When Magnus had finished, there was a moment’s silence, each member of the group maintaining his attitude of attention and interest. It was Harran who first spoke.
“S. Behrman manipulated the whole affair. There’s a big deal of some kind in the air, and if there is, we all know who is back of it; S. Behrman, of course, but who’s back of him? It’s Shelgrim.”
Shelgrim! The name fell squarely in the midst of the conversation, abrupt, grave, sombre, big with suggestion, pregnant with huge associations. No one in the group who was not familiar with it; no one, for that matter, in the county, the State, the whole reach of the West, the entire Union, that did not entertain convictions as to the man who carried it; a giant figure in the end-of-the-century finance, a product of circumstance, an inevitable result of conditions, characteristic, typical, symbolic of ungovernable forces. In the New Movement, the New Finance, the reorganisation of capital, the amalgamation of powers, the consolidation of enormous enterprises—no one individual was more constantly in the eye of the world; no one was more hated, more dreaded, no one more compelling of unwilling tribute to his commanding genius, to the colossal intellect operating the width of an entire continent than the president and owner of the Pacific and Southwestern.
“I don’t think, however, he has moved yet,” said Magnus.
“The thing for us, then,” exclaimed Osterman, “is to stand from under before he does.”
“Moved yet!” snorted Annixter. “He’s probably moved so long ago that we’ve never noticed it.”
“In any case,” hazarded Magnus, “it is scarcely probable that the deal—whatever it is to be—has been consummated. If we act quickly, there may be a chance.”
“Act quickly! How?” demanded Annixter. “Good Lord! what can you do? We’re cinched already. It all amounts to just this: You can’t buck against the railroad. We’ve tried it and tried it, and we are stuck every time. You, yourself, Derrick, have just lost your grain-rate case. S. Behrman did you up. Shelgrim owns the courts. He’s got men like Ulsteen in his pocket. He’s got the Railroad Commission in his pocket. He’s got the Governor of the State in his pocket. He keeps a million-dollar lobby at Sacramento every minute of the time the legislature is in session; he’s got his own men on the floor of the United States Senate. He has the whole thing organised like an army corps. What are you going to do? He sits in his office in San Francisco and pulls the strings and we’ve got to dance.”
“But—well—but,” hazarded Broderson, “but there’s the Interstate Commerce Commission. At least on long-haul rates they—”
“Hoh, yes, the Interstate Commerce Commission,” shouted Annixter, scornfully, “that’s great, ain’t it? The greatest Punch and Judy; show on earth. It’s almost as good as the Railroad Commission. There never was and there never will be a California Railroad Commission not in the pay of the P. and S.W.”
“It is to the Railroad Commission, nevertheless,” remarked Magnus, “that the people of the State must look for relief. That is our only hope. Once elect Commissioners who would be loyal to the people, and the whole system of excessive rates falls to the ground.”
“Well, why not have a Railroad Commission of our own, then?” suddenly declared young Osterman.
“Because it can’t be done,” retorted Annixter. “You can’t buck against the railroad and if you could you can’t organise the farmers in the San Joaquin. We tried it once, and it was enough to turn your stomach. The railroad quietly bought delegates through S. Behrman and did us up.”
“Well, that’s the game to play,” said Osterman decisively, “buy delegates.”
“It’s the only game that seems to win,” admitted Harran gloomily. “Or ever will win,” exclaimed Osterman, a sudden excitement seeming to take possession of him. His face—the face of a comic actor, with its great slit of mouth and stiff, red ears—went abruptly pink.
“Look here,” he cried, “this thing is getting desperate. We’ve fought and fought in the courts and out and we’ve tried agitation and—and all the rest of it and S. Behrman sacks us every time. Now comes the time when there’s a prospect of a big crop; we’ve had no rain for two years and the land has had a long rest. If there is any rain at all this winter, we’ll have a bonanza year, and just at this very moment when we’ve got our chance—a chance to pay off our mortgages and get clear of debt and make a strike—here is Shelgrim making a deal to cinch us and put up rates. And now here’s the primaries coming off and a new Railroad Commission going in. That’s why Shelgrim chose this time to make his deal. If we wait till Shelgrim pulls it off, we’re done for, that’s flat. I tell you we’re in a fix if we don’t keep an eye open. Things are getting desperate. Magnus has just said that the key to the whole thing is the Railroad Commission. Well, why not have a Commission of our own? Never mind how we get it, let’s get it. If it’s got to be bought, let’s buy it and put our own men on it and dictate what the rates will be. Suppose it costs a hundred thousand dollars. Well, we’ll get back more than that in cheap rates.”
“Mr. Osterman,” said Magnus, fixing the young man with a swift glance, “Mr. Osterman, you are proposing a scheme of bribery, sir.”
“I am proposing,” repeated Osterman, “a scheme of bribery. Exactly so.”
“And a crazy, wild-eyed scheme at that,” said Annixter gruffly. “Even supposing you bought a Railroad Commission and got your schedule of low rates, what happens? The P. and S.W. crowd get out an injunction and tie you up.”
“They would tie themselves up, too. Hauling at low rates is better than no hauling
