Youth Challenges. Clarence Budington Kelland

don't believe," said Bonbright, with utter honesty, "that I ever gave the workingman a thought till to-day. … That's why it hit me so hard, probably."

      "It hit you, eh?" said Lightener. He lifted his hand abruptly to motion to silence Mr. Foote, who seemed about to interrupt. "Leave the boy alone, Foote. … This is interesting. Never saw just this thing happen before. … It hit you hard, eh?"

      "It was the realization of the power of large employers of labor—like father and yourself, sir."

      "Was that all?"

      "At first. … Then there was a fellow on a barrel making a speech about us. … I listened, and found out the workingmen realize that we are sort of czars or some such thing—and resent it. I supposed things were different. This Dulac was sent here to organize our men into a union—just why I didn't understand, but he promised to explain it to me."

      "WHAT?" demanded Bonbright Foote VI, approaching nearer than his wife had ever seen him to losing his poise.

      "You talked to him?" asked Hilda, leaning forward in her interest.

      "I was introduced to him; I wanted to know. … He was a handsome fellow. Not a gentleman, of course—"

      "Oh!" Lightener pounced on that expression. "Not a gentleman, eh? … Expect to find the Harvard manner in a man preaching riot from a potato barrel? … Well, well, what did he say? How did HE affect you?"

      "He seemed to think the men resented our power over them. Just how correctly he stated their feeling I don't know, of course. They cheered his speech, however. … He said father had the power to buy mother a diamond necklace to-morrow, and cut their wages to pay for it—and they couldn't help themselves."

      "Well—could they?"

      "I don't know. I didn't understand it all, but it didn't seem right that those men should feel that way toward us. I want to talk to father about it—have him explain it to me."

      Lightener chuckled and turned to Mr. Foote. "I don't suppose you appreciate the humor of that, Foote, the way I do. He's coming to you for an unbiased explanation of why your employees—feel that way. … Young fellow," he turned to Bonbright again—"I could come closer to doing it than your father—because I was one of them once. I used to come home with grease on my hands and a smudge on my nose, smelling of sweat." Mrs. Foote repressed a shudder and lowered her eyes. "But I couldn't be fair about it. Your father has no more chance of explaining the thing to you—than my wife has of explaining the theory of an internal-combustion engine. … We employers can't do it. We're on the other side. We can't see anything but our own side of it."

      "Come now, Lightener, I'm fair-minded. I've even given some study to the motives of men."

      "And you're writing a book." He shrugged his shoulders. "The sort of philosophical reflections that go in books aren't the sort to answer when you're up against the real thing in social unrest. … In your whole business life you've never really come into contact with your men. Now be honest, have you?"

      "I've always delegated that sort of thing to subordinates," said Mr.

       Foote, stiffly.

      "Which," retorted Mr. Lightener, "is one of the reasons for the unrest. … That's it. We don't understand what they're up against, nor what we do to aggravate them."

      "It's the inevitable warfare between capital and labor," said Mr. Foote. "Jealousy is at the root of it; unsound theories, like this of socialism, and too much freedom of speech make it all but unbearable."

      "Dulac said they must organize to be in condition to fight us."

      "Organize," said Mr. Foote, contemptuously. "I'll have no unions in my shop. There never have been unions and there never shall be. I'll put a sudden stop to that. … Pretty idea, when the men I pay wages to, the men I feed and clothe, can dictate to me how I shall conduct my affairs."

      "Yes," said Lightener, "we automobile fellows are non-union, but how long we can maintain it I don't know. They have their eyes on us and they're mighty hungry."

      "To-morrow morning," said Mr. Foote, "notices will appear in every department stating that any man who affiliates with a labor union will be summarily dismissed."

      "Maybe that will end the thing this time, Foote, but it'll be back. It 'll be back."

      Hilda leaned forward again and whispered to Bonbright, "You're not getting much enlightenment, are you?" Her eyes twinkled; it was like her father's twinkle, but more charming.

      "How," he asked, slowly, "are we ever to make anything of it if we, on the employers' side, can't understand their point of view, and they can't understand ours?"

      Mrs. Foote arose. "Let's not take labor unions into the other room with us," she said.

      Bonbright and Hilda walked in together and immediately engaged in comfortable conversation; not the sort of nonsense talk usually resorted to by a young man and a young woman on their first meeting. They had no awkwardness to overcome, nor was either striving to make an impression on the other. Bonbright had forgotten who this girl was, and why she was present, until he saw his mother and Mrs. Lightener approach each other, cast covert glances in their direction, and then observe something with evident pleasure.

      "They seem attracted by each other," Mrs. Foote said.

      "He's a nice boy," replied Mrs. Lightener. "I think you're right."

      "An excellent beginning. Propinquity and opportunity ought to do the rest. … We can see to that."

      Bonbright understood what they were saying as if he had heard it; bit his lips and looked ruefully from the mothers to Hilda. Her eyes had just swung from the same point to HIS face, and there was a dancing, quizzical light in them. SHE understood, too. Bonbright blushed at this realization.

      "Isn't it funny?" said Hilda, with a little chuckle. "Mothers are always doing it, though."

      "What?" he asked, fatuously.

      "Rubbish!" she said. "Don't pretend not to understand. I knew YOU knew what was up the moment you came into the room and looked at me. … You—dodged."

      "I'm sure I didn't," he replied, thrown from his equilibrium by her directness, her frankness, so like her father's landslide directness.

      "Yes, you dodged. You had made up your mind never to be caught like this again, hadn't you? To make it your life work to keep out of my way?"

      He dared to look at her directly, and was reassured.

      "Something like that," he responded, with miraculous frankness for a

       Foote.

      "Just because they want us to we don't have to do it," she said, reassuringly.

      "I suppose not."

      "Suppose?"

      "I'm a Foote, you know, Bonbright Foote VII. I do things I'm told to do. The last six generations have planned it all out for me. … We do things according to inherited schedules. … Probably it sounds funny to you, but you haven't any idea what pressure six generations can bring to bear." He was talking jerkily, under stress of emotion. He had never opened his mouth on this subject to a human being before, had not believed it possible to be on such terms with anybody as to permit him to unbosom himself. Yet here he was, baring his woes to a girl he had known but an hour.

      "Of course," she said, with her soft, throaty chuckle, "if you really feel you have to. … But I haven't any six generations forcing ME. Or do you think yours will take me in hand?"

      "It isn't a joke to me," he said. "How would you like it if the unexpected—chance—had been carefully weeded out of your future? … It makes things mighty flat and uninteresting. I'm all wrapped up in family traditions and precedents so I can't wriggle—like an Indian baby. … Even THIS wouldn't be so rotten if it were myself they were thinking about. But they're not. I'm only an incident in the family, so far as this goes. … It's Bonbright