“Why Mr. Robertson, if you can throw any light on the now inconceivable folly of that time so utterly behind us, we shall be genuinely indebted to you. It was quite understood in your day that the whole world’s life, comfort, prosperity and progress depended upon the work done, was it not?”
“Why, of course; that was an economic platitude,” I answered.
“Then why were the workers punished for doing it?”
“Punished? What do you mean?”
“I mean just what I say. They were punished, just as we punish criminals—with confinement at hard labor. The great mass of the people were forced to labor for cruelly long hours at dull, distasteful occupations; is not that punishment?”
“Not at all,” I said hotly. “They were free at any time to leave an occupation they did not like.”
“Leave it for what alternative?”
“To take up another,” said I, perceiving that this, after all, was not much of an escape.
“Yes, to take up another under the same heavy conditions, if there was any opening; or to starve—that was their freedom.”
“Well, what would you have?” I asked. “A man must work for his living surely.”
“Remember your economic platitude, Mr. Robertson,” Dr. Harkness suggested. “The whole world’s life, comfort, prosperity and progress depends upon the work done, you know. It was not their living they were working for; it was the world’s.”
“That is very pretty as a sentiment,” I was beginning; but his twinkling eye reminded that an economic platitude is not precisely sentimental.
“That’s where the change came,” Mr. Pike eagerly repeated. “The idea that each man had to do it for himself kept us blinded to the fact that it was all social service; that they worked for the world, and the world treated them shamefully—so shamefully that their product was deteriorated, markedly deteriorated.”
“You will be continually surprised, Mr. Robertson, at the improvements of our output,” remarked Mr. Brown. “We have standards in every form of manufacture, required standards; and to label an article incorrectly is a misdemeanor.”
“That was just starting in the pure-food agitation, you remember,” my sister put in—“ ‘with apple juice containing one-tenth of one percent, of benzoate of soda.’ ”
“And now,” Mr. Brown continued, “ ‘all wool’ is all wool; if it isn’t, you can have the dealer arrested. Silk is silk, nowadays, and cream is cream.”
“And ‘caveat emptor’ is a dead letter?”
“Yes, it is ‘caveat vendor’ now. You see, selling goods is public service.”
“You apply that term quite differently from what it stood for in my memory,” said I.
“It used to mean some sort of beneficent statesmanship, at first,” Nellie agreed. “Then it spread to various philanthropic efforts and wider grades of government activities. Now it means any kind of world work.”
She saw that this description did not carry much weight with me, and added, “Any kind of human work, John; that is, work a man gives his whole time to and does not himself consume, is world work—is social service.”
“If a man raises, by his own labor, just enough to feed himself—that is working for himself,” Mr. Brown explained, “but if he raises more corn than he consumes, he is serving humanity.”
“But he does not give it away,” I urged; “he is paid for it.”
“Well, you paid the doctor who saved your child’s life, but the doctor’s work was social service none the less—and the teacher’s—anybody’s.”
“But that kind of work benefits humanity—”
“Yes, and does it not benefit humanity to eat—to have shoes and clothes and houses? John, John, wake up!” Nellie for the first time showed impatience with me. But my brother-in-law extended a protecting arm.
“Now, Nellie, don’t hurry him. This thing will burst upon him all at once. Of course, it’s glaringly plain, but there was a time when you and I did not see it either.”
I was a little sulky. “Well, as far as I gather,” and I took out my note book, “people all of a sudden changed all their ideas about everything—and your demi-millennium followed.”
“I wish we could say that,” said Mrs. Allerton. “We are not telling you of our present day problems and difficulties, you see. No, Mr. Robertson, we have merely removed our most obvious and patently unnecessary difficulties, of which poverty was at least the largest.
“What we did, as we have rather confusedly suggested, I’m afraid, was to establish such measures as to ensure better births, and vastly better environment and education for every child. That raised the standard of the people, you see, and increased their efficiency. Then we provided employment for everyone, under good conditions, and improved the world in two ways at once.”
“And who paid for this universal employment?” I asked.
“Who paid for it before?” she returned promptly.
“The employer, of course.”
“Did he? Out of his own private pocket? At a loss to himself.”
“Why, of course not,” I replied, a little nettled. “Out of the profits of the business.”
“And ‘the business’ was the work done by the employees?”
“Not at all! He did it himself; they only furnished the labor.”
“Could he do it alone—without ‘labor’? Did he furnish employment as a piece of beneficence, outside of his business—Ah, Mr. Robertson, surely it is clear that unless a man’s labor furnished a profit to his employer, he would not be employed. It was on that profit that ‘labor’ was paid—they paid themselves. They do now, but at a higher rate.”
I was annoyed by this clever juggling with the hard facts of business.
“That is very convincing, Mrs. Allerton,” I said with some warmth, “but it unfortunately omits certain factors. A lot of laborers could make a given article, of course; but they could not sell it—and that is where the profit comes in. What good would it do the laborer to pile up goods if he could not sell them?”
“And what good would be the ability to sell goods if there were none, Mr. Robertson. Of course, I recognize
