the difference between the- oretical and practical politics. He had read of political machines so powerful that they ground to pulp all opposition, strangled budding initiative and compelled the most servile obedience to their slightest wish — he had read of such things and marveled that slaves could be found so pliant as to submit. He now found himself up against the real article. At the very outset of his legislative career the wily machine leaders of his party had recog- nized both his talent and his independence; and to gradually undermine and break down the latter so as to avail themselves of the former was the task they set themselves. To this end the young assemblyman was patronized and deferred to, was placed upon important com- mittees, was wined and dined, lionized and flat- tered until a weaker head would have been upset. Perhaps his might, too, for he was young and had absorbed a great deal of academic ortho- doxy; but the “machinists” proved to be com- mon blacksmiths — they made the fatal mistake of too soon assuming that the lion was tamed, whereas he was only slightly dopey. Having no particularly exalted ideas about the rights of that vague abstraction concretely referred to WHEN THINGS WERE DOING 23 as “the people,” and looking upon opportunity as the stepping-stone to power, he had more than once upon the floor of the House eloquent- ly and ingeniously defended some flagrant cor- poration steal — not as a matter of compulsion, but as a matter of course. This emboldened his foxy old political jockeys to groom him for the inner paddock where political races are thrown and winners are picked in advance, where dope is manufactured and deviltry dis- cussed with brutal candor and a callousness beggaring description. But they had overlooked one blemish : the rugged personal honesty of the neophyte who for mere graft and boodle could no more descend to their infamous level than the waters of Niagara could run back over the precipice. The break came when a smooth railroad lobbyist ran up to Albany with a good fat “roll” and proceeded to lubricate the machine in the in- terest of a notoriously scandalous bill that was hanging fire in both branches of the Legisla- ture. That settled it. The honorable Bill not only balked at receiving their dirty dollars, but exposed the whole scheme to the newspapers, denouncing it in the Assembly and forcing the lobbyists to get out of town. Thereafter the honorable Bill was a dead one. 24 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING He was ostracized socially ; he was deposed from his committee 'membership and, big as he was, the honorable speaker of the House could never see him when he wished to mix in some of the legislative pow-wows by which Special Privilege acquires still more special and ample privileges. And when his term was up, his law-making ' career being thus blighted, he began to study law — and sociological and economic questions as well — from a totally different standpoint than that of most college text books. He became an ardent Socialist, made no effort to practice his profession, but instead wrote a novel intended to shrivel up the whole capitalistic order. The proofsheets had been sent up that morning by his publishers and the accompanying note had begged him to make the final changes and re- turn them by noon of the following day, as a rush of new work necessitated an immediate clearance of work on hand. As Tempest entered his “den” the clock was striking seven and the wind, which had increased from a moderate blow to a howling gale, drove sharply against the windows the first flakes of a snowstorm that has passed into history as a record-breaker. CHAPTER II. The den was delightfully warm and cozy as Tempest entered it with his proof sheets in one hand, his pitcher of punch in the other. Very carefully he set the pitcher down for every drop of that creamy liquid was precious stuff — fit for the gods and those discriminating mortals with godlike tastes and the means to gratify them. A log fire was burning in the fireplace although the hissing steam pipes made it super- fluous from any other vieW than an aesthetic one. This was the author’s sanctum, the only place, as he said, where he could find his muse at home. It was where he turned out those muck- raking stories which were snapped up so eagerly by certain capitalistic magazines, and where he composed the socialistic chef d’oeuvres dissem- inated as propaganda wherever Socialism had a foothold. It was up among the gables, being in fact about a third of a very commodious attic, the remaining two-thirds being used as a gym- nasium and billiard room. Pushing over into the nook by the fireplace a low table the novelist deposited thereon the 26 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING punch, a jar of tobacco, his old black meerschaum and his work. Then he adjusted to the proper focus his green-shaded electric light, drew up a comfortable chair and proceeded to fill and light his pipe preparatory to getting down to work. But somehow he didn’t seem to feel very particularly in the mood for work. It was too comfortable for anything just to sit and smoke ' and listen to the shrieking and moaning of the wind which had risen to hurricane force and drove before it a swirling and ever-thickening and blinding cloud of snow. He took a long pull at the pitcher. It was so deliciously good he had to take another. “Now,” he said, “I must get to work, by Jupiter;” but he only sat and smoked in ecstasy, dreamily contemplating the fierce jolt his forth- coming novel was going to give the “system.” His head dropped lower and lower. * He * All at once he thought he heard a stamping in the lower hall as if some one were shaking the snow off his boots, followed by a tread on the stairs. Presently the door of his den opened and a stranger entered — a tall, pleasant-faced man of apparently thirty-five years, dressed in a workingman’s leather jacket, and knee-length storm boots laced outside corduroy trousers. WHEN THINGS WERE DOING 27 '‘Hello !” the stranger said, “I thought Td find you in.” “Oh — ” began the author, wonderingly, and added graciously, “please bring a chair up to the fire.” “Thanks; it is a rather disagreeable night,” remarked the other, accepting the proffered hos- pitality. “Now, Comrade Tempest, while you don’t know me, I feel as if I had been acquainted with you all my life. Ever since you joined our cause I have regarded you as the natural and logical leader of the Socialist movement. Many other trusty comrades hold the same view. For my- self — my name is Stevens, Hartley Stevens, at your service — I am a civil engineer. For the past eight years I have been in the employ of a sub-contractor under the government. Our work for the most part has consisted of repairs, alter- ations and improvements in connection with the country’s coast and interior defenses, always, of course, under the direction of an army engineer. The latter is, by the way, a thoroughly reliable Socialist, being one of the only two officers in the service holding West Point commissions to secretly embrace the cause of the proletariat. There are two or three more, I believe, who won their shoulder-straps from the ranks and who 28 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING can be depended upon to side with us whenever our board of strategy shall decide to precipitate the conflict which seems to be — er — shaping up, if I may so express it. But this by way of intro- duction to what I came to say. Of course I have had exceptional opportunities to acquaint myself with the minutest details of all these fortifications and have prepared drawings sup- plemented by copious notes ; and these I can pro- duce whenever called upon. “There is a meeting tonight of our board of strategy,” went on the engineer after light- ing his pipe, “and I have been instructed to in- form you of your nomination to its presidency. As you are probably aware the board now con- sists of twenty-five members, one each from those states numerically strongest in the cause ; but this number is shortly to be increased, to include at least one member from each state in the Union. I will inform you that your nomination is unani- mous. There are stirring and epoch-marking times ahead and, as this board is supreme and final authority upon all questions of tactics, T need not say, perhaps, that your responsibility will be as weighty as your fame will be enduring, provided we successfully inaugurate our pro- gramme.” The speaker paused to knock the ashes from WHEN things were DOING 29 his pipe, and the nominee — imperturbable, sphinx- like, his steel-blue eyes burning with ,an in- scrutable light and steady as the glow of a loco- motive headlight — sat in the semi-shadow cast by the green-shaded incandescent burner, puffed at his black meerschaum and said never a word. “It is only fair,” resumed the comrade, “in view of the responsibilities you are asked to assume, to give you a partial outline of the situ- ation according to latest developments. I will not enlarge upon the many abuses of govern- ment which operate to make the lives of the masses an unendurable thing — the impossibility of having an honest count of ballots; the arro- gant and of late scarcely disguised partiality of the courts, from lowest to highest, which have one law for the rich and another for the poor ; the prohibitive and ever-soaring prices of neces- sities ; the increasing dependence of the state upon the soldiery to shoot contentment into strik- ing workmen, and many other grievances. These things you are familiar with and have vehemently denounced from the lecture platform and in the party press. In other words there is no question as to the desirability of revolution nor even as to the necessity for it — feasibility alone determin- ing our course of action. As to the latter I have to announce that our chances are looking up.” 30 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING There was an almost imperceptible . stiffening of the' nominee’s spinal column, a faint quiver of the nostrils as of a war-horse scenting dis- tant battle, but the steel-blue eyes burned un- waveringly through the smoke-wreaths as be- fore and — that was all. “In spite of the fact that all scientific Social- ists realize that our world-wide movement is an intellectual one — that you cannot by force compel heterogeneous masses to homogeneous thought and action, even for their own con- spicuous and signal advantage — certain obsta- cles heretofore considered insurmountable have either been overcome or eliminated and the speedy inauguration of the co-operative com- monwealth becomes by the logic of events ad- visable, thus fulfilling, so far as this country is concerned, the historical mission of our party,” proceeded the unbidden guest in a mat- ter-of-fact, dispassionate voice. “In the first place I will state that our growth has during the year about to expire been something phe- nomenal, so that out of a voting population of twenty millions five millions openly advocate the revolutionary cause and work for its suc- cess. Of these five millions, according to the most reliable information obtainable, one-half are intelligent, consistent and earnest Social- WHEN THINGS WERE DOING 31 ^ ists who know what they want, why they want it and what to do with it after they’ve got it; while the balance is made up of hot-heads, sore- heads, fire-eaters, chronic antis and victims of the system who noisily demand a change and, having got it, will not improbably give us more trouble than the remaining fifteen millions who actively or passively oppose our principles. “The standing army, always the bulwark of reactionary interests, has been democratized approximately thirty-three per cent., while the navy is extensively honeycombed by the same principles. At the crucial moment these com- rades, being at all times in touch with their civilian brothers, can be depended upon to greatly cripple the capitalist programme. “There is not in the whole country an arsen- al or powder magazine, public or private, in which we have not at least one trusty com- rade ” A chuckle that sounded like “good” seemed to come from the center of a cloud of tobacco smoke. “I beg your pardon — ’’ said the comrade. “On the contrary it is I who beg yours,” de- clared the nominee. “Pray proceed, Mr. Ste- vens.” “In all the gun and ammunition factories, big 32 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING and little, where light and heavy ordnance, ma- chine guns and army equipment are turned out our spies are employed and we receive frequent report of the output and disposition of the prod- uct. In fact our system covers every branch of the military service. “Moreover in the Socialist colony our invent- ors have been busy. To my own brother, a young chemist of promise, belongs the credit of discovering an explosive ten thousand times as powerful as anything heretofore known to the world. So fearful is its composition that it is said a five-gallon jar of it contains enough kinetic force, properly confined, to split Man- hattan Island from east to west as by a terrific earthquake. But more important than all the rest, to my mind, is the perfection of a tiny sub- marine boat which has by actual test remained thirty-six hours under water, during which time it covered more than twelve hundred miles. With half a dozen of these boats and a supply of cartridges made of the new explosive, which we have named sizmos, a few bold comrades could go out and within thirty minutes after getting within range sink the biggest navy afloat.’' With a bound Tempest was on his feet. “Count me in on this, comrade,” he said. “Use WHEN THINGS WERE DOING 33 me as you will — I am ready to lead or follow — but in any case the co-operative commonwealth is looming large on the horizon.. Now, old man, there are just about two good bumpers left in this pitcher. Here’s to the cause ! May the goal of Socialists never pirouette any farther away than it appears to me at this identical, blessed instant!” In silence they drank the toast. The engi- neer glanced at the clock which was on the point of striking nine. ^'Come,” he said, ^'the comrades wait for your answer. It is only a dozen blocks down to the hall. We selected it for this meeting because the neighborhood is a quiet one and, besides, it is near your home. We consulted your con- venience in everything but the weather, and that we could not foresee.” “Pray, do not mention it,” rejoined the other, drawing on a pair of storm boots. “Fm from the White mountains where the weather clerk puts up the real thing in the way of snow storms.” The place chosen for this Christmas election by the Socialist Strategy Board was soon reached, notwithstanding the driving snow, and they were ushered into the presence of the comrades upon whose shoulders rested the grave respon- 34 WHEN THINGS WERE DOING sibility, whether for weal or woe, of the com- ing revolution. Bill Tempest knew them all, personally or by reputation, and his entrance was the signal for a subdued, but enthusiastic ovation. The very atmosphere was surcharged with portentous things. The throbbing under- current of revolt was in the blo6d, the intoxica- tion born of crises brightened the eyes, the ex- hilaration inspired by action marked the bear- ing of those determined spirits who plotted the overthrow of the old order of things. In that group of twenty-five, composed about equally as to number of workmen and so-called “intellectuals,’’ one beheld the executive wis- dom and force of a party five millions strong. There was Benton Ordway, formerly mining engineer and prospector and later a multi-mil- lionaire who founded the famous Karl Marx university of New York which furnished free instruction in manual training, technical and scientific studies, and all the higher branches taught in modern college curricula. This in- stitution he generously backed with his millions and his abounding satisfaction consisted, to use his own phrase, of the “run” he got for his money — ninety-nine out of every hundred stu- dents becoming loyal Socialists and indefatigable workers for the cause. WHEN THINGS WERE DOING 35 Swale Oldrem was another who had left his own economic class to fight the battles of the proletariat. * This blond giant of forty-five, of Danish ancestry but American born, should by all known rules and precedents have been indif- ferent to the struggles of the class out of which his father had been hoisted by an erratic turn of fortune that sent skyward the value of certain supposedly worthless tracts of Western realty. But Swale didn’t go by rule. He was a born revolutionist — less, perhaps, from a desire to as- sist those who made no effort to assist them- selves than from an innate hatred of oppression, injustice and tyranny. He particularly despised the insufferable cant and hypocrisy by which, in the name of morality, religion and the law, the specially privileged few held in check, robbed and exploited the many. The ethical code that dealt out extravagant punishment to the petty offender and merely nominal punishment to the wholesale criminal was not at all to his liking. Wherefore his militant socialism. Then there was Hank Glidden, at one time president of the American Federation of Labor. 