Youth Challenges. Clarence Budington Kelland

to destroy our property, that we must have guards and police … But they shouldn't aggravate things. I went around where I could see—and I saw the police charge. I saw them send their horses smashing into that crowd—and I saw them draw back, leaving men on the pavement, … There was one who writhed about and made horrible sounds! … The mob was against us and the police were for us—but I couldn't stand it. I guess I lost my head. I hadn't the least intention of doing what I did, or of doing anything but watch … but I lost my head. I did rush up to the police, Miss Frazer, and the strikers tried to mob me. I was struck more than once … It wasn't to tell the police to charge. You must believe me—you MUST. … I was afraid they WOULD charge again, so I rushed at them. All I remember distinctly is shouting to them that they mustn't do it again—mustn't charge into that defenseless mob. … It was horrible." He paused, and shut his eyes as though to blot out a picture painted on his mind. Then he spoke more calmly. "The police didn't understand, either. They thought I belonged to the mob, and they arrested me. … I slept—I spent the night in a cell in Police Headquarters."

      Ruth was leaning over the desk toward him, eyes wide, lips parted. "Is—is that the TRUTH?" she asked; but as she asked she knew it was so. Then: "I'm sorry—so sorry. You must let me tell Mr. Dulac and he will tell the men. It would be terrible if they kept on believing what they believe now. They think you are—"

      "I know," he said, wearily. "It can't be helped. I don't know that it matters. What they think about me is what—it is thought best for them to think. I am supposed to be fighting the strike."

      "But aren't you?"

      "I suppose so. It's the job that's been assigned to me—but I'm doing nothing. I'm of no consequence—just a stuffed figure."

      "You caused the strike."

      "I?" There was genuine surprise in his voice. "How?"

      "With that placard."

      "I suppose so," he said, slowly. "My name WAS signed to it, wasn't it? … You see I had been indiscreet the night before. I had mingled with the men and spoken to Mr. Dulac. … I had created a false impression—which had to be torn up—by the roots."

      "I don't understand, Mr. Foote."

      "No," he said, "of course not. … Why should you? I don't understand myself. I don't see why I shouldn't talk to Mr. Dulac or the men. I don't see why I shouldn't try to find out about things. But it wasn't considered right—was considered very wrong, and I was—disciplined. Members of my family don't do those things. Mind, I'm not complaining. I'm not criticizing father, for he may be right. Probably he IS right. But he didn't understand. I wasn't siding with the men; I was just trying to find out … "

      "Do you mean," she asked, a bit breathlessly, "that you have done none of these things of your own will—because you wanted to? I mean the placard, and bringing in O'Hagan and his strike breakers, and taking all these ruthless methods to break the strike? … Were you made to APPEAR as though it was you—when it wasn't?"

      "Don't YOU misunderstand me, Miss Frazer. You're on the other side—with the men. I'm against them. I'm Bonbright Foote VII." There was a trace of bitterness in his voice as he said it, and it did not escape her attention. "I wasn't taking sides. … I wouldn't take sides now—but apparently I must. … If strikes are necessary then I suppose fellows in places like mine must fight them. … I don't know. I don't see any other way. … But it doesn't seem right—that there should be strikes. There must be a reason for them. Either our side does something it shouldn't—and provokes them, or your side is unfair and brings them on. … Or maybe both of us are to blame. … I wanted to find out."

      "I shall tell Mr. Dulac," she said. "I shall tell him EVERYTHING. The men mustn't go on hating and despising you. Why, they ought to be sorry for you! … Why do you endure it? Why don't you walk out of this place and never enter it again? … "

      "You don't understand," he said, with perplexity." I knew you would think I am siding with the men."

      "I don't think that—no! … You might come to side with us—because we're right. But you're not siding with yourself. You're letting somebody else operate your very soul—and that's a worse sin than suicide. … You're letting your father and this business, this Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, wipe you out as if you were a mark on a slate—and make another mark in your place to suit its own plans. … You are being treated abominably."

      "Miss Frazer, I guess neither of us understands this thing. You see this business, for generations, has had a certain kind of man at the head of it. Always. It has been a successful business. Maybe when father, and his father, were young, they had to be disciplined as I am being. Maybe it is RIGHT—what I have heard called TRAINING."

      "Do you like it?"

      He did not answer at once. "I—it disturbs me. It makes me uneasy. … But I can do nothing. They've got me in the groove, and I suppose I'll move along it."

      "If you would own up to it, you're unhappy. You're being made miserable. … Why, you're being treated worse than the strikers—and by your own father! … Everybody has a right to be himself."

      "You say that, but father and the generations of Footes before him say the exact opposite. … However, I'm not the question. All I wanted to do was to explain to you about last night. You believe me?"

      "Of course. And I shall tell—"

      He shook his head. "I'd rather you didn't. Indeed, you mustn't. As long as I am here I must stick by my family. Don't you see? I wanted YOU to know. My explanation was for you alone."

      Rangar appeared in the door—quietly as it was his wont to move.

       "Pardon," he said. "Your father wishes to speak to you, Mr. Foote."

      "One moment, Miss Frazer. I have some letters," Bonbright said, and stepped into his father's office.

      "Bonbright," said his father, "Rangar has just discovered that your secretary—this Miss Frazer—lives in the same house with Dulac the strike leader. … She comes of a family of disturbers herself. Probably she is very useful to Dulac where she is. Therefore you will dismiss her at once."

      "But, father—"

      "You will dismiss her at once—personally."

      A second time that day the eyes of father and son locked.

      Bonbright's face was colorless; he felt his lips tremble.

      "At once," said his father, tapping his desk with his finger.

      Bonbright's sensation was akin to that of falling through space—there seemed nothing to cling to, nothing by which to sustain himself. How utterly futile he was was borne in upon him! He could not resist. Protestation would only humiliate him. He turned slowly and walked into his own room, where he stood erect before his desk.

      "Miss Frazer," he said in a level, timbreless voice, "the labor leader

       Dulac lives in your house. You come of a family of labor agitators.

       Therefore you are discharged."

      "WHAT?" she exclaimed, the unexpectedness of it upsetting her poise.

      "You are discharged," he repeated; and then, turning his back on her, he walked to the window, where he stood tense, tortured by humiliation, gazing down upon a street which he could not see.

      Ruth gathered her book and pencils and stood up. She moved slowly to the door without speaking, but there she stopped, turned, and looked at Bonbright. There was neither dismay nor anger in her eyes—only sympathy. But she did not speak it aloud. "Poor boy!" she whispered to herself, and stepped out into the corridor.