As the speech continued, the eyes of the ranchers around the table were fixed with growing attention upon this well-dressed, city-bred young man, who spoke so fluently and who told them of their own intentions. A feeling of perplexity began to spread, and the first taint of distrust invaded their minds.
“But the good work has been most auspiciously inaugurated,” continued Lyman. “Reforms so sweeping as the one contemplated cannot be accomplished in a single night. Great things grow slowly, benefits to be permanent must accrue gradually. Yet, in spite of all this, your commissioners have done much. Already the phalanx of the enemy is pierced, already his armour is dinted. Pledged as were your commissioners to an average ten percent reduction in rates for the carriage of grain by the Pacific and Southwestern Railroad, we have rigidly adhered to the demands of our constituency, we have obeyed the People. The main problem has not yet been completely solved; that is for later, when we shall have gathered sufficient strength to attack the enemy in his very stronghold; but an average ten percent cut has been made all over the state. We have made a great advance, have taken a great step forward, and if the work is carried ahead, upon the lines laid down by the present commissioners and their constituents, there is every reason to believe that within a very few years equitable and stable rates for the shipment of grain from the San Joaquin Valley to Stockton, Port Costa, and tidewater will be permanently imposed.”
“Well, hold on,” exclaimed Annixter, out of order and ignoring the Governor’s reproof, “hasn’t your commission reduced grain rates in the San Joaquin?”
“We have reduced grain rates by ten percent all over the State,” rejoined Lyman. “Here are copies of the new schedule.”
He drew them from his valise and passed them around the table.
“You see,” he observed, “the rate between Mayfield and Oakland, for instance, has been reduced by twenty-five cents a ton.”
“Yes—but—but—” said old Broderson, “it is rather unusual, isn’t it, for wheat in that district to be sent to Oakland?” “Why, look here,” exclaimed Annixter, looking up from the schedule, “where is there any reduction in rates in the San Joaquin—from Bonneville and Guadalajara, for instance? I don’t see as you’ve made any reduction at all. Is this right? Did you give me the right schedule?”
“Of course, all the points in the State could not be covered at once,” returned Lyman. “We never expected, you know, that we could cut rates in the San Joaquin the very first move; that is for later. But you will see we made very material reductions on shipments from the upper Sacramento Valley; also the rate from Ione to Marysville has been reduced eighty cents a ton.”
“Why, rot,” cried Annixter, “no one ever ships wheat that way.”
“The Salinas rate,” continued Lyman, “has been lowered seventy-five cents; the St. Helena rate fifty cents, and please notice the very drastic cut from Red Bluff, north, along the Oregon route, to the Oregon State Line.”
“Where not a carload of wheat is shipped in a year,” commented Gethings of the San Pablo.
“Oh, you will find yourself mistaken there, Mr. Gethings,” returned Lyman courteously. “And for the matter of that, a low rate would stimulate wheat-production in that district.”
The order of the meeting was broken up, neglected; Magnus did not even pretend to preside. In the growing excitement over the inexplicable schedule, routine was not thought of. Everyone spoke at will.
“Why, Lyman,” demanded Magnus, looking across the table to his son, “is this schedule correct? You have not cut rates in the San Joaquin at all. We—these gentlemen here and myself, we are no better off than we were before we secured your election as commissioner.”
“We were pledged to make an average ten percent cut, sir—”
“It is an average ten percent cut,” cried Osterman. “Oh, yes, that’s plain. It’s an average ten percent cut all right, but you’ve made it by cutting grain rates between points where practically no grain is shipped. We, the wheat-growers in the San Joaquin, where all the wheat is grown, are right where we were before. The Railroad won’t lose a nickel. By Jingo, boys,” he glanced around the table, “I’d like to know what this means.”
“The Railroad, if you come to that,” returned Lyman, “has already lodged a protest against the new rate.”
Annixter uttered a derisive shout.
“A protest! That’s good, that is. When the P. and S.W. objects to rates it don’t ‘protest,’ m’son. The first you hear from Mr. Shelgrim is an injunction from the courts preventing the order for new rates from taking effect. By the Lord,” he cried angrily, leaping to his feet, “I would like to know what all this means, too. Why didn’t you reduce our grain rates? What did we elect you for?”
“Yes, what did we elect you for?” demanded Osterman and Gethings, also getting to their feet.
“Order, order, gentlemen,” cried Magnus, remembering the duties of his office and rapping his knuckles on the table. “This meeting has been allowed to degenerate too far already.”
“You elected us,” declared Lyman doggedly, “to make an average ten percent cut on grain rates. We have done it. Only because you don’t benefit at
