The League was clamorous, ubiquitous, its objects known to every urchin on the streets, but the Trust was silent, its ways inscrutable, the public saw only results. It worked on in the dark, calm, disciplined, irresistible. Abruptly Dyke received the impression of the multitudinous ramifications of the colossus. Under his feet the ground seemed mined; down there below him in the dark the huge tentacles went silently twisting and advancing, spreading out in every direction, sapping the strength of all opposition, quiet, gradual, biding the time to reach up and out and grip with a sudden unleashing of gigantic strength.
“I’ll be wanting some cars of you people before the summer is out,” observed Dyke to the clerk as he folded up and put away the order that the other had handed him. He remembered perfectly well that he had arranged the matter of transporting his crop some months before, but his role of proprietor amused him and he liked to busy himself again and again with the details of his undertaking.
“I suppose,” he added, “you’ll be able to give ’em to me. There’ll be a big wheat crop to move this year and I don’t want to be caught in any car famine.”
“Oh, you’ll get your cars,” murmured the other.
“I’ll be the means of bringing business your way,” Dyke went on; “I’ve done so well with my hops that there are a lot of others going into the business next season. Suppose,” he continued, struck with an idea, “suppose we went into some sort of pool, a sort of shippers’ organisation, could you give us special rates, cheaper rates—say a cent and a half?”
The other looked up.
“A cent and a half! Say four cents and a half and maybe I’ll talk business with you.”
“Four cents and a half,” returned Dyke, “I don’t see it. Why, the regular rate is only two cents.”
“No, it isn’t,” answered the clerk, looking him gravely in the eye, “it’s five cents.”
“Well, there’s where you are wrong, m’son,” Dyke retorted, genially. “You look it up. You’ll find the freight on hops from Bonneville to ’Frisco is two cents a pound for car load lots. You told me that yourself last fall.”
“That was last fall,” observed the clerk. There was a silence. Dyke shot a glance of suspicion at the other. Then, reassured, he remarked:
“You look it up. You’ll see I’m right.”
S. Behrman came forward and shook hands politely with the ex-engineer.
“Anything I can do for you, Mr. Dyke?”
Dyke explained. When he had done speaking, the clerk turned to S. Behrman and observed, respectfully:
“Our regular rate on hops is five cents.”
“Yes,” answered S. Behrman, pausing to reflect; “yes, Mr. Dyke, that’s right—five cents.”
The clerk brought forward a folder of yellow paper and handed it to Dyke. It was inscribed at the top “Tariff Schedule No. 8,” and underneath these words, in brackets, was a smaller inscription, “Supersedes No. 7 of Aug. 1.”
“See for yourself,” said S. Behrman. He indicated an item under the head of “Miscellany.”
“The following rates for carriage of hops in car load lots,” read Dyke, “take effect June 1, and will remain in force until superseded by a later tariff. Those quoted beyond Stockton are subject to changes in traffic arrangements with carriers by water from that point.”
In the list that was printed below, Dyke saw that the rate for hops between Bonneville or Guadalajara and San Francisco was five cents.
For a moment Dyke was confused. Then swiftly the matter became clear in his mind. The Railroad had raised the freight on hops from two cents to five.
All his calculations as to a profit on his little investment he had based on a freight rate of two cents a pound. He was under contract to deliver his crop. He could not draw back. The new rate ate up every cent of his gains. He stood there ruined.
“Why, what do you mean?” he burst out. “You promised me a rate of two cents and I went ahead with my business with that understanding. What do you mean?”
S. Behrman and the clerk watched him from the other side of the counter.
“The rate is five cents,” declared the clerk doggedly.
“Well, that ruins me,” shouted Dyke. “Do you understand? I won’t make fifty cents. Make! Why, I will owe—I’ll be—be—That ruins me, do you understand?”
The other, raised a shoulder.
“We don’t force you to ship. You can do as you like. The rate is five cents.”
“Well—but—damn you, I’m under contract to deliver. What am I going to do? Why, you told me—you promised me a two-cent rate.”
“I don’t remember it,” said the clerk. “I don’t know anything about that. But I know this; I know that hops have gone up. I know the German crop was a failure and that the crop in New York wasn’t worth the hauling. Hops have gone up to nearly a dollar. You don’t suppose we don’t know that, do you, Mr. Dyke?”
“What’s the price of hops got to do with you?”
“It’s got this to do with us,” returned the other with a sudden aggressiveness, “that the freight rate has gone up to meet the price. We’re not doing business for our health. My orders are to raise your rate to five cents, and I think you are getting off easy.”
Dyke stared in blank astonishment. For the moment, the audacity of the affair was what most appealed to him. He forgot its personal application.
“Good Lord,” he murmured, “good Lord! What will you people do next? Look here.
