The Friendly Road [54]
nothing of babies, depending upon them.
"There wasn't a living for a decent family left," he said.
So they struck--and he told me in his dull monotone of the long bitterness of that strike, the empty cupboards, the approach of winter with no coal for the stoves and no warm clothing for the children. He told me that many of the old workers began to leave the town (some bound for the larger cities, some for the Far West).
"But," said he with a sudden outburst of emotion, "I couldn't leave. I had the woman and the children!"
And presently the strike collapsed, and the workers rushed helter skelter back to the mills to get their old jobs. "Begging like whipped dogs," he said bitterly.
Many of them found their places taken by the eager "black people," and many had to go to work at lower wages in poorer places--punished for the fight they had made.
But he got along somehow, he said--"the woman was a good manager"-- until one day he had the misfortune to get his hand caught in the machinery. It was a place which should have been protected with guards, but was not. He was laid up for several weeks, and the company, claiming that the accident was due to his own stupidity and carelessness, refused even to pay his wages while he was idle. Well, the family had to live somehow, and the woman and the daughter--"she was a little thing," he said, "and frail"--the woman and the daughter went into the mill. But even with this new source of income they began to fall behind. Money which should have gone toward making the last payments on their home (already long delayed by the strike) had now to go to the doctor and the grocer.
"We had to live," said Bill Hahn.
Again and again he used this same phrase, "We had to live!" as a sort of bedrock explanation for all the woes of life.
After a time, with one finger gone and a frightfully scarred hand--he held it up for me to see--he went back into the mill.
"But it kept getting worse and worse," said he, "and finally I couldn't stand it any longer."
He and a group of friends got together secretly and tried to organize a union, tried to get the workmen together to improve their own condition; but in some way ("they had spies everywhere," he said) the manager learned of the attempt and one morning when he reported at the mill he was handed a slip asking him to call for his wages, that his help was no longer required.
"I'd been with that one company for twenty years and four months," he said bitterly, "I'd helped in my small way to build it up, make it a big concern payin' 28 per cent. dividends every year; I'd given part of my right hand in doin' it--and they threw me out like an old shoe."
He said he would have pulled up and gone away, but he still had the little home and the garden, and his wife and daughter were still at work, so he hung on grimly, trying to get some other job. "But what good is a man for any other sort of work," he said, "when he has been trained to the mills for thirty-two years!"
It was not very long after that when the "great strike" began--indeed, it grew out of the organization which he had tried to launched--and Bill Hahn threw himself into it with all his strength. He was one of the leaders. I shall not attempt to repeat here his description of the bitter struggle, the coming of the soldiery, the street riots, the long lists of arrests ("some," said he, "got into jail on purpose, so that they could at least have enough to eat!"), the late meetings of strikers, the wild turmoil and excitement.
Of all this he told me, and then he stopped suddenly, and after a long pause he said in a low voice:
"Comrade, did ye ever see your wife and your sickly daughter and your kids sufferin' for bread to eat?"
He paused again with a hard, dry sob in his voice.
"Did ye ever see that?"
"No," said I, very humbly, "I have never seen anything like that."
He turned on me suddenly, and I shall never forget the look on his face, nor the blaze in his eyes:
"Then what can you know about working-man?"
What could I answer?
A moment passed
"There wasn't a living for a decent family left," he said.
So they struck--and he told me in his dull monotone of the long bitterness of that strike, the empty cupboards, the approach of winter with no coal for the stoves and no warm clothing for the children. He told me that many of the old workers began to leave the town (some bound for the larger cities, some for the Far West).
"But," said he with a sudden outburst of emotion, "I couldn't leave. I had the woman and the children!"
And presently the strike collapsed, and the workers rushed helter skelter back to the mills to get their old jobs. "Begging like whipped dogs," he said bitterly.
Many of them found their places taken by the eager "black people," and many had to go to work at lower wages in poorer places--punished for the fight they had made.
But he got along somehow, he said--"the woman was a good manager"-- until one day he had the misfortune to get his hand caught in the machinery. It was a place which should have been protected with guards, but was not. He was laid up for several weeks, and the company, claiming that the accident was due to his own stupidity and carelessness, refused even to pay his wages while he was idle. Well, the family had to live somehow, and the woman and the daughter--"she was a little thing," he said, "and frail"--the woman and the daughter went into the mill. But even with this new source of income they began to fall behind. Money which should have gone toward making the last payments on their home (already long delayed by the strike) had now to go to the doctor and the grocer.
"We had to live," said Bill Hahn.
Again and again he used this same phrase, "We had to live!" as a sort of bedrock explanation for all the woes of life.
After a time, with one finger gone and a frightfully scarred hand--he held it up for me to see--he went back into the mill.
"But it kept getting worse and worse," said he, "and finally I couldn't stand it any longer."
He and a group of friends got together secretly and tried to organize a union, tried to get the workmen together to improve their own condition; but in some way ("they had spies everywhere," he said) the manager learned of the attempt and one morning when he reported at the mill he was handed a slip asking him to call for his wages, that his help was no longer required.
"I'd been with that one company for twenty years and four months," he said bitterly, "I'd helped in my small way to build it up, make it a big concern payin' 28 per cent. dividends every year; I'd given part of my right hand in doin' it--and they threw me out like an old shoe."
He said he would have pulled up and gone away, but he still had the little home and the garden, and his wife and daughter were still at work, so he hung on grimly, trying to get some other job. "But what good is a man for any other sort of work," he said, "when he has been trained to the mills for thirty-two years!"
It was not very long after that when the "great strike" began--indeed, it grew out of the organization which he had tried to launched--and Bill Hahn threw himself into it with all his strength. He was one of the leaders. I shall not attempt to repeat here his description of the bitter struggle, the coming of the soldiery, the street riots, the long lists of arrests ("some," said he, "got into jail on purpose, so that they could at least have enough to eat!"), the late meetings of strikers, the wild turmoil and excitement.
Of all this he told me, and then he stopped suddenly, and after a long pause he said in a low voice:
"Comrade, did ye ever see your wife and your sickly daughter and your kids sufferin' for bread to eat?"
He paused again with a hard, dry sob in his voice.
"Did ye ever see that?"
"No," said I, very humbly, "I have never seen anything like that."
He turned on me suddenly, and I shall never forget the look on his face, nor the blaze in his eyes:
"Then what can you know about working-man?"
What could I answer?
A moment passed