Drifting; or, The romance of an octopus, a novel of love, politics and newspaper life under the rule of the commercial trusts

Front matter

DRIFT

TH E RO^NCE OF AN OCTOPUS

M i ; » 5 n * ^ n ' * > • 1 1 r ! n T u i i n u .M n in j r; w j I » •. M 1 1 n I : f n n • 1 1 • ; i

Preface

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and trembling by the magnates and sub-magnates in control of the ‘great daily papers’ of this enlightened generation ?”

In this book the basic principles of American democracy are contrasted with socialism as well as with the despotism of commercial trusts, and it cannot be said that the New World system of popular self-government suffers in any way by the contrast.

John Lodge, the superb and amazing hero of the story, proves to be a real and terrible scourge to the oppressive trusts. He makes a herculean and winning fight against the wrongs and abominations inflicted on the long-suffering public by the particular trust that he deems the worst octupus of the time. All through the exciting period of his struggles and trials he holds tenaciously to the creed of the optimist. He makes up his mind that he is right; then he goes ahead, even to the pathetic and beautiful climax that ends the story. The revelations made in the course of his labors and triumphs are astounding and appalling.

Shopgirls, salesmen — and most of the other classes of wage-earners — students, politicians, sociologists, preachers, patriots, will find more to interest them in this book than in any work published in the last twenty years. It is a problem story in most alluring setting — the combination of the real and the ideal that represents, or should represent, the acme of attainment in the modern novel — the novel that eschews the false lights of “the spurious historicab’ and deals

PREFACE.

IX courageously but sympathetically with the stubborn facts of life under the complex civilization of the Twentieth Century. In this broad sense the book conveys in its own captivating way a great lesson. And it is a lesson that not only is a revelation but at the same is conclusive and convincing.

This is the first novel in ..which the fundamental principles of labor unions are fairly stated. It holds out the lamp of hope to all wage-earners, indicating clearly how they may accomplish their redemption. It is not a universal panacea for industrial and political ills. But it suggests certain remedial measures which are practical, not visionary, and which, so far as the publishers are aware, have never before been urged as the fair and adequate plans for dealing with the twin evils of commercial concentration and low wages — the public oppressions behind which are entrenched the industrial monopolies that quite impudently have named themselves “the business interests of the nation,” to the exclusion of the smaller business houses whose success is the only true test of the country’s prosperity.

In addition to its charm of love and mystery, thrilling incident and dramatic situation, the book has a remarkable description of the Iroquois fire — the recent theater horror having been made the setting for the great climax in the story’s last chapter; a description which, we make bold to say, is the best short description of any fire scene ever depicted, not excepting anything in the entire wide range of history or fiction.

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OR

The Romance of an Octopus

Chapter I

Blue Pigeon is a pretty little village in the flowering dells of Michigan. It is famous for its peaches and the beauty of its women. A great railroad stretching from New York to Chicago, across one-quarter of the American continent, bisects the place. In old settlers’ days the presence of the railroad led the inhabitants to believe that their squatters’ camp in the woodland clearing had an important destiny. But that was a delusion. The “great future” never came. It now seemed doubtful whether for Blue Pigeon was reserved any more important destiny than that of a mere waystation in one of the great commercial highways so aptly named the arteries of civilization.

Here, as the rays of the rising sun are burnishing the tree-tops one morning in the Indian summer, a solitary figure may be seen crouching in a corner of a great rustic seat, built high and deep and strong into an angle of the platform at the railroad station. A closer examination shows the figure to be that of a girl asleep. Beside her on the seat of birch boughs are a few bundles, the wrappers of which are ancient, discolored newspapers. As she slumbers the girl’s face is upturned towards the sun. Her left cheek is rest-

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ing in her bare brown bands, which are clasped in fin^ ger knots, intertwining five and five. Her sleep is peaceful.

It would be safe to venture a guess that the girl is waiting for a train. Her dress and shoes can be seen only imperfectly in her recumbent position, but they display unmistakable signs of recent travel by foot, or otherwise, over the country roads. A bunch of stray locks, escaping beneath the lilac colored Tam-O-Shanter on her head, shows that her hair is dark brown, verging • on the auburn, with a velvety gloss of unusual lustre. It is disheveled somewhat. Quite a few of the long, wavy tresses are swaying gently to and fro, caressed by the soft breath of October zephyrs. Her feet, which are small and well-formed, are encased in shoes that are of good quality, but by no means new. It would be sheer truth to say that the girl’s clothes were somewhat the worse for wear. In the vamp of the left shoe what appears to be a hole could be detected without any very sharp glances ; and there within the aperture might be obtained a glimpse of a rosy toe that had made its way alike through the incasements of hose and leather. Songs of birds and the humming whir of electricity on the telegraph wires now filled the air, but failed to disturb the sleeping maiden. Footsteps sounded in the distance; then drew nearer.

A young man of fine appearance and serious mien entered through the open gateway in the fence beside the platform. He passed within twenty feet of the sleeper ; but he saw her not. He walked briskly to the door of the waiting room. His hand, which was delicate and finely proportioned, sought the door knob, but his quest was vain. Entrance was barred; the door was locked. He peered through the windows, then listened and stood to see if any person was about. No sign or sound denoting the presence of anybody was detected by him.

'"Rather silly of me to have hurried at such a pace over the soggy roads hereabout,” he muttered. "I might have known that it was not yet 6 130 ; the position of the sun on the horizon might have told me; but, all the same, it was, perhaps, best to make sure not to miss this train for Chicago.”

M^th his back towards the sleeping girl he stood watching in the distance for some sign of the fast train due to arrive at this hour from the East. His hand sought his watch chain, but he remembered that his timepiece had stopped the previous night for lack of winding and that in setting it going again he had simply guessed at the hour. He now fancied he heard the whistle of the train and that he saw a thin column of gray-black smoke arising above the tall woods at a bend in the roadway. A light touch upon his arm roused him from his watchful reverie.

"If the young lady is with you and you have not your tickets you would do well to bestir yourself, sir, as this train stops only twenty seconds,” said the station agent, who arrived unseen and had taken in everything at a glance.

"What young lady ?” responded the traveler, quietly. "Ah, T see,” he added quickly, as his eyes followed

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the railroad agent's kindly but quizzical glance in the direction of the sleeping girl. “No, I regret — that is, I really have not the pleasure of her acquaintance/’

In tones scarcely above a whisper had the two men spoken, but the sleeper had been disturbed. She turned fully around, but with eyes still closed, and now was facing the two men.

They saw that she was beautiful as a flower unfolding. Her rosebud mouth was curved into the finest form of the cupid bow. Her eyelashes were long and silken ; her eyebrows finely arched ; her complexion like the peach bloom of Michigan orchard glades.

Admiration seized the beholders. Silence possessed them. Side by side they stood as if petrified, respectfully awaiting the opening of the fair one’s eyes. A shrill whistle in the distance — and the windows of a soul unsophisticated were opened wide. They disclosed round, full, kindly and innocent eyes, in hue like the azure of the heavens and equally as dreamy.

With little shrieks more musical than chiming silvery bells, the awakened one turned and hid her blushes in her bundles and her hands. But her perturbation was not for long. She heard and recognized the noise of the incoming train, and without again looking at either of the men she gathered up her bundles and the dew-soaked mantle that had served as a sheltering blanket for her graceful, lithe and willowy form as she slept.

“All aboard for Chicago,” a trainman cried.

Tickets were now being punched and put in readiness at the office window by the agent, and the two prospective passengers were waiting outside the lattice, purchase-money in hand.

From the furtive smiles of a belated porter it now became evident that there is at least one person who takes the twain to be sweethearts, eloping to avoid the anger of objecting parents. But he failed to notice that the young man stood somewhat aloof from the girl. She paid her fare and signed her name for the ticket. It was a ticket to Chicago, and the name upon it was “Algona Norwell.’’ "

As she yielded her place at the window to the other ticket purchaser he signed in a bold, rectangular hand this name : ‘‘John Lodge.”

To the clanging accompaniment of a heavy bell on the snorting engine the cry “All aboard” rang out again from the trainman’s raucous throat, only more insistent this time than before. With a swift but graceful sweep Miss Norwell reached the side of the day coach. She approached the steps. John Lodge was in advance and about to enter, but he yielded precedence to her and respectfully stepped aside. While in the attitude of waiting his demeanor was so bashful that his eyes instinctively sought the ground. There for a moment they were riveted. What his glance beheld could not have been a very shocking spectacle, but it caused a rush of blood to the young man’s head and brought a look of confusion and trouble into his face. His embarrassment would have been a mystery if this country girl had not been wearing a broken shoe.

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Chapter II

When John Lodge got aboard the train his footsteps led him, in a mechanical way, across the threshold of the car which Miss Norwell had entered. He saw her select a seat, but before she could occupy it she would have to face around toward him, as both had entered the car at the front end. Just as she was turning John turned, too. He walked from the place and entered the smoking car, which was immediately in front. It was an instinctive move for avoidance of the girFs glance, but he recalled long afterward how he felt at the time that his ruse, so impulsively adopted, had failed completely and that she then and there became aware of his interest in her and, with her woman’s intuition, had understood his retrograde movement to have its inspiration in the wish to avoid her presence. It was a case of the moth and the flame — with the moth possessing human intelligence and judgment, and therefore avoiding the flame.

In the smoking car, as he passed through, John Lodge saw a man whose face he deemed familiar. It did not take him long to satisfy himself that he was not mistaken. Mutual recognition and greeting quickly ensued, and the man to whom John had bowed, left his own seat and came forward with a pleasant smile and outstretched hand.

“Are you still engaged in newspaper work?” he asked.

“I\ot just now,” replied John. “I have been away from CJiicago for months, certain business matters having called me into the country.”

“Perhaps you don’t remember just where we met?” said the other.

“Oh, yes, I remember you perfectly well, doctor,” said John, very quietly.

“But, it may be that you remember my profession and still not know my name. Or you may have forgotten it.”

John laughed aloud as he answered:

“Well, doctor, you’re quite right: I will say frankly that your name is known to me ; but it is floating in the sea of memory and I cannot harpoon it at this moment.”

“It’s Barrett ; Wilson Hugh Barrett, Columbus Memorial Building,” said the physician, smiling suavily.

“Just so; that’s it, sure enough,” said John. “But what mind readers, you doctors are? I sometimes think that the science of medicine is advancing to a point where no secrets can be kept hidden from the eyes of the capable physicians.”

“We are all capable, all very capable, Mr. — Mr. Lodge. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, John Lodge is my name.”

“I thought so. And now, my dear young man, let me tell you, that while it may be true enough that the i8

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capable doctor is able to read other people’s minds he cannot always read his own with neatness and dispatch. You don’t suspect, I see, that it was almost as hard for me to read your name in my mind as it was for you to read mine in yours, and that in this parley, about your knowledge of my name, I have been fencing to gain time in which to read my own mind.”

“But, you see, doctor, wherein you had the advantage,” said John. “It is now quite certain that my name was in your mind to be read, whereas there is no certainty whatever that I could have read your name in my mind, if in my mind it really was.”

“Ah, you are now treading on the argumentative hair line that divides the false and true, the existent from the non-existent.”

“Then the non-existent is false?”

“Yes, the falsest thing in the world; as false as a coquette’s smiles.”

A delicate tinge of heightening color, the heraldry of a blush, now stole into John’s face. It did not escape the notice of the doctor, whose glances were sympathetic, but betrayed that he was puzzled. Perhaps the young man was unaccustomed to discussions dealing with the tender passion. A decade or so before it would not have been altogether impossible to find a youth who would blush to the ears at the mention of the word “love.” But in this present year of grace, when every schoolgirl valedictorian or baccalaureate, handles the tender passion without gloves and coldly turns over a sentiment on the dissecting slab of analytical essayism, it is indeed a rare phe-

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nonienon to find in real life a bashful youth or boy. Still it is clear to the doctor that John Lodge is bashful. In appearance and bearing he is a manly youth, with a splendid physique and a face that is both strong and handsome. In fact, it was rightly said of John, as a school and college student, that he never really knew how good-looking he was. Nor would it be safe to say that he yet knew it, or to prophesy that he ever would know.

It was now that most glorious hour of morning when the cloudless autumn sunshine floods the Eastern horizon with its golden glow. John was enraptured with the kaleidoscopic panorama of wooded scenery that he beheld from the window of the speeding train. For the moment he surrendered his soul to sublime admiration of beauteous nature, clad in the rainment and variegated foliage of a gorgeous Indian summer. With its mad rush of glorious colors, showing the purple and aureole and crimson and emerald hues of the rainbow, the fleeting landscape had allurements for his soul and senses. He hungered for closer communing with the birds and the trees and the sylvan streams.

With trembling hands he threw up the window at his elbow and his face was aglow with the joy of his young life. His finely shaped nostrils dilated and gently throbbed with the first breath of the morning air.

‘Well, well, doctor, what are you doing out here at this unholy hour of the morning, so far away from your happy hunting ground in the medical pastures of Chicago?” said a voice that drew Dr. Barrett’s

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attention from a morning newspaper in which he had been absorbed.

‘‘Glad to see you, Mr. Warren; how do you do?” said the doctor, shaking hands in a most cordial way with' a sharp-featured, keen-eyed man in the seat immediately behind his own.

“"‘I saw you from the first but noticed you were interested in other things and I would not interrupt you too hastily,” said Warren.

“But I did not see you, my word of honor for that.”

“Even if you had seen me, it would still have been all right to have ignored a poor devil of a labor agitator.”

“Why, Warren, old man, are you still distrustful and cynical, even toward your friends?”

“Toward everybody, doc, except the horny-handed son of toil.”

As he spoke the representative of labor kept his gaze quite steadily fixed upon the face of John Lodge and never looked at all at the doctor. To John it was a strange gaze, at once whimsical and quizzical, sympathetic and pathetic. It was a look that he felt was searching his very soul. But it did not cause him to wince or squirm in the least. He welcomed rather than avoided it. Instead of frightening, it fascinated. He was conscious that he had become an object of interest to a man who, whatever his faults or shortcomings, had a look of triumph and of power; of severity untempered with mercy — except perhaps for the weak and poor in his own walk of life.

When the representative of labor first made his

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presence known, the doctor was sitting face to face with John Lodge. He now left his seat and took a position vis-a-vis with Warren. In a moment the twain were engaged in a confidential chat, carried on in accents hushed almost to a whisper. John began to feel that his presence might be intrusive. With an apologetic bow to the physician he arose and went out into the morning.

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Chapter III

On the platform he halted. Almost instantly he felt he was between the fires of two pairs of eyes. For some reason, unaccountable at the time, the mere possibility of again meeting Miss Norwell face to face was a thought that fascinated him, but at the same time made him feel quite uneasy. He knew that her eyes were upon him just then. From his position he had a full view of the interior of the coach in front of him. He had caught a. glimpse of the purple Tam- O-Shanter and without permitting himself to meet the girl’s glance, he became aware that he was an object of interest to her at that moment.

From the interior of the car which he had just left, and to which his back was now turned, the eyes of Mr. Warren were, he was satisfied, watching him as closely as ever. It was a novel experience for him to find himself the object of so much curious study, and he was a trifle embarrassed and nervous in the ordeal.

With an effort he directed his attention to the manifold beauties of scenery in the country through which the train was now whirling at great speed.

Standing there on the platform he inhaled through the open window slides a most refreshing draught of air. He admired the Raphaelean purple and ihe blending emerald and scarlet tints of tree-tops and of

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fields. Occasionally a tuneful bird was twittering among the underbrush. Or perchance a farmer’s dog would get his sprinting spirits aroused and make a dash along the borders of the cornfields in a vain attempt to outrun the train. Or a blue-jay, essaying ambitious melodies, would be seen perched upon the radiant sumac braes whose crimson and garnet leaves incarnadined the tree-trunks in the background with a mirage of rare, rich coloring.

John’s cheeks were as the sumac leaves when he ventured another glance into the car ahead of him. His eyes now met those of Miss Norwell, and through the somewhat dim glass-panel of the door he saw, or fancied he saw, that she had been weeping. Her tears had' ceased to flow, but her handkerchief was still held in hand, as if she feared that there was danger of a fresh outburst. Her face now was pale, but she had a look of firmness and determination that made her remarkable beauty seem almost statuesque in its coldness and listlessness. Her glances had been furtive, but now she sat as rigid and upright as if she were inanimate. All at once she made a little lurch forward in her seat. John Lodge was startled and instinctively his hand sought the door knob of the car in which she sat. He expected her to fall upon the seat or on the floor. Judge of his surprise when he realized that she merely had changed seats and turned her back upon him !

It was not a shock to his vanity, as in his mental makeup he had very little of that dangerous quality. His brief survey of the fair one’s charms had been

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very respectful. It would be called proper and harmless by all save the ever-lessening number of maidens and swains who have been taught the ancient code that “every glance following the first one is a flirtation.’’ He knew that she could have had no just cause for offence at any look or act of his ; yet he was convinced that in turning her back on him she meant to snub him. Only that there were many other persons, several of them apparently observant men of the world, in her compartment, he probably would have stood his ground on the platform for some time longer. But he was possessed of a rarely refined and gentlemanly nature, and he withdrew in confusion from the scene.

When John Lodge re-entered the smoking car he looked for and encountered instantly the gaze of Mr. Warren. It was as enigmatical as ever. The labor agitator was still engaged in the tete-a-tete with the physician.

“Mr. Lodge, allow me to present to you Mr. Hiram B. Warren, of Chicago,” said the doctor.

John saluted Mr. Warren in a friendly way. But Mr. Warren was cold and formal. He seemed studiously polite, yet there was about him an air of reserve that John soon found was grounded on the almost universal suspicion with which not Warren alone but members of nearly all labor unions had come to regard the socalled vampire agents of the “capitalistic” press.

“Glad to meet a Chicago newspaper man; I know a great many of them,” said Mr. Warren.

“Oh, I can hardly be called a newspaper man ; I

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have been only a few months in the business/’ answered John, in a deprecating way.

“I always treat the boys of the press as well as I know how, but I make it a rule to warn them not to mix me up in any newspaper yarn, unless they first get my consent,” said Mr Warren.

'Well, you need not have any fear in that way so far as I may be meant, for I am not attached to any paper at present,” said John.

"You will be with the same vpaper though, won’t you?” said the doctor, with some concern.

"Well, I cannot say as to that, but I am not worrying,” said John.

Silence settled upon the little party. It was quite well known to the doctor how difficult it was to hold the pace in the strenuous newspaper work of the great cities, and he wondered whether this fine young man had been put outside the breastworks in a few brief months of the struggle. It seemed to him that he now remembered how this young man had been written up as a genuine hero for some noteworthy exploit performed in the work or hope of saving human lives ; and that at the time it had been told how full of pathos and anguish and humiliation had been his struggle as a raw youth in quest of newspaper work in the strange and soulless City of Chicago.

"Were you not written up about a year ago in connection with that awful disaster at sea, the burning and wreck of the steamer Felicity?” asked the doctor, addressing John.

“Why, yes, doctor. But I felt I was spoken of in

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far more laudatory terms than 1 deserved, or ever could deserve.”

“Oh, I must dissent from that view ; my recollection is that you saved many lives and risked your own life a hundred times; that in bringing others to safety you were badly burned ; that at least one of the terrific explosions aboard the doomed craft threw you into the water, hundreds of feet away from the sinking ship; that you had sunk twice and were about to be engulfed for the last time, when that fair and rich young lady of the New York Woman’s Athletic Club swam to your side and was acclaimed as a heroine saving a hero from certain death in a watery grave — ”

But before the doctor could complete his glowing tribute, as he recalled it from the reports published at the time, John had arisen quietly and was walking down the aisle of the car, with his back to the two Interested men whom he had just left.

“What a remarkable young man he Is, Warren,” continued the doctor enthusiastically. “Upon my word, Warren, he is more modest than a maiden. What a manly, noble fellow ! Almost too magnificent, too unselfish, too generous. He has talent too, — aye, very great talent as a writer. I well remember his graphic newspaper account of that awful shipwreck, in which he modestly refrained from glorifying himself, his dangers — voluntarily met and overcome — or his heroic struggles as a life-saver, while giving unstinted praise to others, whose feats, the eye witnesses said, were dwarfed utterly by his own. Mark my word for

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it, Warren, he will be heard of in our country’s history. Public sentiment has wearied of the tin gods of militarism, who, with their own horns have blown themselves into high places. It is to the unselfish youth who will risk his life a hundred times for his fellow beings, that the future generations will have to look, if the nation is to remain a democracy and escape the curse of dynastic militarism based on the oligarchy of wealth.”

“Are you not looking too far khead?” said Warren. “No doubt this youth is a fine, handsome fellow — the great, big, generous, manly sort that romantic girls want for their swains these days. But what can he or one hundred thousand like him accomplish against the oppressive power of the wealth concentrated and organized today in the hands of men with hearts of iron? He would be broken, crushed, annihilated like a fly upon an auto- wheel. That’s why I have given up all hope of seeing real industrial reforms accomplished in our time. You and I remember when a salaried man, earnii^g^ $15 a week, was a little prince of democracy, living in comfort and abundance; able to afford the luxury of having a home, a wife and children, and saving a little money for a rainy day. Now, we see that same $i5-a-week man relegated to life in a real grim Ghetto of his own. His wage is th^ same, but the Universal Industries’ Association, that cormorant absorber of all the trusts, receives all his wages in the form of payments for household supplies and for the rent of his little tenement. It’s because of the hopelessness of the present state of affairs that I have

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been trying, by any and every means, to get all I can out of the rich, so as to give it to the poor.^’

“Yes, I know that’s your way, Warren,” said the doctor, “and far be it from me to say that your strange gospel is not to be justified; but there are signs of the dawn of a better day.”

“You’ll have to show me how, doc, before I’ll believe it,” Warren interjected.