CHAPTER XXVII

by Sinclair Lewis

　　CHAPTER XXVIIITHE strike which turned Zenith into two belligerent camps; white andred, began late in September with a walk-out of telephone girls andlinemen, in protest against a reduction of wages. The newly formed unionof dairy-products workers went out, partly in sympathy and partlyin demand for a forty-four hour week. They were followed by thetruck-drivers' union. Industry was tied up, and the whole city wasnervous with talk of a trolley strike, a printers' strike, a generalstrike. Furious citizens, trying to get telephone calls throughstrike-breaking girls, danced helplessly. Every truck that made its wayfrom the factories to the freight-stations was guarded by a policeman,trying to look stoical beside the scab driver. A line of fiftytrucks from the Zenith Steel and Machinery Company was attacked bystrikers-rushing out from the sidewalk, pulling drivers from the seats,smashing carburetors and commutators, while telephone girls cheered fromthe walk, and small boys heaved bricks.The National Guard was ordered out. Colonel Nixon, who in private lifewas Mr. Caleb Nixon, secretary of the Pullmore Tractor Company, put ona long khaki coat and stalked through crowds, a .44 automatic in hand.Even Babbitt's friend, Clarence Drum the shoe merchant--a round andmerry man who told stories at the Athletic Club, and who strangelyresembled a Victorian pug-dog--was to be seen as a waddling butferocious captain, with his belt tight about his comfortable littlebelly, and his round little mouth petulant as he piped to chatteringgroups on corners. "Move on there now! I can't have any of thisloitering!"Every newspaper in the city, save one, was against the strikers. Whenmobs raided the news-stands, at each was stationed a militiaman, ayoung, embarrassed citizen-soldier with eye-glasses, bookkeeper orgrocery-clerk in private life, trying to look dangerous while small boysyelped, "Get onto de tin soldier!" and striking truck-drivers inquiredtenderly, "Say, Joe, when I was fighting in France, was you in campin the States or was you doing Swede exercises in the Y. M. C. A.? Becareful of that bayonet, now, or you'll cut yourself!"There was no one in Zenith who talked of anything but the strike, andno one who did not take sides. You were either a courageous friend ofLabor, or you were a fearless supporter of the Rights of Property; andin either case you were belligerent, and ready to disown any friend whodid not hate the enemy.A condensed-milk plant was set afire--each side charged it to theother--and the city was hysterical.And Babbitt chose this time to be publicly liberal.He belonged to the sound, sane, right-thinking wing, and at first heagreed that the Crooked Agitators ought to be shot. He was sorry whenhis friend, Seneca Doane, defended arrested strikers, and he thought ofgoing to Doane and explaining about these agitators, but when he read abroadside alleging that even on their former wages the telephone girlshad been hungry, he was troubled. "All lies and fake figures," he said,but in a doubtful croak.For the Sunday after, the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church announced asermon by Dr. John Jennison Drew on "How the Saviour Would End Strikes."Babbitt had been negligent about church-going lately, but he went tothe service, hopeful that Dr. Drew really did have the information asto what the divine powers thought about strikes. Beside Babbitt in thelarge, curving, glossy, velvet-upholstered pew was Chum Frink.Frink whispered, "Hope the doc gives the strikers hell! Ordinarily,I don't believe in a preacher butting into political matters--let himstick to straight religion and save souls, and not stir up a lot ofdiscussion--but at a time like this, I do think he ought to stand rightup and bawl out those plug-uglies to a fare-you-well!""Yes--well--" said Babbitt.The Rev. Dr. Drew, his rustic bang flopping with the intensity of hispoetic and sociologic ardor, trumpeted:"During the untoward series of industrial dislocations which have--letus be courageous and admit it boldly--throttled the business life ofour fair city these past days, there has been a great deal of loose talkabout scientific prevention of scientific--SCIENTIFIC! Now, let me tellyou that the most unscientific thing in the world is science! Take theattacks on the established fundamentals of the Christian creed whichwere so popular with the 'scientists' a generation ago. Oh, yes, theywere mighty fellows, and great poo-bahs of criticism! They were going todestroy the church; they were going to prove the world was created andhas been brought to its extraordinary level of morality and civilizationby blind chance. Yet the church stands just as firmly to-day as ever,and the only answer a Christian pastor needs make to the long-hairedopponents of his simple faith is just a pitying smile!"And now these same 'scientists' want to replace the natural conditionof free competition by crazy systems which, no matter by whathigh-sounding names they are called, are nothing but a despoticpaternalism. Naturally, I'm not criticizing labor courts, injunctionsagainst men proven to be striking unjustly, or those excellent unions inwhich the men and the boss get together. But I certainly am criticizingthe systems in which the free and fluid motivation of independent laboris to be replaced by cooked-up wage-scales and minimum salaries andgovernment commissions and labor federations and all that poppycock."What is not generally understood is that this whole industrial matterisn't a question of economics. It's essentially and only a matterof Love, and of the practical application of the Christian religion!Imagine a factory--instead of committees of workmen alienating the boss,the boss goes among them smiling, and they smile back, the elder brotherand the younger. Brothers, that's what they must be, loving brothers,and then strikes would be as inconceivable as hatred in the home!"It was at this point that Babbitt muttered, "Oh, rot!""Huh?" said Chum Frink."He doesn't know what he's talking about. It's just as clear as mud. Itdoesn't mean a darn thing.""Maybe, but--"Frink looked at him doubtfully, through all the service kept glancing athim doubtfully, till Babbitt was nervous.IIThe strikers had announced a parade for Tuesday morning, but ColonelNixon had forbidden it, the newspapers said. When Babbitt drove westfrom his office at ten that morning he saw a drove of shabby men headingtoward the tangled, dirty district beyond Court House Square. He hatedthem, because they were poor, because they made him feel insecure "Damnloafers! Wouldn't be common workmen if they had any pep," he complained.He wondered if there was going to be a riot. He drove toward thestarting-point of the parade, a triangle of limp and faded grass knownas Moore Street Park, and halted his car.The park and streets were buzzing with strikers, young men in blue denimshirts, old men with caps. Through them, keeping them stirred like aboiling pot, moved the militiamen. Babbitt could hear the soldiers'monotonous orders: "Keep moving--move on, 'bo--keep your feet warm!"Babbitt admired their stolid good temper. The crowd shouted, "Tinsoldiers," and "Dirty dogs--servants of the capitalists!" but themilitiamen grinned and answered only, "Sure, that's right. Keep moving,Billy!"Babbitt thrilled over the citizen-soldiers, hated the scoundrels whowere obstructing the pleasant ways of prosperity, admired ColonelNixon's striding contempt for the crowd; and as Captain Clarence Drum,that rather puffing shoe-dealer, came raging by, Babbitt respectfullyclamored, "Great work, Captain! Don't let 'em march!" He watched thestrikers filing from the park. Many of them bore posters with "Theycan't stop our peacefully walking." The militiamen tore away theposters, but the strikers fell in behind their leaders and straggledoff, a thin unimpressive trickle between steel-glinting lines ofsoldiers. Babbitt saw with disappointment that there wasn't going to beany violence, nothing interesting at all. Then he gasped.Among the marchers, beside a bulky young workman, was Seneca Doane,smiling, content. In front of him was Professor Brockbank, head ofthe history department in the State University, an old man andwhite-bearded, known to come from a distinguished Massachusetts family."Why, gosh," Babbitt marveled, "a swell like him in with the strikers?And good ole Senny Doane! They're fools to get mixed up with this bunch.They're parlor socialists! But they have got nerve. And nothing in itfor them, not a cent! And--I don't know 's ALL the strikers look likesuch tough nuts. Look just about like anybody else to me!"The militiamen were turning the parade down a side street."They got just as much right to march as anybody else! They own thestreets as much as Clarence Drum or the American Legion does!" Babbittgrumbled. "Of course, they're--they're a bad element, but--Oh, rats!"At the Athletic Club, Babbitt was silent during lunch, while the othersfretted, "I don't know what the world's coming to," or solaced theirspirits with "kidding."Captain Clarence Drum came swinging by, splendid in khaki."How's it going, Captain?" inquired Vergil Gunch."Oh, we got 'em stopped. We worked 'em off on side streets and separated'em and they got discouraged and went home.""Fine work. No violence.""Fine work nothing!" groaned Mr. Drum. "If I had my way, there'd be awhole lot of violence, and I'd start it, and then the whole thing wouldbe over. I don't believe in standing back and wet-nursing these fellowsand letting the disturbances drag on. I tell you these strikers arenothing in God's world but a lot of bomb-throwing socialists and thugs,and the only way to handle 'em is with a club! That's what I'd do; beatup the whole lot of 'em!"Babbitt heard himself saying, "Oh, rats, Clarence, they look just aboutlike you and me, and I certainly didn't notice any bombs."Drum complained, "Oh, you didn't, eh? Well, maybe you'd like to takecharge of the strike! Just tell Colonel Nixon what innocents thestrikers are! He'd be glad to hear about it!" Drum strode on, while allthe table stared at Babbitt."What's the idea? Do you want us to give those hell-hounds love andkisses, or what?" said Orville Jones."Do you defend a lot of hoodlums that are trying to take the bread andbutter away from our families?" raged Professor Pumphrey.Vergil Gunch intimidatingly said nothing. He put on sternness like amask; his jaw was hard, his bristly short hair seemed cruel, his silencewas a ferocious thunder. While the others assured Babbitt that they musthave misunderstood him, Gunch looked as though he had understood onlytoo well. Like a robed judge he listened to Babbitt's stammering:"No, sure; course they're a bunch of toughs. But I just mean--Strikes meit's bad policy to talk about clubbing 'em. Cabe Nixon doesn't. He'sgot the fine Italian hand. And that's why he's colonel. Clarence Drum isjealous of him.""Well," said Professor Pumphrey, "you hurt Clarence's feelings, George.He's been out there all morning getting hot and dusty, and no wonder hewants to beat the tar out of those sons of guns!"Gunch said nothing, and watched; and Babbitt knew that he was beingwatched.IIIAs he was leaving the club Babbitt heard Chum Frink protesting to Gunch,"--don't know what's got into him. Last Sunday Doc Drew preached acorking sermon about decency in business and Babbitt kicked about that,too. Near 's I can figure out--"Babbitt was vaguely frightened.IVHe saw a crowd listening to a man who was talking from the rostrum of akitchen-chair. He stopped his car. From newspaper pictures he knew thatthe speaker must be the notorious freelance preacher, Beecher Ingram,of whom Seneca Doane had spoken. Ingram was a gaunt man with flamboyanthair, weather-beaten cheeks, and worried eyes. He was pleading:"--if those telephone girls can hold out, living on one meal a day,doing their own washing, starving and smiling, you big hulking men oughtto be able--"Babbitt saw that from the sidewalk Vergil Gunch was watching him. Invague disquiet he started the car and mechanically drove on, whileGunch's hostile eyes seemed to follow him all the way.V"There's a lot of these fellows," Babbitt was complaining to his wife,"that think if workmen go on strike they're a regular bunch of fiends.Now, of course, it's a fight between sound business and the destructiveelement, and we got to lick the stuffin's out of 'em when they challengeus, but doggoned if I see why we can't fight like gentlemen and not gocalling 'em dirty dogs and saying they ought to be shot down.""Why, George," she said placidly, "I thought you always insisted thatall strikers ought to be put in jail.""I never did! Well, I mean--Some of 'em, of course. Irresponsibleleaders. But I mean a fellow ought to be broad-minded and liberal aboutthings like--""But dearie, I thought you always said these so-called 'liberal' peoplewere the worst of--""Rats! Woman never can understand the different definitions of a word.Depends on how you mean it. And it don't pay to be too cocksure aboutanything. Now, these strikers: Honest, they're not such bad people. Justfoolish. They don't understand the complications of merchandizing andprofit, the way we business men do, but sometimes I think they'reabout like the rest of us, and no more hogs for wages than we are forprofits.""George! If people were to hear you talk like that--of course I KNOWyou; I remember what a wild crazy boy you were; I know you don't mean aword you say--but if people that didn't understand you were to hear youtalking, they'd think you were a regular socialist!""What do I care what anybody thinks? And let me tell you right now--Iwant you to distinctly understand I never was a wild crazy kid, and whenI say a thing, I mean it, and I stand by it and--Honest, do you thinkpeople would think I was too liberal if I just said the strikers weredecent?""Of course they would. But don't worry, dear; I know you don't meana word of it. Time to trot up to bed now. Have you enough covers forto-night?"On the sleeping-porch he puzzled, "She doesn't understand me. Hardlyunderstand myself. Why can't I take things easy, way I used to?"Wish I could go out to Senny Doane's house and talk things over withhim. No! Suppose Verg Gunch saw me going in there!"Wish I knew some really smart woman, and nice, that would see what I'mtrying to get at, and let me talk to her and--I wonder if Myra's right?Could the fellows think I've gone nutty just because I'm broad-mindedand liberal? Way Verg looked at me--"