The Gray Mills of Farley
The mills of Farley were close together by the river, and the grayhouses that belonged to them stood, tall and bare, alongside. They hadno room for gardens or even for little green side-yards where onemight spend a summer evening. The Corporation, as this compact villagewas called by those who lived in it, was small but solid; you fanciedyourself in the heart of a large town when you stood mid-way of one ofits short streets, but from the street's end you faced a wide greenfarming country. On spring and summer Sundays, groups of the youngfolks of the Corporation would stray out along the country roads, butit was very seldom that any of the older people went. On the whole, itseemed as if the closer you lived to the mill-yard gate, the better.You had more time to loiter on a summer morning, and there was lessdistance to plod through the winter snows and rains. The last strokeof the bell saw almost everybody within the mill doors.There were always fluffs of cotton in the air like great white beesdrifting down out of the picker chimney. They lodged in the crampedand dingy elms and horse-chestnuts which a former agent had plantedalong the streets, and the English sparrows squabbled over them ineaves-corners and made warm, untidy great nests that would havecontented an Arctic explorer. Somehow the Corporation homes lookedlike make-believe houses or huge stage-properties, they had so littleindividuality or likeness to the old-fashioned buildings that madehomes for people out on the farms. There was more homelikeness in thesparrows' nests, or even the toylike railroad station at the end ofthe main street, for that was warmed by steam, and the station-master'swife, thriftily taking advantage of the steady heat, brought herhouse-plants there and kept them all winter on the broad window-sills.The Corporation had followed the usual fortunes of New Englandmanufacturing villages. Its operatives were at first eager young menand women from the farms near by, these being joined quickly by paleEnglish weavers and spinners, with their hearty-looking wives and rosychildren; then came the flock of Irish families, poorer and simplerthan the others but learning the work sooner, and gayer-hearted; nowthe Canadian-French contingent furnished all the new help, and stoodin long rows before the noisy looms and chattered in their odd,excited fashion. They were quicker-fingered, and were willing to workcheaper than any other workpeople yet.There were remnants of each of these human tides to be found as onelooked about the mills. Old Henry Dow, the overseer of the cloth-hall,was a Lancashire man and some of his grandchildren had risen to wealthand prominence in another part of the country, while he kept steadilyon with his familiar work and authority. A good many elderly Irishmenand women still kept their places; everybody knew the two oldsweepers, Mary Cassidy and Mrs. Kilpatrick, who were looked upon aspillars of the Corporation. They and their compatriots always heldloyally together and openly resented the incoming of so many French.You would never have thought that the French were for a momentconscious of being in the least unwelcome. They came gayly into churchand crowded the old parishioners of St. Michael's out of their pews,as on week-days they took their places at the looms. Hardly one of theold parishioners had not taken occasion to speak of such aggressionsto Father Daley, the priest, but Father Daley continued to look uponthem all as souls to be saved and took continual pains to rub up therusty French which he had nearly forgotten, in order to preach aspecial sermon every other Sunday. This caused old Mary Cassidy toshake her head gravely."Mis' Kilpatrick, ma'am," she said one morning. "Faix, they ain'tfolks at all, 'tis but a pack of images they do be, with all theirchatter like birds in a hedge.""Sure then, the holy Saint Francis himself was after saying that thelittle birds was his sisters," answered Mrs. Kilpatrick, a godly oldwoman who made the stations every morning, and was often seen readinga much-handled book of devotion. She was moreover always ready with afriendly joke."They ain't the same at all was in them innocent times, when there wasplenty saints living in the world," insisted Mary Cassidy. "Look atthem thrash, now!"The old sweeping-women were going downstairs with their brooms. It wasalmost twelve o'clock, and like the old dray-horses in the mill yardthey slackened work in good season for the noonday bell. Three gayyoung French girls ran downstairs past them; they were let out for theafternoon and were hurrying home to dress and catch the 12:40 train tothe next large town."That little one is Meshell's daughter; she's a nice child too, veryquiet, and has got more Christian tark than most," said Mrs.Kilpatrick. "They live overhead o' me. There's nine o' themselves inthe two rooms; two does be boarders.""Those upper rooms bees very large entirely at Fitzgibbon's," saidMary Cassidy with unusual indulgence."'Tis all the company cares about is to get a good rent out of thepay. They're asked every little while by honest folks 'on't they builda trifle o' small houses beyond the church up there, but no, they'drather the money and kape us like bees in them old hives. Sure inwinter we're better for having the more fires, but summer is thepinance!""They all says 'why don't folks build their own houses'; they doesalways be talking about Mike Callahan and how well he saved up andowns a pritty place for himself convanient to his work. You might tellthem he'd money left him by a brother in California till you'd beblack in the face, they'd stick to it 'twas in the picker he earnt itfrom themselves," grumbled Mary Cassidy."Them French spinds all their money on their backs, don't they?"suggested Mrs. Kilpatrick, as if to divert the conversation fromdangerous channels. "Look at them three girls now, off to Spincer withtheir fortnight's pay in their pocket!""A couple o' onions and a bag o' crackers is all they want and a pincho' lard to their butter," pronounced Mary Cassidy with scorn. "Thewhole town of 'em 'on't be the worse of a dollar for steak the weekround. They all go back and buy land in Canada, they spend no moneyhere. See how well they forget their pocketbooks every Sunday for thecollection. They do be very light too, they've more laugh thanourselves. 'Tis myself's getting old anyway, I don't laugh much now.""I like to see a pritty girl look fine," said Mrs. Kilpatrick. "No,they don't be young but once--"The mill bell rang, and there was a moment's hush of the jarring,racketing machinery and a sudden noise of many feet trampling acrossthe dry, hard pine floors. First came an early flight of boys burstingout of the different doors, and chasing one another down the windingstairs two steps at a time. The old sweepers, who had not quitereached the bottom, stood back against the wall for safety's sakeuntil all these had passed, then they kept on their careful way, thecrowd passing them by as if they were caught in an eddy of the stream.Last of all they kept sober company with two or three lame persons anda cheerful delayed little group of new doffers, the children whominded bobbins in the weave-room and who were young enough to be tiredand even timid. One of these doffers, a pale, pleasant-looking child,was all fluffy with cotton that had clung to her little dark plaiddress. When Mrs. Kilpatrick spoke to her she answered in a hoarsevoice that appealed to one's sympathy. You felt that the hot room anddry cotton were to blame for such hoarseness; it had nothing to dowith the weather."Where are you living now, Maggie, dear?" the old woman asked."I'm in Callahan's yet, but they won't keep me after to-day," said thechild. "There's a man wants to get board there, they're changing roundin the rooms and they've no place for me. Mis' Callahan couldn't keepme 'less I'd get my pay raised."Mrs. Kilpatrick gave a quick glance at Mary Cassidy. "Come home withme then, till yez get a bite o' dinner, and we'll talk about it," shesaid kindly to the child. "I'd a wish for company the day."The two old companions had locked their brooms into a three-corneredcloset at the stair-foot and were crossing the mill yard together.They were so much slower than the rest that they could only see thevery last of the crowd of mill people disappearing along the streetsand into the boarding-house doors. It was late autumn, the elms werebare, one could see the whole village of Farley, all its poverty andlack of beauty, at one glance. The large houses looked as if theybelonged to a toy village, and had been carefully put in rows by achildish hand; it was easy to lose all sense of size in looking atthem. A cold wind was blowing bits of waste and paper high into theair; now and then a snowflake went swiftly by like a courier ofwinter. Mary Cassidy and Mrs. Kilpatrick hugged their old woolenshawls closer about their round shoulders, and the little girlfollowed with short steps alongside.
II.The agent of the mills was a single man, keen and business-like, butquietly kind to the people under his charge. Sometimes, in times ofpeace, when one looks among one's neighbors wondering who would makethe great soldiers and leaders if there came a sudden call to war, oneknows with a flash of recognition the presence of military genius insuch a man as he. The agent spent his days in following what seemedto many observers to be only a dull routine, but all his steadiness ofpurpose, all his simple intentness, all his gifts of strategy andpowers of foresight, and of turning an interruption into anopportunity, were brought to bear upon this dull routine with a keenpleasure. A man in his place must know not only how to lead men, buthow to make the combination of their force with the machinery take itsplace as a factor in the business of manufacturing. To master workmenand keep the mills in running order and to sell the goods successfullyin open market is as easy to do badly as it is difficult to do well.The agent's father and mother, young people who lived for a short timein the village, had both died when he was only three years old, andbetween that time and his ninth year he had learned almost everythingthat poverty could teach, being left like little Maggie to the mercyof his neighbors. He remembered with a grateful heart those who weregood to him, and told him of his mother, who had married for love butunwisely. Mrs. Kilpatrick was one of these old friends, who said thathis mother was a lady, but even Mrs. Kilpatrick, who was a walkinghistory of the Corporation, had never known his mother's maiden name,much less the place of her birth. The first great revelation of lifehad come when the nine-years-old boy had money in his hand to pay hisboard. He was conscious of being looked at with a difference; the verywoman who had been hardest to him and let him mind her babies all themorning when he, careful little soul, was hardly more than a babyhimself, and then pushed him out into the hungry street at dinnertime, was the first one who beckoned him now, willing to make the mostof his dollar and a quarter a week. It seemed easy enough to rise fromuttermost poverty and dependence to where one could set his mind uponthe highest honor in sight, that of being agent of the mills, or towork one's way steadily to where such an honor was grasped atthirty-two. Every year the horizon had set its bounds wider and wider,until the mills of Farley held but a small place in the manufacturingworld. There were offers enough of more salary and higher positionfrom those who came to know the agent, but he was part of Farleyitself, and had come to care deeply about his neighbors, while alarger mill and salary were not exactly the things that could tempthis ambition. It was but a lonely life for a man in the old agent'squarters where one of the widows of the Corporation, a woman who hadbeen brought up in a gentleman's house in the old country, kept housefor him with a certain show of propriety. Ever since he was a boy hisroom was never without its late evening light, and books and hardstudy made his chief companionship.As Mrs. Kilpatrick went home holding little Maggie by the hand thatwindy noon, the agent was sitting in the company's counting-room withone of the directors and largest stockholders, and they were justending a long talk about the mill affairs. The agent was about fortyyears old now and looked fifty. He had a pleasant smile, but one sawit rarely enough, and just now he looked more serious than usual."I am very glad to have had this long talk with you," said the olddirector. "You do not think of any other recommendations to be made atthe meeting next week?"The agent grew a trifle paler and glanced behind him to be sure thatthe clerks had gone to dinner."Not in regard to details," he answered gravely. "There is one thingwhich I see to be very important. You have seen the books, and areclear that nine per cent. dividend can easily be declared?""Very creditable, very creditable," agreed the director; he hadrecognized the agent's ability from the first and always upheld himgenerously. "I mean to propose a special vote of thanks for yourmanagement. There isn't a minor corporation in New England that standsso well to-day."The agent listened. "We had some advantages, partly by accident andpartly by lucky foresight," he acknowledged. "I am going to ask yourbacking in something that seems to me not only just but important. Ihope that you will not declare above a six per cent. dividend at thatdirectors' meeting; at the most, seven per cent.," he said."What, what!" exclaimed the listener. "No, sir!"The agent left his desk-chair and stood before the old director as ifhe were pleading for himself. A look of protest and disappointmentchanged the elder man's face and hardened it a little, and the agentsaw it."You know the general condition of the people here," he explainedhumbly. "I have taken great pains to keep hold of the best that havecome here; we can depend upon them now and upon the quality of theirwork. They made no resistance when we had to cut down wages two yearsago; on the contrary, they were surprisingly reasonable, and you knowthat we shut down for several weeks at the time of the alterations. Wehave never put their wages back as we might easily have done, and Ihappen to know that a good many families have been able to save littleor nothing. Some of them have been working here for three generations.They know as well as you and I and the books do when the mills aremaking money. Now I wish that we could give them the ten per cent.back again, but in view of the general depression perhaps we can't dothat except in the way I mean. I think that next year we're going tohave a very hard pull to get along, but if we can keep back three percent., or even two, of this dividend we can not only manage to get onwithout a shut-down or touching our surplus, which is quite smallenough, but I can have some painting and repairing done in thetenements. They've needed it for a long time--"The old director sprang to his feet. "Aren't the stockholders going tohave any rights then?" he demanded. "Within fifteen years we have hadthree years when we have passed our dividends, but the operativesnever can lose a single day's pay!""That was before my time," said the agent, quietly. "We have averagednearly six and a half per cent. a year taking the last twenty yearstogether, and if you go back farther the average is even larger. Thishas always been a paying property; we've got our new machinery now,and everything in the mills themselves is just where we want it. Ilook for far better times after this next year, but the market isglutted with goods of our kind, and nothing is going to be gained bycut-downs and forcing lower-cost goods into it. Still, I can keepthings going one way and another, making yarn and so on," he saidpleadingly. "I should like to feel that we had this extra surplus. Ibelieve that we owe it to our operatives."The director had walked heavily to the window and put his hands deepinto his side-pockets. He had an angry sense that the agent's handswere in his pockets too."I've got some pride about that nine per cent., sir," he said loftilyto the agent."So have I," said the agent, and the two men looked each other in theface."I acknowledge my duty to the stockholders," said the younger manpresently. "I have tried to remember that duty ever since I took themills eight years ago, but we've got an excellent body of operatives,and we ought to keep them. I want to show them this next year that wevalue their help. If times aren't as bad as we fear we shall stillhave the money--""Nonsense. They think they own the mills now," said the director, buthe was uncomfortable, in spite of believing he was right. "Where's myhat? I must have my luncheon now, and afterward there'll hardly betime to go down and look at the new power-house with you--I must beoff on the quarter-to-two train."The agent sighed and led the way. There was no use in saying anythingmore and he knew it. As they walked along they met old Mrs. Kilpatrickreturning from her brief noonday meal with little Maggie, whosechildish face was radiant. The old woman recognized one of thedirectors and dropped him a decent curtsey as she had been taught tosalute the gentry sixty years before.The director returned the salutation with much politeness. This wasreally a pleasant incident, and he took a silver half dollar from hispocket and gave it to the little girl before he went on."Kape it safe, darlin'," said the old woman; "you'll need it yet.Don't be spending all your money in sweeties; 'tis a very cold worldto them that haves no pince in their pocket."The child looked up at Mrs. Kilpatrick apprehensively; then thesunshine of hope broke out again through the cloud."I am going to save fine till I buy a house, and you and me'll livethere together, Mrs. Kilpatrick, and have a lovely coal fire all thetime.""Faix, Maggie, I have always thought some day I'd kape a pig and livepritty in me own house," said Mrs. Kilpatrick. "But I'm the oldsweeper yet in Number Two. 'Tis a worrld where some has and morewants," she added with a sigh. "I got the manes for a good buryin',the Lord be praised, and a bitteen more beside. I wouldn't have thatif Father Daley was as croping as some.""Mis' Mullin does always be scolding 'bout Father Daley having all thecollections," ventured Maggie, somewhat adrift in so great a subject."She's no right then!" exclaimed the old woman angrily; "she'll get noluck to be grudging her pince that way. 'Tis hard work anny priestwould have to kape the likes of hersilf from being haythensaltogether."There was a nine per cent. annual dividend declared at the directors'meeting the next week, with considerable applause from the board andsincere congratulations to the agent. He looked thinner and more soberthan usual, and several persons present, whose aid he had asked inprivate, knew very well the reason. After the meeting was over thesenior director, and largest stockholder, shook hands with him warmly."About that matter you suggested to me the other day," he said, andthe agent looked up eagerly. "I consulted several of our board inregard to the propriety of it before we came down, but they all agreedwith me that it was no use to cross a bridge until you come to it.Times look a little better, and the operatives will share in theaccession of credit to a mill that declares nine per cent. this year.I hope that we shall be able to run the mills with at worst only amoderate cut-down, and they may think themselves very fortunate whenso many hands are being turned off everywhere."The agent's face grew dark. "I hope that times will take a betterturn," he managed to say."Yes, yes," answered the director. "Good-bye to you, Mr. Agent! I amnot sure of seeing you again for some time," he added with unusualkindliness. "I am an old man now to be hurrying round to boardmeetings and having anything to do with responsibilities like these.My sons must take their turn."There was an eager protest from the listeners, and presently the busygroup of men disappeared on their way to the train. A nine per cent.dividend naturally made the Farley Manufacturing Company's stock go upa good many points, and word came presently that the largeststockholder and one or two other men had sold out. Then the stockceased to rise, and winter came on apace, and the hard times which theagent had foreseen came also.
III.One noon in early March there were groups of men and women gatheringin the Farley streets. For a wonder, nobody was hurrying toward homeand dinner was growing cold on some of the long boarding-house tables."They might have carried us through the cold weather; there's but amonth more of it," said one middle-aged man sorrowfully."They'll be talking to us about economy now, some o' them bigthinkers; they'll say we ought to learn how to save; they always beginabout that quick as the work stops," said a youngish woman angrily.She was better dressed than most of the group about her and had thekeen, impatient look of a leader. "They'll say that manufacturing isgoing to the dogs, and capital's in worse distress than labor--""How is it those big railroads get along? They can't shut down,there's none o' them stops; they cut down sometimes when they have to,but they don't turn off their help this way," complained somebodyelse."Faith then! they don't know what justice is. They talk about theirjustice all so fine," said a pale-faced young Irishman--"justice isnine per cent. last year for the men that had the money and no rise atall for the men that did the work.""They say the shut-down's going to last all summer anyway. I'm goingto pack my kit to-night," said a young fellow who had just married andundertaken with unusual pride and ambition to keep house. "The likesof me can't be idle. But where to look for any work for a mulespinner, the Lord only knows!"Even the French were sobered for once and talked eagerly amongthemselves. Halfway down the street, in front of the French grocery, aman was haranguing his compatriots from the top of a packing-box.Everybody was anxious and excited by the sudden news. No work after aweek from to-morrow until times were better. There had already been acut-down, the mills had not been earning anything all winter. Theagent had hoped to keep on for at least two months longer, and then tomake some scheme about running at half time in the summer, settingaside the present work for simple yarn-making. He knew well enoughthat the large families were scattered through the mill rooms and thatany pay would be a help. Some of the young men could be put to otherwork for the company; there was a huge tract of woodland farther backamong the hills where some timber could be got ready for shipping. Hismind was full of plans and anxieties and the telegram that morningstruck him like a blow. He had asked that he might keep the card-roomprices up to where the best men could make at least six dollars and ahalf a week and was hoping for a straight answer, but the words on theyellow paper seemed to dance about and make him dizzy. "Shut downSaturday 9th until times are better!" he repeated to himself. "Shutdown until times are worse here in Farley!"The agent stood at the counting-room window looking out at thepiteous, defenseless groups that passed by. He wished bitterly thathis own pay stopped with the rest; it did not seem fair that he wasnot thrown out upon the world too."I don't know what they're going to do. They shall have the last centI've saved before anybody suffers," he said in his heart. But therewere tears in his eyes when he saw Mrs. Kilpatrick go limping out ofthe gate. She waited a moment for her constant companion, poor littleMaggie the doffer, and they went away up the street toward their poorlodging holding each other fast by the hand. Maggie's father andgrandfather and great-grandfather had all worked in the Farley mills;they had left no heritage but work behind them for this orphan child;they had never been able to save so much that a long illness, aprolonged old age, could not waste their slender hoards away.
IV.It would have been difficult for an outsider to understand the suddenplunge from decent comfort to actual poverty in this small mill town.Strange to say, it was upon the smaller families that the strain fellthe worst in Farley, and upon men and women who had nobody to look tobut themselves. Where a man had a large household of children andseveral of these were old enough to be at work, and to put aside theirwages or pay for their board; where such a man was of a thrifty andsaving turn and a ruler of his household like old James Dow in thecloth-hall, he might feel sure of a comfortable hoard and be fearlessof a rainy day. But with a young man who worked single-handed for hiswife and a little flock, or one who had an invalid to work for, thatheaviest of burdens to the poor, the door seemed to be shut and barredagainst prosperity, and life became a test of one's power ofendurance.The agent went home late that noon from the counting-room. The streetwas nearly empty, but he had no friendly look or word for anyone whomhe passed. Those who knew him well only pitied him, but it seemed tothe tired man as if every eye must look at him with reproach. The longmill buildings of gray stone with their rows of deep-set windows worea repellent look of strength and solidity. More than one man feltbitterly his own personal weakness as he turned to look at them. Theocean of fate seemed to be dashing him against their gray walls--whatuse was it to fight against the Corporation? Two great forces were inopposition now, and happiness could come only from their serving eachother in harmony.The stronger force of capital had withdrawn from the league; theweaker one, labor, was turned into an utter helplessness of idleness.There was nothing to be done; you cannot rebel against a shut-down,you can only submit.A week later the great wheel stopped early on the last day of work.Almost everyone left his special charge of machinery in good order,oiled and cleaned and slackened with a kind of affectionate lingeringcare, for one person loves his machine as another loves his horse.Even little Maggie pushed her bobbin-box into a safe place near theoverseer's desk and tipped it up and dusted it out with a handful ofwaste. At the foot of the long winding stairs Mrs. Kilpatrick wasputting away her broom, and she sighed as she locked the closet door;she had known hard times before. "They'll be wanting me with odd jobs;we'll be after getting along some way," she said with satisfaction."March is a long month, so it is--there'll be plinty time for changebefore the ind of it," said Mary Cassidy hopefully. "The agent will bethinking whatever can he do; sure he's very ingenious. Look at him howwell he persuaded the directors to l'ave off wit' making cotton clothlike everybody else, and catch a chance wit' all these new linings andthings! He's done very well, too. There bees no sinse in a shut-downanny way, the looms and cards all suffers and the bands all slacks ifthey don't get stiff. I'd sooner pay folks to tind their work whateverit cost.""'Tis true for you," agreed Mrs. Kilpatrick."What'll ye do wit' the shild, now she's no chance of pay, any more?"asked Mary relentlessly, and poor Maggie's eyes grew dark with frightas the conversation abruptly pointed her way. She sometimes waked upin misery in Mrs. Kilpatrick's warm bed, crying for fear that she wasgoing to be sent back to the poorhouse."Maggie an' me's going to kape together awhile yet," said the good oldwoman fondly. "She's very handy for me, so she is. We 'on't part with'ach other whativer befalls, so we 'on't," and Maggie looked up with awistful smile, only half reassured. To her the shut-down seemed likethe end of the world.Some of the French people took time by the forelock and boarded themidnight train that very Saturday with all their possessions. A littlelater two or three families departed by the same train, under cover ofthe darkness between two days, without stopping to pay even theirhouse rent. These mysterious flittings, like that of the famous Tartartribe, roused a suspicion against their fellow countrymen, but after asuccession of such departures almost everybody else thought it farcheaper to stay among friends. It seemed as if at any moment the greatmill wheels might begin to turn, and the bell begin to ring, but dayafter day the little town was still and the bell tolled the hours oneafter another as if it were Sunday. The mild spring weather came onand the women sat mending or knitting on the doorsteps. More peoplemoved away; there were but few men and girls left now in the quietboarding-houses, and the spare tables were stacked one upon another atthe end of the rooms. When planting-time came, word was passed aboutthe Corporation that the agent was going to portion out a field thatbelonged to him a little way out of town on the South road, and letevery man who had a family take a good-sized piece to plant. He alsooffered seed potatoes and garden seeds free to anyone who would comeand ask for them at his house. The poor are very generous to eachother, as a rule, and there was much borrowing and lending from houseto house, and it was wonderful how long the people seemed to continuetheir usual fashions of life without distress. Almost everybody hadsaved a little bit of money and some had saved more; if one could nolonger buy beefsteak he could still buy flour and potatoes, and a bitof pork lent a pleasing flavor, to content an idle man who had nothingto do but to stroll about town.
V.One night the agent was sitting alone in his large, half-furnishedhouse. Mary Moynahan, his housekeeper, had gone up to the church.There was a timid knock at the door.There were two persons waiting, a short, thick-set man and a palewoman with dark, bright eyes who was nearly a head taller than hercompanion."Come in, Ellen; I'm glad to see you," said the agent. "Have you gotyour wheel-barrow, Mike?" Almost all the would-be planters of thefield had come under cover of darkness and contrived if possible toavoid each other."'Tisn't the potatoes we're after asking, sir," said Ellen. She wasalways spokeswoman, for Mike had an impediment in his speech. "Thechildher come up yisterday and got them while you'd be down at thecounting-room. 'Twas Mary Moynahan saw to them. We do be very thankfulto you, sir, for your kindness.""Come in," said the agent, seeing there was something of consequenceto be said. Ellen Carroll and he had worked side by side many a longday when they were young. She had been a noble wife to Mike, whosepoor fortunes she had gladly shared for sake of his good heart, thoughMike now and then paid too much respect to his often infirmities.There was a slight flavor of whisky now on the evening air, but it wasa serious thing to put on your Sunday coat and go up with your wife tosee the agent."We've come wanting to talk about any chances there might be with themill," ventured Ellen timidly, as she stood in the lighted room; thenshe looked at Mike for reassurance. "We're very bad off, you see," shewent on. "Yes, sir, I got them potaties, but I had to bake a little ofthem for supper and more again the day, for our breakfast. I don'tknow whatever we'll do whin they're gone. The poor children does beentreating me for them, Dan!"The mother's eyes were full of tears. It was very seldom now thatanybody called the agent by his Christian name; there was a naturalreserve and dignity about him, and there had come a definiteseparation between him and most of his old friends in the two yearswhile he had managed to go to the School of Technology in Boston."Why didn't you let me know it was bad as that?" he asked. "I don'tmean that anybody here should suffer while I've got a cent.""The folks don't like to be begging, sir," said Ellen sorrowfully,"but there's lots of them does be in trouble. They'd ought to go awaywhen the mills shut down, but for nobody knows where to go. Farleyain't like them big towns where a man'd pick up something else to do.I says to Mike: 'Come, Mike, let's go up after dark and tark to Dan;he'll help us out if he can,' says I--""Sit down, Ellen," said the agent kindly, as the poor woman began tocry. He made her take the armchair which the weave-room girls hadgiven him at Christmas two years before. She sat there covering herface with her hands, and trying to keep back her sobs and go quietlyon with what she had to say. Mike was sitting across the room with hisback to the wall anxiously twirling his hat round and round. "Yis,we're very bad off," he contrived to say after much futile stammering."All the folks in the Corporation, but Mr. Dow, has got great billsrun up now at the stores, and thim that had money saved has lint tothim that hadn't--'twill be long enough before anybody's free. Whinthe mills starts up we'll have to spind for everything at once. Thechildren is very hard on their clothes and they're all dropping topieces. I thought I'd have everything new for them this spring, theydo be growing so. I minds them and patches them the best I can." Andagain Ellen was overcome by tears. "Mike an' me's always beenconthrivin' how would we get something laid up, so if anny one woulddie or be long sick we'd be equal to it, but we've had great pride tosee the little gerrls go looking as well as anny, and we've workedvery steady, but there's so manny of us we've had to pay rint for alarge tenement and we'd only seventeen dollars and a little more whenthe shut-down was. Sure the likes of us has a right to earn more thanour living, ourselves being so willing-hearted. 'Tis a long time nowthat Mike's been steady. We always had the pride to hope we'd own ahouse ourselves, and a pieceen o' land, but I'm thankful now--'tis aswell for us; we've no chances to pay taxes now."Mike made a desperate effort to speak as his wife faltered and beganto cry again, and seeing his distress forgot her own, and supplied thehalting words. "He wants to know if there's army work he could get,some place else than Farley. Himself's been sixteen years now in thepicker, first he was one of six and now he is one of the four sinceyou got the new machines, yourself knows it well."The agent knew about Mike; he looked compassionate as he shook hishead. "Stay where you are, for a while at any rate. Things may look alittle better, it seems to me. We will start up as soon as anyonedoes. I'll allow you twenty dollars a month after this; here are tento start with. No, no, I've got no one depending on me and my pay isgoing on. I'm glad to share it with my friends. Tell the folks to comeup and see me, Ahern and Sullivan and Michel and your brother Con;tell anybody you know who is really in distress. You've all stood byme!""'Tis all the lazy ones 'ould be coming if we told on the poor boy,"said Ellen gratefully, as they hurried home. "Ain't he got the goodheart? We'd ought to be very discrate, Mike!" and Mike agreed by amost impatient gesture, but by the time summer had begun to wane theagent was a far poorer man than when it had begun. Mike and EllenCarroll were only the leaders of a sorrowful procession that soughthis door evening after evening. Some asked for help who might havedone without it, but others were saved from actual want. There were afew men who got work among the farms, but there was little steadywork. The agent made the most of odd jobs about the mill yards andcontrived somehow or other to give almost every household a lift. Thevillage looked more and more dull and forlorn, but in August, when atraveling show ventured to give a performance in Farley, theCorporation hall was filled as it seldom was filled in prosperoustimes. This made the agent wonder, until he followed the crowd ofworkless, sadly idle men and women into the place of entertainment andlooked at them with a sudden comprehension that they were spendingtheir last cent for a little cheerfulness.
VI.The agent was going into the counting-room one day when he met oldFather Daley and they stopped for a bit of friendly talk."Could you come in for a few minutes, sir?" asked the younger man."There's nobody in the counting-room."The busy priest looked up at the weather-beaten clock in the milltower."I can," he said. "'Tis not so late as I thought. We'll soon be havingthe mail."The agent led the way and brought one of the directors' comfortablechairs from their committee-room. Then he spun his own chairface-about from before his desk and they sat down. It was a warm dayin the middle of September. The windows were wide open on the sidetoward the river and there was a flicker of light on the ceiling fromthe sunny water. The noise of the fall was loud and incessant in theroom. Somehow one never noticed it very much when the mills wererunning."How are the Duffys?" asked the agent."Very bad," answered the old priest gravely. "The doctor sent forme--he couldn't get them to take any medicine. He says that it isn'ttyphoid; only a low fever among them from bad food and want of care.That tenement is very old and bad, the drains from the upper tenementhave leaked and spoiled the whole west side of the building. I supposethey never told you of it?""I did the best I could about it last spring," said the agent. "Theywere afraid of being turned out and they hid it for that reason. Thecompany allowed me something for repairs as usual and I tried to getmore; you see I spent it all before I knew what a summer was beforeus. Whatever I have done since I have paid for, except what they calllegitimate work and care of property. Last year I put all Maple Streetinto first-rate order--and meant to go right through the Corporation.I've done the best I could," he protested with a bright spot of colorin his cheeks. "Some of the men have tinkered up their tenements and Ihave counted it toward the rent, but they don't all know how to drivea nail.""'Tis true for you; you have done the best you could," said the priestheartily, and both the men were silent, while the river, which wasolder than they and had seen a whole race of men disappear before theycame--the river took this opportunity to speak louder than ever."I think that manufacturing prospects look a little brighter," saidthe agent, wishing to be cheerful. "There are some good orders out,but of course the buyers can take advantage of our condition. Thetreasurer writes me that we must be firm about not starting up untilwe are sure of business on a good paying margin.""Like last year's?" asked the priest, who was resting himself in thearmchair. There was a friendly twinkle in his eyes."Like last year's," answered the agent. "I worked like two men, and Ipushed the mills hard to make that large profit. I saw there wastrouble coming, and I told the directors and asked for a specialsurplus, but I had no idea of anything like this.""Nine per cent. in these times was too good a prize," said FatherDaley, but the twinkle in his eyes had suddenly disappeared."You won't get your new church for a long time yet," said the agent."No, no," said the old man impatiently. "I have kept the foundationsgoing as well as I could, and the talk, for their own sakes. It givesthem something to think about. I took the money they gave me incollections and let them have it back again for work. 'Tis well tolead their minds," and he gave a quick glance at the agent. "'Tis nopride of mine for church-building and no good credit with the bishopI'm after. Young men can be satisfied with those things, not an oldpriest like me that prays to be a father to his people."Father Daley spoke as man speaks to man, straight out of an honestheart."I see many things now that I used to be blind about long ago," hesaid. "You may take a man who comes over, him and his wife. They fallupon good wages and their heads are turned with joy. They've beenhungry for generations back and they've always seen those above themwho dressed fine and lived soft, and they want a taste of luxury too;they're bound to satisfy themselves. So they'll spend and spend andhave beefsteak for dinner every day just because they never had enoughbefore, but they'd turn into wild beasts of selfishness, most of 'em,if they had no check. 'Tis there the church steps in. 'Remember yourMaker and do Him honor in His house of prayer,' says she. 'Beself-denying, be thinking of eternity and of what's sure to come!' Andyou will join with me in believing that it's never those who havegiven most to the church who come first to the ground in a hard timelike this. Show me a good church and I'll show you a thrifty people."Father Daley looked eagerly at the agent for sympathy."You speak the truth, sir," said the agent. "Those that give most arealways the last to hold out with honest independence and the first todo for others.""Some priests may have plundered their parishes for pride's sake;there's no saying what is in poor human nature," repeated Father Daleyearnestly. "God forgive us all for unprofitable servants of Him andHis church. I believe in saying more about prayer and right living,and less about collections, in God's house, but it's the giving handthat's the rich hand all the world over.""I don't think Ireland has ever sent us over many misers; SaintPatrick must have banished them all with the snakes," suggested theagent with a grim smile. The priest shook his head and laughed alittle and then both men were silent again in the counting-room.The mail train whistled noisily up the road and came into the stationat the end of the empty street, then it rang its loud bell and puffedand whistled away again."I'll bring your mail over, sir," said the agent, presently. "Sit hereand rest yourself until I come back and we'll walk home together."The leather mail-bag looked thin and flat and the leisurely postmasterhad nearly distributed its contents by the time the agent had crossedthe street and reached the office. His clerks were both off on a longholiday; they were brothers and were glad of the chance to take theirvacations together. They had been on lower pay; there was little todo in the counting-room--hardly anybody's time to keep or even aletter to write.Two or three loiterers stopped the agent to ask him the usual questionif there were any signs of starting up; an old farmer who sat in hislong wagon before the post-office asked for news too, and touched hishat with an awkward sort of military salute."Come out to our place and stop a few days," he said kindly. "You lookkind of pinched up and bleached out, Mr. Agent; you can't be neededmuch here.""I wish I could come," said the agent, stopping again and looking upat the old man with a boyish, expectant face. Nobody had happened tothink about him in just that way, and he was far from thinking abouthimself. "I've got to keep an eye on the people that are left here;you see they've had a pretty hard summer.""Not so hard as you have!" said the old man, as the agent went alongthe street. "You've never had a day of rest more than once or twicesince you were born!"There were two letters and a pamphlet for Father Daley and a thinhandful of circulars for the company. In busy times there was oftenall the mail matter that a clerk could bring. The agent sat down athis desk in the counting-room and the priest opened a thick foreignletter with evident pleasure. "'Tis from an old friend of mine; he'sin a monastery in France," he said. "I only hear from him once ayear," and Father Daley settled himself in his armchair to read theclose-written pages. As for the agent of the mills, he had quicklyopened a letter from the treasurer and was not listening to anythingthat was said.Suddenly he whirled round in his desk chair and held out the letter tothe priest. His hand shook and his face was as pale as ashes."What is it? What's the matter?" cried the startled old man, who hadhardly followed the first pious salutations of his own letter to theirend. "Read it to me yourself, Dan; is there any trouble?""Orders--I've got orders to start up; we're going to start--I wrotethem last week--"But the agent had to spring up from his chair and go to the windownext the river before he could steady his voice to speak. He thoughtit was the look of the moving water that made him dizzy. "We're goingto start up the mills as soon as I can get things ready." He turned tolook up at the thermometer as if it were the most important thing inthe world; then the color rushed to his face and he leaned a momentagainst the wall."Thank God!" said the old priest devoutly. "Here, come and sit down,my boy. Faith, but it's good news, and I'm the first to get it fromyou."They shook hands and were cheerful together; the foreign letter wascrammed into Father Daley's pocket, and he reached for his big cane."Tell everybody as you go up the street, sir," said Dan. "I've got ahurricane of things to see to; I must go the other way down to thestorehouses. Tell them to pass the good news about town as fast asthey can; 'twill hearten up the women." All the anxious look had goneas if by magic from the agent's face.Two weeks from that time the old mill bell stopped tolling for theslow hours of idleness and rang out loud and clear for thehousekeepers to get up, and rang for breakfast, and later still forall the people to go in to work. Some of the old hands were gone forgood and new ones must be broken in in their places, but there weremany familiar faces to pass the counting-room windows into the millyard. There were French families which had reappeared with surprisingpromptness, Michel and his pretty daughter were there, and a householdof cousins who had come to the next tenement. The agent stood with hishands in his pockets and nodded soberly to one group after another. Itseemed to him that he had never felt so happy in his life."Jolly-looking set this morning," said one of the clerks whose deskwas close beside the window; he was a son of one of the directors, whohad sent him to the agent to learn something about manufacturing."They've had a bitter hard summer that you know nothing about," saidthe agent slowly.Just then Mrs. Kilpatrick and old Mary Cassidy came along, and littleMaggie was with them. She had got back her old chance at doffing andthe hard times were over. They all smiled with such blissfulsatisfaction that the agent smiled too, and even waved his hand.
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