CHAPTER V.
WHEN SPADES WERE TRUMPS.
Five Hundred Pounds Offered.
A man of leisure, possessing ample means, a portion of which he desires to use in any plan of betterment that may commend itself to him, wishes to avail himself of outside suggestions, being disappointed in the results of past endeavour on his own initiative. Will pay five hundred pounds sterling to any person furnishing a practical idea; an idea which, when carried out, will prove beneficial to humanity. No personal interview can be accorded in any circumstances. Competitors must abide by the decision of the man who pays the money. Address Berkim and Duncannon, Solicitors, Old Jewry, London, E.C.
The above advertisement had appeared in the leading newspapers of Great Britain, and now Lord Stranleigh was standing the brunt of it. He had let loose a white avalanche upon himself. Every postman brought in a sackful of letters forwarded from London, and some of them brought two. These communications, by order of Blake, were dumped in a corner of the large parlour one stair up, whose broad balcony overlooked the sea.
Stranleigh, his two hands deep in his trousers pockets, gazed at the ever-increasing heap with an expression of dismay.
"If this keeps on much longer, Blake," he said, "we'll have the police down on us, certain that we are engaged in some fraudulent enterprise. It is only an arrant swindle that can call out such an immediate and voluminous response from the gullible British public."
"Five hundred pounds is a tempting bait, my lord," said Blake, who, knees on the floor, was making an ineffectual effort to sort out the letters.
"I suppose it is, yet it seems amazing that so small an amount should produce such an appalling result. If I'd advertised for someone to lend me five hundred pounds, I don't suppose the population would be tumbling over one another, anxious to accommodate me, although this is a rich country."
"Oh, I'm not so sure of that," replied the philosophic Blake. "If you advertised in your own name, you could get all the money you demanded. To him that hath shall be given."
"In my own name, yes. That's just the trouble. The secrecy I had hoped to preserve is itself suspicious. I feel the all-seeing eye of the post-office upon me, and I dread the police-station."
You don't need to dread it," cried Blake, as he rose upstanding, and brushed the knees of his trousers, abandoning his task in despair. "I'm the person who would bear the brunt. These letters are all re-directed to me. This house is leased in my name. I beg you to observe that the solicitors in London have abandoned the task of re-directing by hand, and the later letters are all decorated by a rubber stamp, bearing the words: 'E. J. Blake, Saltwater House, Marine Parade, Lyme Regis.' No," concluded the flippant Blake, "the aristocracy in this case goes scathless, and it's me for the prison cell, as my American friends remark."
"My dear Blake, if you'd read less American slang, and peruse, as I do, the classics of our own time, par example, 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,' you would comprehend the inadequacy of such protection as you offer me. The post-office department, besides acting as our modern argosy is also a modern Argus (forgive the attempted pun). When it turns any of its hundred eyes upon the sudden augmentation of letters all re-addressed from London to one man at Lyme Regis, and calls in Sherlock Holmes, he will merely give a glance at E. J. Blake, and seeing his naïve, innocent cherubic face, will instantly pass him by, and speedily discover the real villain of the piece."
"I rather imagine," encouraged Blake, "that this plethora of letters will soon dwindle away, and then cease."
They were both startled by a sharp double knock at the drawing-room door, the way from the street being left open so that the postal emissaries could come right up the stair without a preliminary use of the front knocker. A postman and two assistants entered, each carrying a well-filled bag, the contents of which visibly augmented the mountain on the floor. The postman, standing erect, mopped his brow with a handkerchief, sighed deeply, and paused as if to gather strength for the return.
Stranleigh put his hand in his pocket, and drew out several golden sovereigns, which he presented to the postman.
"I wish," he said, "you'd divide that among all those who are doing this extra work."
The postman gratefully accepted, and with his two assistants, retired.
"That's bribery," said Blake, severely, "and will add considerably to your sentence."
"No, it is merely acting on the text 'the labourer is worthy of his hire.' Besides, if generous tips are to be earned, these men won't complain of the extra work. Now, Blake, what do you propose we should do? Engage a selection committee, and set them at the work of opening these communications?"
"I think not. Too much publicity; too little efficiency. The task is less formidable than it seems. I'll sit down at this table, and cut open letter after letter. A mere glance at each will show whether anything original is put forward. I imagine that the bulk of this correspondence can be classified in the 'begging letter' category, with which a capacious waste-paper basket may deal."
Blake picked up one of the letters, tore it open, scrutinised it for a moment, and tossed it aside.
"There you have it," he said. "If you place at the disposal of the writer the amount you wish to expendhe will distribute it among the deserving, after making personal investigation of their worth. For this service he will charge no salary, providing the five hundred pounds reward is sent to him by return."
"Generous man! Nevertheless, the waste-paper basket yawns."
There came another knock at the door, and a boy handed in four of the London morning papers, which showed that it was just past eleven o'clock in the forenoon. Blake took the journals and gave them to Stranleigh.
"If you'll will seat yourself in that comfortable arm-chair on the balcony, and read the news, I'll see what impression I can make on this pile during the next two hours."
Had Stranleigh, instead of opening his morning papers, gazed to the west, he would have seen part of the water-front of the most picturesque, unfashionable, and unconventional seaside resort in England. Towards the end of the Parade, the Cobb made a sort of climax to it, Cobb being Lyme's name for a very stout wharf or breakwater which sticks out into the Channel, and then turns to the east, enclosing a little harbour. No one knows when the Cobb was first built, although it is mentioned in a document bearing the date 1313, a doubly unlucky year, if we believe the superstition of its figuring, but the Cobb never can become ancient, because the wild sea sweeps it away every now and then, after which it must be rebuilt by the persevering British.
Alongside of it landed the unfortunate Duke of Monmouth, who so went inland to his defeat and his beheading, and on its granite surface a dozen followers of his were hanged. Great things have happened on the Cobb, both in history and in fiction; one as real nowadays as the other. The Cobb might be called the A.B.C. of the novelist, for Jane Austen, Walter Besant, and Conan Doyle refer to doings there or thereabouts in their respective books, "Persuasion," "'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay," and "Micah Clarke."
When the bells of the town struck twelve, Stranleigh looked through the open window at his absorbed secretary, who sat like a statue in a heap of discarded letters which he had thrown over his shoulder one by one, as he viséed them. He now rested his elbow on the table, and was perusing some closely-written foolscap sheets.
"Well, Blake," cried Stranleigh, have you struck oil at last?"
"I rather think so," he replied, rising, and with his feet shuffling the loose débris to another corner of the room. Then stepping out on the balcony, he took a seat opposite his chief.
"This man," he said, "seems to be a literary person, who begins his letter in blank verse:—
"'O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
How will the Future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings—
With those who shaped him to the thing he is—
When this dumb terror shall reply to God,
After the silence of the centuries?'
"'Your advertisement states that you wish to benefit humanity. I claim no originality for my suggestion, but the time that has elapsed since it was first mooted gives you an opportunity of applying to it modern methods and modern thought, discarding what you may deem cumbrous, and adding improvements from the knowledge of to-day. For encouragement, I ask you to read Rudyard Kipling's poem, "Pharaoh and the Sergeant":—
"'Said England unto Pharaoh, "I must make a man of you
That will stand upon his feet and play the game";
and the poem goes on to show how the Sergeant made a rifleman from mud, "drilled a black man white and made a mummy fight."
"'If an Englishman, as is proven, attain such success with the semi-savage, ignorant Egyptian, in preparing him for the destructive art of war, how much more effective should be the result if an Englishman took his derelict fellow citizens and trained them in the arts of peace, and if in doing so he taught Great Britain the way to become self-sustaining in the matter of food, how much greater would be his claim to our gratitude.
"'I find in chapter twelve of Robert Blatchford's book, Britain for the British," that one acre of our land yields twenty-eight bushels of wheat, while the same amount of land in certain parts of the United States gives eighty-seven to a hundred and fifteen bushels. Minnesota raises thirty-one tons of potatoes to the acre, while on the same surface Great Britain produces only six tons. Eight-and-a-half bushels of wheat will feed one man for a year. By intensive culture, Major Hallet raised that amount of wheat on one-twentieth of an acre; that is, an acre produced the almost incredible quantity of a hundred and seventy bushels.
"'My proposal is this. Purchase fifty acres of fertile land, which just now is cheap enough even in the vicinity of towns. Erect upon this land a quadrangular building, after the general plan of a monastery or an Oxford college. The side towards the road should be two storeys high, containing a hall, seating comfortably fifty men, a library, a dining-room, kitchens and everything pertaining thereto, a billiard-room, and a bowling alley, all fully equipped. The other three sides of the quadrangle should be occupied by a building one storey in height, the roof of the inner side coming down to form round three sides of the quadrangle a verandah or cloister, the ends of which communicate by doors with the main building. These wings are to hold forty or fifty small apartments of two rooms each; one man, one apartment.
"'Divide the property into plots, which may measure anything you like, from forty feet square to an acre. In the first instance I suggest choosing forty unmarried men, human derelicts, but men not more than fifty years old, sound in wind and limb; in other words, men who can work if they want to. I'd give each a plot of land and shelter, with free board for at least a year, furnishing him also with a spade and whatever other horticultural implements the head-gardener considered needful.
"'So far as drink is concerned, pure water and good sound beer would be provided. I should prefer not less than ten per cent. of the men to be habitual drunkards, and any other vice such as thieving, foul language, combativeness, and so forth, would be welcomed in moderation, for our object is to learn whether or not a mud Englishman can be formed into a man.
"'The staff I should select with great care, insisting on honesty, strict temperance, and all the virtues that can be obtained for good pay. I consider very important the retaining of an expert accountant, who would set down all incomings and outgoings. The manager ought to be a clear-headed business man free from fads, and the instructing gardener thoroughly competent and up-to-date. Within a year you would be able to show what can be done with the land, and what with the men on the land.
"'Prince Kropotkin says that by one day's labour, on one-twentieth of an acre, one man can produce a year's bread for one man; that is, eight-and-a-half bushels of wheat. Adopting this as a basis to go on, a plan carrying out my suggestion might do the double duty of solving the question of the unemployed, and proving that England can feed herself without foreign assistance.
"I'm afraid," he ventured, "that this does not interest you."
His lordship woke up with a smile.
"Oh, yes, it does, but it is merely Robert Owen's township community plan over again, or Fourier's system of phalanges uncomplicated by the family question."
"Then it has been tried before?"
"In a sort of way, yes, but never by a man of sense like myself."
"You think you could do the trick?"
"I'm perfectly certain that I couldn't."
"Oh! Why?"
"Because there is a missing ingredient that I am not allowed to use, while the Sergeant in Kipling's poem was given that liberty. Kipling's intensely practical mind, an odd quality in a poet, indicates the vital point, and as you finished the letter I was just trying to remember those lines in the poem which hit the nail on the head. I cannot remember the first line, but the second, third and fourth were something like this:—
"'There was faith and hope and whacking and despair.
While the Sergeant gave his orders and he combed old Pharaoh out,
And England didn't look to know or care.'"
"Isn't it 'While the Sergeant gave his cautions'?" suggested Blake.
"Perhaps it is. It's the whacking and the combing I'm thinking of, and the line:
"'Translated by a stick (which is really half the trick).'
"'It's a good deal more than half the trick. England wouldn't allow us to comb these derelicts out. The Sergeant had a great advantage over me. He worked in a silent desert, under the burning sun. I'd have to work in gossipy, prying, interfering England, under the rules of the County Council or the Local Government Board, which are worse than any tropical sun that ever struck a man with heat apoplexy. I might possess Roosevelt's big stick, but I should not be permitted to use it. Our phrase 'Are we down-hearted?' should be changed into 'Are we soft-hearted?' Yes, and soft-headed. The answer is found in the old rhyme 'We are, we are, we are.'"
"Then this scheme is N.G.? Mr. Stillson Crane, of Manchester, doesn't get the five hundred pounds?"
"Oh, I didn't say that. I have always desired to build a monastery, and this idea of peopling it with secular monks, some of whom can steal and swear, rather appeals to me. I feel a sneaking admiration and envy of the lives lived by those monks who usefully toiled in the soil, and who taught ignorant peasants the intensive culture of their day. I frequently take a few moments off to curse the vandals who destroyed English monasteries, and bereft our land of an architectural heritage so lovely. But let us get down to business. We are now at the beginning of September: could such a monastery as this man indicates be completed by the first of April, which strikes me as a most appropriate date?"
"I see no reason why it shouldn't," replied Blake.
"My Dorsetshire estate, ten miles away, could easily spare fifty acres, and its soil is good. I'll erect my phalanstery there. Now, Blake, you'll need to get busy. We've never before built a monastery, so we must select an architect who can unite exterior beauty with interior usefulness, and set him at the plans as speedily as possible."
"Whom do you suggest?" asked Blake.
"I've no suggestion to make. I don't know enough about the subject. We must have authoritative advice. Write to the editor of the British Architect and he will name the best man for the job. Meanwhile, get in touch with Stillson Crane, of Manchester, and invite him to Lyme Regis. You and I will change places. I become the private secretary, you the capitalist. An interview with Crane will show us whether or not he is a practical man. The line in his letter about getting a manager without fads impresses me in his favour, and if personal contact supports that impression, you will make arrangements for him to be superintendent."
Blake noted down these particulars on the back of the Manchester man's letter, then he said:
"If Crane is the capable man you expect him to be, he will very soon learn that you are the capitalist, and not I."
"I don't think so. I shall prove a much more courteous, deferential private secretary than you are, but in any case you will see him first, and report to me. Perhaps it would not be advisable for me to meet him at all, for I will now confess something that may surprise you. I intend devoting next spring and summer to the role of human derelict. I shall occupy two rooms in my phalanstery. I shall wield a spade under the eye of the gardening instructor."
"You won't stick to it for a week."
"There you go! I should never say so rude a thing as that to my employer. You see, Blake, I shall be the most unskilful of the derelicts gathered under the wing of the Crane. I produce as little that is useful as any one of this chain gang, but I consume more than a thousand of them put together. I am myself a problem that England must solve in the near future. My fellow tramps consume merely beer and sausages and mashed, when they can get these delicacies, but I'm a purple and fine linen vagabond, equally useless and much more destructive. I've never garnered eight-and-a-half bushels of wheat of my own growing, nor dug up six tons of potatoes, yet, in spite of your sneer regarding my early quitting, I'll bet you a sovereign that, to use a horticultural simile, I shall prove the last rose of summer left blooming alone when my vagrant companions have stampeded and gone."
"I'm not a betting man," said Blake. "Now, what about this heap of letters? If Crane gets the five hundred, it will be unnecessary to read further."
"Not so, my dear Blake. You cannot evade your duties by any such plea as that. Every letter must at least be glanced at, and if there are other suggestions that please me, I will pay the promised price for them."
"I don't see where I am to get the time."
"You'll be busy for a week or two while plans are being drawn, and contracts let, but after that the long winter is at your disposal. There goes the luncheon bell. Let us to our trenchers. This sea air has made me hungry."
*****
As a matter of fact the new monastery was inaugurated on the first of March, instead of the first of April. The instructing gardener had informed his ignorant employer that April was altogether too late in the year to begin horticultural work. He himself, with a staff of hired labourers, set to work in the middle of February making preparations for the campaign, ploughing the land that was to produce three hundred and forty bushels of wheat, that is, eight-and-a-half bushels for each man, to be grown in a field of fourteen acres, since the head gardener scouted the idea of each man raising his own quantity of wheat on his own small allotment.
The men were all chosen from London, and a motley crew they were, none of them familiar with gardening or with country life. Stranleigh, dressed in corduroy and fustian, made a quite perfect theatrical labouring man who would have delighted the heart of a London stage-manager, but would have deceived a farmer not for one moment. Blake had seen to it that apartment number one was allotted to Stranleigh, number one being the two rooms next to the main building on the right hand side, thus Blake could call upon his chief without going down the cloisters and passing any other apartment.
Stillson Crane was a middle-aged man of most benevolent appearance. His long beard, which had once been black, was now tinged with grey. One could guess he was a lover of his fellow-men not only by his benign expression, but by his clothes of solemn black, which fitted him so badly. He possessed the gift of tongues, and was a most eloquent exhorter. Indeed, if the forty had followed the counsels of their Ali Baba, they would have been much more model citizens than they were.
The head gardener was a man who knew his business, but who speedily found that the business he had learned was not that which he was compelled chiefly to exercise. His principal duty proved to be keeping the men at work, because the moment he disappeared from one side of the building, the amateur horticulturists dropped their spades, filled up clay pipes, and, the better to enjoy their smoke, sat in a row with their backs against the phalanstery, ready to jump up in a hurry when a whistled signal warned them that the gardener was approaching.
Nevertheless, for the first week everything went on with reasonable smoothness, then the result of regular meals and excellent food began to exercise an effect. All hunger-cringing had departed from the men, and Stranleigh, who studied his fellow-workers with unobserved eagerness, regarded this as a good sign. They were standing on their feet, as the poet said, and would soon be ready to play the game. The game, however, developed through three crises; first, the tobacco crisis, then the drink crisis, and lastly the financial crisis.
Although Stranleigh occupied two rooms furnished exactly like all the others, and although he partook of the same food, with people from whom he instinctively shrank, he allowed himself one luxury; several boxes of good cigars that Blake had procured for him, and which were hidden under the bed. One evening, after supper, as the young man sat in his room reading, and enjoying his cigar, the door suddenly opened, and a rather forbidding-looking ruffian, known as Bert Harrison, entered. Harrison had proved himself an expert work-shirker, whose allotment was the most backward in the community. He was something of a politician, and already exercised a good deal of influence upon his fellows. He harangued them, on occasion, over a mug of beer, pointing out how the country should be governed.
Stranleigh threw down his book and rose to his feet.
"I beg your pardon," he said mildly, "but I didn't hear you knock."
"Right you are, mate," cried Bert, affably. "Don't need to worry about that, because I didn't knock. We're all comrades here, you know."
"I shouldn't think of entering your room without knocking," persisted Stranleigh.
"Oh, wouldn't you? It 'ud be all the same to me. Friend of mine is welcome, however he comes. But then, you see, I come official. I'm a delegation. What the brethren wants to know is where you get them cigars you smoke."
"I got them in London before I came here. Will you have one?"
Harrison accepted thankfully, lit the weed, and expressed his satisfaction.
"This is a bit of all right!" he cried admiringly. "This ain't no twopenny smoke. How much do they cost?"
"I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea," replied Stranleigh.
A broad smile illuminated the face of Bert Harrison. He expressed his enlightenment with a wink.
"Don't you fear, mate," he said. "No questions asked, but you do know how to pick out the goods. I thought them white, ladylike fingers of yours was made for something nippier than handling a spade. Well, talking about delegations, I'm asked by the comrades to make a strike for tobacco. Do you think old 'Longbeard' will come down?"
"I shouldn't wonder, if it's put to him nicely."
"That's just the point, and so we thought you'd be the best man to do the chinning. There's five of us going in to see him now, and we want you to be spokesman."
"I don't mind. Tell me exactly what the demand is."
"Well, tobacco's just as much a necessity of life as beer is. The stuff the boys brought with them from London is all gone, and we've got no money to buy more, so the lads are hungry for a smoke."
"I'm willing to put the case before Mr. Crane, but I rather think the head gardener may object."
"Why?"
"From some remarks he made in the field, he seems to think tobacco interferes with work."
"Oh, blow the work!" said Harrison. "If he objects, we want you to talk him down. This state of things is cruel 'ard on smoking men. Even when a man gets into the workhouse he's allowed tobacco."
"Where's your delegation?"
"They're waiting outside."
"All right! Come along: we'll tackle old Crane."
Crane, Blake, and the gardener received the committee, and Stranleigh placed before them the case for the smoker. Crane said nothing at first, but to Stranleigh's astonishment, the gardener spoke in favour of the men.
"I think," he said, "that at least an ounce of tobacco should be allowed to each man per day, but I want to superintend its distribution. I tell you what it is, men, those who do not do their share of work, will not get their share of tobacco."
There was some grumbling at this, but Bert Harrison, in a bluff, manly way, accepted the proposition, and thus the delegation filed outside where Bert's four comrades at once rounded on him, and complained bitterly of his supineness in agreeing to a condition so drastic.
"Why, you fatheads," said the leader with unconcealed contempt, "don't you see that for forty men they'll get the tobacco down from London wholesale? That's all we need. Mentioning no names, there's them among us can pinch enough tobacco to give every man his share, gardener or no gardener," and once more he winked at Stranleigh.
This completely satisfied the delegation, who felt ashamed that so evident a solution had not occurred to them. The truth of Bert's remark was borne in upon Stranleigh when he rose next morning, and found that his boxes of cigars had been stolen during the night.
In spite of Crane's indefatigable efforts, it was evident that the men loathed the country more and more as time went on. A grand piano had been provided in the lecture-hall, on which at times Blake performed very admirably. A huge phonograph gave all the popular selections of the day, and occasionally Crane delivered moral lectures on self-help, on the uplift, and what-not, but speedily found himself without an audience when the men learned that attendance was not compulsory. These entertainments proved to be as inadequate a substitute for a low-down East-End music-hall as sugared lemonade is to take the place of whisky on the palate of a confirmed drunkard.
When at last it became necessary to place a restriction on the consumption of beer, a demand was made for stronger drink, and this being refused, the men went on strike for a day and a half, succumbing at the end of that time through force of hunger, for it was "No work, no meals," a ukase which Harrison characterised as exceeding the vilest tyranny of Russia. Were they men, or were they not? The authorities, ably aided by the cook, appeared to think they were not.
The failure of this strike secured quietness and reasonable obedience for about ten days. Then an emeute occurred that nearly brought about the closing of the phalanstery. One afternoon the men deserted in a body, and made for Lyme Regis. It was now the month of April, and the country was looking lovely, but although Browning wrote—
"Oh to be in England,
Now that April's there,"
it is not insisted by anyone that these men journeyed forth to enjoy the beauties of Nature. Country caution was no match for City cleverness, and in some manner, during their journey, the pilgrims accumulated money, which they used in purchasing the strong waters of Lyme Regis, to such effect that four of them were locked away by the town constable. Blake, who followed in a motor-car, paid the fines and costs next morning.
Later the magistrates investigated the phalanstery, but, influenced by the obvious good intentions of the reverend-looking Crane, they did nothing except warn him that if a similar outbreak took place, the establishment would be compulsorily closed. Thefts were reported along the route, and although no proofs were forthcoming, Blake placed in the hands of the magistrates a cheque for the amount alleged to have been stolen.
The men next demanded that a certain amount of pocket-money should be dealt them, which request was acceded to, and a week later they made a strike for regular wages of not less than four shillings a day. They complained that really they had been working for nothing on somebody's land for somebody's benefit. These wages were refused, and Crane endeavoured to explain to the men the object of this self-help community, but the meeting broke up in disorder, and the earnest man was not listened to.
The forty promptly struck work, but once more were overcome by starvation, and although Bert Harrison declared this to be a favourite weapon of the capitalist, and offered to lead a raid upon the larder, the strike had gone too far. The hungry men knew that they could secure a meal, beer and tobacco at once if they gave in, so to Bert's chagrin, they paid as little attention to his eloquence as they had to Crane's, and surrendered on the terms that a meal should be served forthwith. Having fed sumptuously, and drunk to their satisfaction, they instantly inaugurated their final strike.
All except Stranleigh were gathered in the central hall, when they gave their ultimatum to Crane, who was on the verge of tears. They began proceedings by great stamping of feet, and by singing in lusty chorus the song—
"Eight hours' work,
Eight hours' play,
Eight hours' sleep, and
Eight shillings a day."
When Stillson Crane, E. J. Blake, and the gardener took their places on the platform they were received with boisterous cheers, arising from plenty of good food and a sufficient quantity of beer.
Bert Harrison was the spokesman. He demanded immediate payment for each man of eight shillings for every day they had put in at this workhouse, as he called it, also conveyances to take them to the station, and their fares to London. Poor Crane, who could scarcely control his voice, answered briefly that he had resigned his position, and, washing his hands of the whole affair, sat down. There was a great uproar at this, and charges of bad faith were hurled at the ex-manager, but Bert Harrison calmed the storm, and said if their terms were not instantly accepted, they would proceed to destroy the building after helping themselves to its contents.
Blake rose and said curtly—
"You will now be addressed by one of yourselves; the man who can at once grant your request or refuse it. I beg to introduce Earl Stranleigh of Wychwood, owner of this estate, and builder of this house."
There now mounted the platform a young man most exquisitely dressed. The uniform of the phalanstery had been discarded for the costume of Piccadilly. The audience was too amazed to vociferate. They had not observed until Blake spoke that one of their number was missing, and it was some moments before they recognised that the immaculate person who confronted them was their late fellow-worker.
"Gentlemen," began Stranleigh, in his most conciliatory voice, but Harrison sprang to his feet.
"So this is the secret of the good cigars"
"That were stolen? Yes," said Stranleigh, with a smile.
"Never mind about that, my fine cock-a-doodle-doo. Before we allow you to speak, will you agree to give us eight shillings a day, and railway fare?"
"Yes," replied Stranleigh suavely, "if you force me to do so."
"We do force you."
"That is courageous," said Stranleigh, "when you realise that double your number of policemen surround this building. I am told that some of you are wanted very badly by the authorities, and I think you foolish to leave shelter and safety to go out once more into the cruel world. If you insist on eight shillings a day I shall of course accede to your request."
"We do insist," declared Harrison, but in a much less truculent voice. There were no answering cheers behind him; the word "police" seemed to have paralysed Bert's followers.
"Thank you, Mr. Harrison. That will save me a bit of money, as you would remark. Blake, how much did I say these men were to get?"
"A pound a day, my lord."
"Then just mark it down to eight shillings, Blake, and I hope Mr. Harrison's mob will not expostulate with him because of the reduction. Gentlemen, we have been merely trying an experiment, which comes to its conclusion with this meeting. It has cost me several thousands of pounds, but I don't in the least grudge the outlay. I think I understand better than when I began your objections to the plan. You hate work, and so, I must confess, do I."
He looked somewhat ruefully at his calloused hands, then smiled at his silent audience.
"My friend Mr. Stillson Crane thought he could make real men of you. I didn't know whether that was possible or not, being a very ignorant person, in the position of the girl about whom Sir W. S. Gilbert wrote. She didn't know whether she could waltz or not, but would rather like to try. I imagine she failed at the waltzing as I have done at the regeneration business. In speaking of Mr. Crane I, as one of his labourers, must pay a deserved tribute to his goodness of heart, to his uprightness, to his fine tact and kindness towards us, and I shall compensate him for his earnest labour on our behalf, and his disappointment at the failure which has followed it.
"Pardon me if I consider you a lot of mugs, which was a phrase I heard used by one of you regarding the authorities here. I confess I thought I'd find one, at least, among the forty who would, as time went on, make some remark more worth listening to than the braying of a donkey, but I admit that you don't interest me, and I care not a copper—don't start, I'm making no reference to the police—whether you're regenerated or not. As it is impossible for me to describe adequately my contempt for you, I shall give up trying. It is probable that if you'd been taken young, say between the ages of six and ten, something might have been made of you, and I believe any hopeful Government that addresses itself to this question will abandon the bettering of adult incompetents, and turn its energies towards setting the youth of our land in the right path.
"Now, Blake," said Stranleigh, turning to the secretary, "did you put the pound a day in envelopes, as I ordered?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Then it would be rather a pity to tear them all open again, and since I've had the pleasure of telling these gentlemen what I think of them, I propose that we leave their compensation at the figure I first intended. You'd better go now."
Blake, rising, took with him a stout, well-filled handbag, and disappeared. A moment later the purr of a departing automobile was heard.
"Now, gentlemen, a very few words more, and I bespeak your serious attention. Within an hour you will be in possession of more money than any of you ever received at one time. It is perhaps foolish to make this donation, which every man before me knows he does not deserve, but if it enables you to get jobs, I shall be very glad. It will doubtless lead some of you a little faster on the road to destruction. That I cannot prevent, but I give you a final warning. The road from here to the station is direct. A fast walker may do the trick in thirty-seven minutes. Blake will wait at the station for quarter of an hour only, and there will hand to each man a packet, containing five-pound notes and some gold; so if you want the money, you have no time to lose."
"We can't get there in quarter of an hour," cried Harrison.
"Thank you, Bert, for calling my attention to the turgidness of my language. Blake has reached the station by this time. He knows the moment at which you will start from this building, and will allow thirty-seven minutes to elapse, then wait quarter of an hour longer. We are connected by telephone with the station, so if you do any damage before leaving, as you threatened Mr. Crane, you will pay very dearly for it, and you won't have time to make any depredations on the road." Stranleigh pulled out his watch. "The foot-race will begin two minutes from now."
Every man sprang to his feet, and there seemed the likelihood of a stampede, but Stranleigh held up his hand.
"It is useless attempting to leave prematurely. The doors are locked, and you cannot break them down in two minutes, but even if you did I'd telephone to Blake, and he and the money would vanish. The doors are to be opened at the exact moment by my friend the gardener, and I am sure he will watch your retreat with more joy than if he were witnessing the most exciting Marathon race the world ever saw."
The gardener, at a nod from Stranleigh, rose and went to the door.
"Patience, gentlemen," Stranleigh added to the uneasy crowd. "Just one minute more."
"I say, mates," shouted Harrison, "three cheers for his ludship!"
The cheers were given with a will, deafening in their volume in that restricted hall. As they ceased, the rattling of chains betokened the opening of a door, and the crowd surged forward.
"Wait a bit, lads. Three more cheers for 'Long-beard' and the gardener!"
These were given as Stillson Crane's head sunk in his hands.
"And now, you scum of the earth," roared Harrison, "file out like soldiers, and get in line! No man move till I give the word."
The men obeyed him. Stranleigh and Crane followed them to the door.
"One, two, three—go!" cried Harrison, and away they went in a body, never noticing there were no police about the building.
"By George!" said Stranleigh. "I am still in doubt about those men."
"The cheers were given with a will."
Lord Stranleigh, Philanthropist] [Page 162
"No one could have done his duty better than you, Mr. Crane," said Stranleigh, placing his hand affectionately on the shoulder of his former manager.