There was much explanation of the “dollars-and-cents value of being known as a college man when you go into the law,” and a truly oratorical account of the lawyer’s life. Before he was through with it, Babbitt had Ted a United States Senator.
Among the great lawyers whom he mentioned was Seneca Doane.
“But, gee whiz,” Ted marveled, “I thought you always said this Doane was a reg’lar nut!”
“That’s no way to speak of a great man! Doane’s always been a good friend of mine—fact I helped him in college—I started him out and you might say inspired him. Just because he’s sympathetic with the aims of Labor, a lot of chumps that lack liberality and broad-mindedness think he’s a crank, but let me tell you there’s mighty few of ’em that rake in the fees he does, and he’s a friend of some of the strongest; most conservative men in the world—like Lord Wycombe, this, uh, this big English nobleman that’s so well known. And you now, which would you rather do: be in with a lot of greasy mechanics and laboring-men, or chum up to a real fellow like Lord Wycombe, and get invited to his house for parties?”
“Well—gosh,” sighed Ted.
The next weekend he came in joyously with, “Say, Dad, why couldn’t I take mining engineering instead of the academic course? You talk about standing—maybe there isn’t much in mechanical engineering, but the Miners, gee, they got seven out of eleven in the new elections to Nu Tau Tau!”
Chapter XXVII
I
The strike which turned Zenith into two belligerent camps; white and red, began late in September with a walkout of telephone girls and linemen, in protest against a reduction of wages. The newly formed union of dairy-products workers went out, partly in sympathy and partly in demand for a forty-four hour week. They were followed by the truck-drivers’ union. Industry was tied up, and the whole city was nervous with talk of a trolley strike, a printers’ strike, a general strike. Furious citizens, trying to get telephone calls through strikebreaking girls, danced helplessly. Every truck that made its way from the factories to the freight-stations was guarded by a policeman, trying to look stoical beside the scab driver. A line of fifty trucks from the Zenith Steel and Machinery Company was attacked by strikers-rushing out from the sidewalk, pulling drivers from the seats, smashing carburetors and commutators, while telephone girls cheered from the walk, and small boys heaved bricks.
The National Guard was ordered out. Colonel Nixon, who in private life was Mr. Caleb Nixon, secretary of the Pullmore Tractor Company, put on a long khaki coat and stalked through crowds, a .44 automatic in hand. Even Babbitt’s friend, Clarence Drum the shoe merchant—a round and merry man who told stories at the Athletic Club, and who strangely resembled a Victorian pug-dog—was to be seen as a waddling but ferocious captain, with his belt tight about his comfortable little belly, and his round little mouth petulant as he piped to chattering groups on corners. “Move on there now! I can’t have any of this loitering!”
Every newspaper in the city, save one, was against the strikers. When mobs raided the newsstands, at each was stationed a militiaman, a young, embarrassed citizen-soldier with eyeglasses, bookkeeper or grocery-clerk in private life, trying to look dangerous while small boys yelped, “Get onto de tin soldier!” and striking truck-drivers inquired tenderly, “Say, Joe, when I was fighting in France, was you in camp in the States or was you doing Swede exercises in the Y.M.C.A.? Be careful of that bayonet, now, or you’ll cut yourself!”
There was no one in Zenith who talked of anything but the strike, and no one who did not take sides. You were either a courageous friend of Labor, or you were a fearless supporter of the Rights of Property; and in either case you were belligerent, and ready to disown any friend who did not hate the enemy.
A condensed-milk plant was set afire—each side charged it to the other—and the city was hysterical.
And Babbitt chose this time to be publicly liberal.
He belonged to the sound, sane, right-thinking wing, and at first he agreed that the Crooked Agitators ought to be shot. He was sorry when his friend, Seneca Doane, defended arrested strikers, and he thought of going to Doane and explaining about these agitators, but when he read a broadside alleging that even on their former wages the telephone girls had been hungry, he was troubled. “All lies and fake figures,” he said, but in a doubtful croak.
For the Sunday after, the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church announced a sermon by Dr. John Jennison Drew on “How the Saviour Would End Strikes.” Babbitt had been negligent about churchgoing lately, but he went to the service, hopeful that Dr. Drew really did have the information as to what the divine powers thought about strikes. Beside Babbitt in the large, curving, glossy, velvet-upholstered pew was Chum Frink.
Frink whispered, “Hope the doc gives the strikers hell! Ordinarily, I don’t believe in a preacher butting into political matters—let him stick to straight religion and save souls, and not stir up a lot of discussion—but at a time like this, I do think he ought to stand right up and bawl out those plug-uglies to a fare-you-well!”
“Yes—well—” said Babbitt.
The Rev. Dr. Drew, his rustic bang flopping with the intensity of his poetic and sociologic ardor, trumpeted:
“During the untoward series of industrial dislocations which have—let us be courageous and admit it boldly—throttled the business life of our fair city these past days, there has been a great deal of loose talk about scientific prevention of scientific—scientific! Now, let me tell you that the most unscientific thing in the world is science! Take the attacks on the established fundamentals of the Christian creed which were so popular with the ‘scientists’ a generation ago. Oh, yes, they were mighty
