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The Sturdy Oak

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"That's all right. McLaughlin's the boss. Tell 'em not to send a kid to do
a man's job."

Geneviève was too amazed to protest. It was her first experience of
defiance of Law and Order by Law and Order.

Meanwhile, the first stragglers of the released army of toilers were nearly
upon them. The giant observed their approach, and the look of menace
deepened on his huge, congested face.

"Move on, now--move on," he snarled, and herded them forward in advance of
the workers.

Sheepishly the three obeyed, but Miss Eliot was not silent.

"Your name?" she demanded in judicial command.

The very terseness of her question seemed to jerk an unwilling answer from
the guard.

"Michael Mehan."

"And you're employed by the Owners' Protective League?"

"Sure."

"Have they given you orders to keep strangers out of the district?"

"I have me orders, and I know what they be. I'm duly sworn in as extra
guard--and I'm not the only one, neither."

"Did _he_ come after you?" Miss Eliot indicated the ruffian at his side.

"I seen the lady owner blew the bunch," that worthy remarked with a hoarse
chuckle. "I wised Mike, all right. Whatcha goin' to do about it?"

"Mrs. Brewster-Smith, the owner," Miss Eliot observed, "didn't seem to know
that she had employed you. How about that?"

"I'm put here by the O.P.L. That's good enough fer yer lady
owner--now--ain't it? The things them nosey dames thinks they can git by
wit'!" he observed to the guard, and swore an oath that made Mr. Glass turn
to him with unexpected fury.

"You may pretend to think that I'm not what I represent myself to be, but
let me tell you, McLaughlin is going to hear of this. One more insult
to these ladies and I'll make it my business to go personally to your
employers. Get me?"

"Shut your trap, Jim," snarled Mehan. "Yer ain't got no orders fer no fancy
language." He leered at Geneviève. "Now we've shooed the chickens out,
we're tru'." With a wave of his huge paw he indicated the highway the turn
of the path revealed.

Geneviève looked to the right, where the car should be waiting her. It
was gone. Evidently the indignant Mrs. Brewster-Smith had expedited the
departure. Miss Eliot read her discomfiture.

"My car is right down here behind that palatial mansion with the hole in
the roof and the tin-can extension. Thank you very much for your escort,"
she added, turning to the two representatives of the Protective League. "My
name, by the way, is E. Eliot. I am a real-estate agent and my office is at
22 Braston Street. You might mention it in your report."

The little car stood waiting, surrounded by a group of admiring children.
Its owner stepped in briskly, backed around and received her passengers.

"Well," she smiled as they drew out on the traveled highway, "how do you
like the purlieus of our noble little city?"

Genevieve was silent. Then she spoke with conviction.

"When George is in power--and he's _got_ to be--the Law will be the Law. I
know him."




CHAPTER XI

BY MARJORIE BENTON COOK


George Remington walked toward headquarters with more assurance than he
felt. He resented Doolittle's command that he appear at once. He was
beginning to realize the pressure which these campaign managers were
bringing to bear upon him. He was not sure yet how far he could go, in
out-and-out defiance of them and their dictates.

He knew that he had absolutely no ambitions, no interests in common with
these schemers, whose sole idea lay in party patronage, in manipulating
every political opportunity--in short, in reaping where they had sown.
The question now confronting him was this: was he prepared to sell his
political birthright for the mess of pottage they offered him?

He stood a second at the door of the office, peering through the reeking,
smoke-filled atmosphere, to get a bird's-eye view of the situation before
he entered.

Mr. Doolittle sat on the edge of a table monologuing to Wes' Norton and Pat
Noonan. Mr.

Norton was the president of the Whitewater Commercial Club, composed of the
leading merchants of the town, and Mr. Noonan was the apostle of the liquor
interests. Remington felt his back stiffen as he stepped among them.

"Good-evening, gentlemen," he said briskly.

"H'are ye, George?" drawled Doolittle.

"There was something you wanted to discuss with me?"

"I dunno as there's anything to discuss, but there's a few things Wes' an'
Pat an' me'd like to say to ye. There ain't no two ways of thinkin' about
the prosperity of Whitewater, ye know, George. The merchants in this town
is satisfied with the way things is boomin'. The factory workers is gittin'
theirs, with high wages an' overtime. The stockholders is makin' no kick on
the dividends--as ye know, George, being one of them.

"Now, we don't want nuthin' to disturb all this If the fact'ries is
crackin' the law a bit, why, it ain't the first time such things has got
by the inspector. The fact'ry managers'd like some assurance from ye that
ye're goin' to keep yer hands off before they line up the fact'ry hands to
vote for ye."

Doolittle paused here. George nodded.

"When are ye comin' out with a plain statement of yer intentions, George?"
inquired Mr. Norton in a conciliatory tone.

"The voters in this town will get a clear statement of my stand on all the
issues of this campaign in plenty of time, gentlemen."

"That's all right fer the voter, but ye can't stall _us_ wit' that kind of
talk--" began Noonan.

"Wait a minute, Pat," counseled Doolittle. "George means all right. He's
new to this game, but he means to stand fer the intrusts of his party,
don't ye, George?"

"I should scarcely be the candidate of that party if I did not."

"I ain't interested in no oratory. Are ye or are ye not goin' to keep yer
hands off the prosperity of Whitewater?" demanded Noonan angrily.

"Look here, Noonan, I am the candidate for this office--you're not. I
intend to do as my conscience dictates. I will not be hampered at every
turn, nor told what to say and what to think. I must get to these things in
my own way."

"Don't ye fergit that ye're _our_ candidate, that ye are to express the
opinion of the people who will elect ye, and not any dam' theories of yer
own----"

"I think I get your meaning, Noonan."

George spoke with a smile which for some reason disconcerted Noonan. He
sensed with considerable irritation the social and class breach between
himself and Remington, and while he did not understand it he resented it.
He called him "slick" to Wes' and Doolittle and loudly bewailed their
choice of him as candidate.

"Then there's that P.L. bizness, Pat--don't fergit that," urged Wes'.

"I ain't fergittin' it. There's too much nosin' round Kentwood district by
the women, George. Too much talkin'. Ye'd better call that off right now.
Property owners down there is satisfied, an' they got _their_ rights, ye
know." "I suppose you know what the conditions down there are?"

"Sure we know, George, and we want to clean it up down there just as much
as you do," said the pacific Doolittle; "but what we're sayin' is, this
ain't the time to do it. Later, mebbe, when the conditions is jest
right----"

"Somebody has got the women stirred up fer fair. It's up to you to call 'em
off, George," said Mr. Norton.

"How can I call them off?"--tartly.

"Ye can put the brakes on Mrs. Remington and that there Sheridan girl,
can't ye?"

"Miss Sheridan is no longer in my employ. As for Mrs. Remington, if she is
not one in spirit with me, I cannot force her to be. Every human being has
a right to----"

"Some change sence ye last expressed yerself, George. Seems like I recall
ye sayin', 'I'll settle that!'" remarked Doolittle coldly.

"We will leave my wife's name out of the discussion, please," said George
with tardy but noble loyalty. "Well, them two I mentioned can stir up some
trouble; but they ain't the brains of their gang, by a long shot. It's this
E. Eliot we gotta deal with. She's as smart, if not smarter, than any man
in this town. She's smarter than you, George--or me, either," he added
consolingly.

"I've seen her about, but I've never talked to her. What sort of woman is
she?"

"Quiet, sensible kind. Ye keep thinking, 'How reasonable that woman is,'
till ye wake up and find she's got ye hooked on one of the horns of yer own
damfoolishness! Slick as they make 'em and straight as a string--that's E.
Eliot."

"What do you want me to do about it?"--impatiently.

"Are ye aimin' to answer them voiceless questions?" Pat inquired.

Silence.

"Plannin' to tear down Kentwood and enforce them factory laws?" demanded
Wes' Norton.

Still no answer.

"I'm jest callin' yer attention to the fact that this election is gittin'
nearer every day." "What am I to do with her? I can't afford to show we're
afraid of her."

"Huh."

"I can't bribe her to stop."

"I'd like to see the fella that would try to bribe E. Eliot," Doolittle
chuckled. "Wouldn't be enough of him left to put in a teacup."

"Then we've got to ignore her."

"_We_ can ignore her, all right, George; but the women an' some of the
voters ain't ignoring her. It's my idea she's got a last card up her sleeve
to play the day before we go to the polls that'll fix us."

"Have you any plan in your mind?"

Doolittle scratched his head, wrestling with thought.

"We was thinking that if she could be called away suddenly, and detained
till after election--" he began meaningly.

"You mean----"

"Something like that."

"I won't have it, not if I lose the election. I won't stoop to kidnapping
a woman like a highwayman. What do you take me for, Doolittle?" "Georgie,
politics ain't no kid-glove bizness. It ain't what _you_ want; you're jest
a small part of this affair. You're _our_ candidate, and we _got_ to win
this here election. Do you get me?"

He shot out his underjaw, and there was no sign of his usual good humor.

"Well, but----"

"You don't have to know anything about this. We'll handle it. You'll be
pertected to the limit; don't you worry," sneered Noonan.

"But you can't get away with this old-fashioned stuff nowadays, Doolittle,"
protested Remington.

"Can't we? You jest leave it to your Uncle Benjamin. You don't know nothing
about this. See?"

"I know it's a dirty, low, underhanded----"

"George," remarked Mr. Doolittle, slowly hoisting his big body on to its
short legs, "in politics we don't call a spade a spade. We call it 'a
agricultural implument.'"

With this sage remark Mr. Doolittle took his departure, followed by the
other prominent citizens.

George sat where they left him, head in hands, for several moments. Then he
sprang up and rushed to the door to call them back.

He would not stand it--he would not win at that price. He had conceded
everything they had demanded of him up to this point, but here he drew the
line. Ever since that one independent fling of his about suffrage they had
treated him like a naughty child. What did they think he was--a rubber
doll? He would telephone Doolittle that he would rather give up his
candidacy. Here he paused.

Suppose he did withdraw, nobody would understand. The town would think the
women had frightened him off. He couldn't come out now and denounce the
machine methods of his party. Every eye in Whitewater was focused on him;
his friends were working for him; the district attorneyship was the next
step in his career; Geneviève expected him to win--no, he must go through
with it! But after he got into office, then he would show them! He would
take orders from no one. He sat down again and moodily surveyed the
future.

In the days which followed, another mental struggle was taking place in the
Remington family. Poor Genevieve was like a woman struck by lightning. She
felt that her whole structure of life had crashed about her ears. In one
blinding flash she had seen and condemned George because he considered
political expediency. She realized that she must think for herself now and
not rely on him for the family celebration. She had conceived her whole
duty in life to consist in being George's wife; but now, by a series of
accidents, she had become aware of the great social responsibilities, the
larger human issues, which men and women must meet together.

Betty and E. Eliot had pointed out to her that she knew nothing of the
conditions in her own town. They assured her that it was as much her duty
to know about such things as to know the condition of her own back yard.

Then came the awful revelations of Kentwood--human beings huddled like
rats; children swarming, dirty and hungry! She could not bear to remember
the scenes she had witnessed in Kentwood.

She recalled the shock of Alys Brewster-Smith's indifference to all that
misery! The widow's one instinct had seemed to be to fight E. Eliot and the
health officer for their interference. Stranger still, the tenants did not
want to be moved out, driven on. The whole situation was confused, but in
it at least one thing stood out clearly: Geneviève realized, during the
sleepless night after her visit to Kentwood, that she hated Cousin Alys!

The following Sunday, when she put on her coat, she found a souvenir of
that visit in her pocket, a soiled reminder of poverty and toil. She
remembered picking it up and noting that it was the factory pass of
one Marya Slavonsky. She had intended to leave it with some one in the
district, but evidently in the excitement of her enforced exit she had
thrust it into her pocket.

This Marya worked in the factories. She was one of that grimy army
Geneviève had seen coming out of the factory gate, and she went home to
that pen which Cousin Alys provided. Marya was a girl of Genevieve's own
age, perhaps, while she, Geneviève, had this comfortable home, and George!
She had been blind, selfish, but she would make up for it, she _would_! She
would make a study of the needs of such people; she would go among them
like St. Agatha, scattering alms and wisdom. George might have his work;
she had found hers! She would begin with the factory girls. She would waken
them to what had so lately dawned on her. How could she manage it? The
rules of admission in the munition factories were very strict.

Then again her eye fell upon the soiled card and a great idea was born in
her brain. Dressed as a factory girl, she would use Marya's card to get her
into the circle of these new-found sisters. She would see how and where
they worked. She would report it all to the Forum and to George. She could
be of use to George at last.

She remembered Betty's statement that at midnight in the factories the
women and girls had an hour off. That was the time she chose, with true
dramatic instinct.

She rummaged in the attic for an hour, getting her costume ready. She
decided on an old black suit and a shawl which had belonged to her mother.
She carried these garments to her bedroom and hid them there. Then, with
Machiavellian finesse, she laid her plans.

She would slip out of bed at half-past eleven o'clock, taking care not to
waken George, and she would dress and leave the house by the side door.
By walking fast she could reach by midnight the factory to which she had
admission.

It annoyed her considerably to have George announce at luncheon that he had
a political dinner on for the evening and probably would not be home before
midnight. He grumbled a little over the dinner. "The campaign," he said,
"really ended yesterday. But Doolittle thought it was wise to have a last
round-up of the business men, and give them a final speech."

Geneviève acquiesced with a sympathetic murmur, but she was disappointed.
Merely to walk calmly out of the house at eleven o'clock lessened the
excitement. However, she decided upon leaving George a note explaining that
she had gone to spend the night with Betty Sheridan.

She looked forward to the long afternoon with impatience. Cousin Emelene
was taking her nap. Mrs. Brewster-Smith left immediately after lunch to
make a call on one of her few women friends. Genevieve tried to get Betty
on the telephone, but she was not at home.

It was with a thrill of pleasure that she saw E. Eliot coming up the walk
to the door. She hurried downstairs just as the maid explained that Mrs.
Brewster-Smith was not at home.

"Oh, won't you come in and see me for a moment, Miss Eliot?" Genevieve
begged. "I do so want to talk to you."

E. Eliot hesitated. "The truth is, I am fearfully busy today, even though
it's Sunday. I wanted to get five minutes with Mrs. Brewster-Smith about
those cottages--" she began.

Genevieve laid a detaining hand on her arm and led her into the
living-room.

"She's hopeless! I can hardly bear to have her in my house after the way
she acted about those fearful places."

"Well, all that district is the limit, of course. She isn't the only
landlord."

"But she didn't _see_ those people." "She's human, I guess--didn't want to
see disturbing things."

"I would have torn down those cottages with my own hands!" burst forth
Geneviève.

E. Eliot stared. "No one likes her income cut down, you know," she
palliated.

"Income! What is that to human decencies?" cried the newly awakened
apostle.

"Your husband doesn't entirely agree with you in some of these matters, I
suppose."

"Oh, yes he does, in his heart! But there's something about politics that
won't let you come right out and say what you think."

"Not after you've come right out once and said the wrong thing," laughed
E. Eliot. "I'm afraid you will have to use your indirect influence on him,
Mrs. Remington."

Geneviève threw her cards on the table.

"Miss Eliot, I am just beginning to see how much there is for women to do
in the world. I want to do something big--the sort of thing you and Betty
Sheridan are doing--to rouse women. What can I do?" E. Eliot scrutinized
the ardent young face with amiable amusement.

"You can't very well help us just now without hurting your husband's
chances and embarrassing him in the bargain. You see, we're trying to
embarrass him. We want him to kick over the traces and tell what he's going
to do as district attorney of this town."

"But can't I do something that won't interfere with George? Couldn't I
investigate the factories, or organize the working girls?"

"My child, have you ever organized anything?" exclaimed E. Eliot.

"No."

"Well, don't begin on the noble working girl. She doesn't organize easily.
Wait until the election is over. Then you come in on our schemes and we'll
teach you how to do things. But don't butt in now, I beg of you. Misguided,
well-meaning enthusiasts like you can do more harm to our cause than all
the anti-suffragists in this world!"

With her genial, disarming smile, E. Eliot rose and departed. She chuckled
all the way back to her rooms over the idea of Remington's bride wanting to
take the field with the enemies of her wedded lord.

"Women, women! God bless us, but we're funny!" mused E. Eliot.

Genevieve liked her caller immensely, and she thought over her advice, but
she determined to let it make no difference in her plans.

She saw her work cut out for her. She would not flinch!

She would do her bit in the great cause of women--no, of humanity. The
flame of her purpose burned steadily and high.

At a quarter-past eleven that night a slight, black-clad figure, with a
shawl over its head, softly closed the side door of the Remington house
and hurried down the street. Never before had Genevieve been alone on the
streets after dark. She had not foreseen how frightened she would be at the
long, dark stretches, nor how much more frightened when any one passed her.
Two men spoke to her. She sped on, turning now this way, now that, without
regard to direction--her eyes over her shoulder, in terror lest she be
followed.

So it was that she plunged around a corner and into the very arms of E.
Eliot, who was sauntering home from a political meeting, where she had
been a much-advertised speaker. She was in the habit of prowling about by
herself. Tonight she was, as usual, unattended--unless one observed two
burly workingmen who walked slowly in her wake.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," came a gently modulated voice from behind the
shawl. E. Eliot stared.

"No harm done here. Did I hurt you?" she replied.

She thought she heard an involuntary "Oh!" from beneath the shawl.

"No, thanks. Could you tell me how to get to the Whitewater Arms and
Munitions Factory? I'm all turned around."

"Certainly. Two blocks that way to the State Road, and half a mile north on
that. Shall I walk to the road with you?"

"Oh, no, thank you," the girl answered and hurried on. E. Eliot stood and
watched her. Where had she heard that voice? She knew a good many girls who
worked at the factories, but none of them spoke like that. All at once a
memory came to her: "Couldn't I investigate something, or organize the
working girls?" Mrs. George Remington!

"The little fool," ejaculated the other woman, and turned promptly to
follow the flying figure.

The two burly gentlemen in the rear also turned and followed, but E. Eliot
was too busy planning how to manage Mrs. Remington to notice them. She had
to walk rapidly to keep her quarry in sight. As she came within some thirty
yards of the gate she saw Genevieve challenge the gatekeeper, present her
card and slip inside, the gate clanging to behind her.

E. Eliot broke into a jog trot, rounded the corner of the wall, pulled
herself up quickly, using the stones of the wall as footholds. She hung
from the top and let herself drop softly inside, standing perfectly still
in the shadow. At the same moment the two burly gentlemen ran round the
corner and saw nothing. "I told ye to run--" began one of them fiercely.

"Aw, shut up. If she went over here, she'll come out here. We'll wait."

The midnight gong and the noise of the women shuffling out into the
courtyard drowned that conversation for E. Eliot. She stood and watched the
gatekeeper saunter indoors, not waiting for the man who relieved him on
duty. She watched Genevieve go forward and meet the factory hands.

The newcomer shyly spoke to the first group. The eavesdropper could not
hear what she said. But the crowd gathered about the speaker, shuffling,
chaffing, finally listening. Somebody captured the gatekeeper's stool and
Geneviève stood on it.

"What I want to tell you is how beautiful it is for women to stand together
and work together to make the world better," she began.

"Say, what is your job?" demanded a girl, suspicious of the soft voice and
modulated speech.

"Well, I--I only keep house now. But I intend to begin to do a great deal
for the community, for all of you----" "She keeps house--poor little
overworked thing!"

"But the point is, not what you do, but the spirit you do it in----"

"What is this, a revival meetin'?"

"So I want to tell you what the women of this town mean to do."

"Hear! Hear! Listen at the suffragette!"

"First, we mean to clean up the Kentwood district. You all know how awful
those cottages are."

"Sure; we live in 'em!"

"We intend to force the landlords to tear them down and improve all that
district."

"Much obliged, lady, and where do we go?" demanded one of her listeners.

"You must have better living conditions."

"But where? Rents in this town has boomed since the war began. Ain't that
got to you yet? There ain't no place left fer the poor."

"Then we must find places and make them healthy and beautiful."

"For the love of Mike! She's talkin' about heaven, ain't she?" "She's
talkin' through her hat!" cried another.

"Then, we mean to make the factories obey the laws. They have no right to
make you girls work here at night."

"Who's makin' us?"

"We are going to force the factories to obey the letter of the law on our
statute books."

A thin, flushed girl stepped out of the crowd and faced her.

"Say, who is 'we'?"

"Why, all of us, the women of Whitewater."

"How are we goin' to repay the women of Whitewater fer tearin' down our
homes an' takin' away our jobs? Ain't there somethin' we can do to show our
gratitood?" the new speaker asked earnestly.

"Go to it--let her have it, Mamie Flynn!" cried the crowd.

"Oh, but you mustn't look at it that way! We must all make some
sacrifices----"

"Cut that slush! What do you know about sacrifices? I'm on to you. You're
one of them uptown reformers. What do you know about sacrifices? Ye got a
sure place to sleep, ain't ye? Ye've got a full belly an' a husband to give
ye spendin' money, ain't ye? Don't ye come down here gittin' our jobs away
an' then fergettin' all about us!"

There was a buzz of agreement and an undertone of anger which to an
experienced speaker would have been ominous. But Geneviève blundered on:
"We only want to help you----"

"We don't want yer help ner yer advice. You keep yer hands off our
business! Do yer preachin' uptown--that's where they need it. Ask the
landlords of Kentwood and the stockholders in the munition factories to
make some sacrifices, an' see where that gits ye! But don't ye come down
here, a-spyin' on us, ye dirty----"

The last words were happily lost as the crowd of girls closed in on
Geneviève with cries of "Spy!" "Scab!" "Throw her out!"

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