Jane knocked at the door of her father's little office.``Are you there, father?'' said she.
``Yes--come in, Jinny.'' As she entered, he went on, ``But you must go right away again.I've got to 'tend to this strike.''
He took on an injured, melancholy tone.``Those fool workingmen!
They're certain to lose.And what'll come of it all? Why, they'll be out their wages and their jobs, and the company lose so much money that it can't put on the new cars the public's clamorin' for.The old cars'll have to do for another year, anyhow--maybe two.''
Jane had heard that lugubrious tone from time to time, and she knew what it meant--an air of sorrow concealing secret joy.So, here was another benefit the company--she preferred to think of it as the company rather than as her father--expected to gain from the strike.It could put off replacing the miserable old cars in which it was compelling people to ride.Instead of losing money by the strike, it would make money by it.This was Jane's first glimpse of one of the most interesting and important truths of modern life--how it is often to the advantage of business men to have their own business crippled, hampered, stopped altogether.
``You needn't worry, father,'' said she cheerfully.``The strike's been declared off.''
``What's that?'' cried her father.
``A girl from down town just called.She says the union has called the strike off and the men have accepted the company's terms.''
``But them terms is withdrawn!'' cried Hastings, as if his daughter were the union.He seized the telephone.``I'll call up the office and order 'em withdrawn.''
``It's too late,'' said she.
Just then the telephone bell rang, and Hastings was soon hearing confirmation of the news his daughter had brought him.She could not bear watching his face as he listened.She turned her back, stood gazing out at the window.Her father, beside himself, was shrieking into the telephone curses, denunciations, impossible orders.The one emergency against which he had not provided was the union's ending the strike.When you have struck the line of battle of a general, however able and self-controlled, in the one spot where he has not arranged a defense, you have thrown him--and his army--into a panic.Some of the greatest tactitians in history have given way in those circumstances; so, Martin Hastings' utter loss of self-control and of control of the situation only proves that he had his share of human nature.He had provided against the unexpected; he had not provided against the impossible.
Jane let her father rave on into the telephone until his voice grew hoarse and squeaky.Then she turned and said: ``Now, father--what's the use of making yourself sick? You can't do any good--can you?'' She laid one hand on his arm, with the other hand caressed his head.``Hang up the receiver and think of your health.''
``I don't care to live, with such goings-on,'' declared he.But he hung up the receiver and sank back in his chair, exhausted.
``Come out on the porch,'' she went on, tugging gently at him.
``The air's stuffy in here.''
He rose obediently.She led him to the veranda and seated him comfortably, with a cushion in his back at the exact spot at which it was most comfortable.She patted his shrunken cheeks, stood off and looked at him.
``Where's your sense of humor?'' she cried.``You used to be able to laugh when things went against you.You're getting to be as solemn and to take yourself as seriously as Davy Hull.''
The old man made a not unsuccessful attempt to smile.``That there Victor Dorn!'' said he.``He'll be the death of me, yet.''
``What has he done now?'' said Jane, innocently.
Hastings rubbed his big bald forehead with his scrawny hand.
``He's tryin' to run this town--to run it to the devil,'' replied he, by way of evasion.
``Something's got to be done about him--eh?'' observed she, in a fine imitation of a business-like voice.
``Something WILL be done,'' retorted he.
Jane winced--hid her distress--returned to the course she had mapped out for herself.``I hope it won't be something stupid,''
said she.Then she seated herself and went on.``Father--did you ever stop to wonder whether it is Victor Dorn or the changed times?''
The old man looked up abruptly and sharply--the expression of a shrewd man when he catches a hint of a new idea that sounds as if it might have something in it.
``You blame Victor Dorn,'' she went on to explain.``But if there were no Victor Dorn, wouldn't you be having just the same trouble? Aren't men of affairs having them everywhere--in Europe as well as on this side--nowadays?''
The old man rubbed his brow--his nose--his chin-- pulled at the tufts of hair in his ears--fumbled with his cuffs.All of these gestures indicated interest and attention.
``Isn't the real truth not Victor Dorn or Victor Dorns but a changed and changing world?'' pursued the girl.``And if that's so, haven't you either got to adopt new methods or fall back?
That's the way it looks to me--and we women have got intuitions if we haven't got sense.''
``_I_ never said women hadn't got sense,'' replied the old man.
``I've sometimes said MEN ain't got no sense, but not women.Not to go no further, the women make the men work for 'em--don't they? THAT'S a pretty good quality of sense, _I_ guess.''
But she knew he was busily thinking all the time about what she had said.So she did not hesitate to go on: ``Instead of helping Victor Dorn by giving him things to talk about, it seems to me I'd USE him, father.''
``Can't do anything with him.He's crazy,'' declared Hastings.
``I don't believe it,'' replied Jane.``I don't believe he's crazy.And I don't believe you can't manage him.A man like that--a man as clever as he is--doesn't belong with a lot of ignorant tenement-house people.He's out of place.And when anything or anybody is out of place, they can be put in their right place.Isn't that sense?''
The old man shook his head--not in negation, but in uncertainty.
