They stood in a group under the marquee while the doorman called taxicabs. Doris Humphries in her long eveningwrap with fur at the bottom of it stood so close to Charley her shoulder touched his arm. In the lashing rainy wind off the street he could smell the warm perfume she wore and her furs and her hair. They stood back while the older people got into the cabs. For a second her hand was in his, very little and cool as he helped her into the cab. He handed out a half a dollar to the doorman who had whispered “Shanley’s” to the taxidriver in a serious careful flunkey’s voice.
The taxi was purring smoothly downtown between the tall square buildings. Charley was a little dizzy. He didn’t dare look at her for a moment but looked out at faces, cars, trafficcops, people in raincoats and umbrellas passing against drugstore windows.
“Now tell me how you got the palms.”
“Oh, the frogs just threw those in now and then to keep the boys cheerful.”
“How many Huns did you bring down?”
“Why bring that up?”
She stamped her foot on the floor of the taxi. “Oh, nobody’ll ever tell me anything. . . . I don’t believe you were ever at the front, any of you.” Charley laughed. His throat was a little dry. “Well, I was over it a couple of times.”
Suddenly she turned to him. There were flecks of light in her eyes in the dark of the cab. “Oh, I understand. . . . Lieutenant Anderson, I think you flyers are the finest people there are.” “Miss Humphries, I think you’re a . . . humdinger. . . . I hope this taxi never gets to this dump . . . wherever it is we’re goin’.” She leaned her shoulder against his for a second. He found he was holding her hand. “After all, my name is Doris,” she said in a tiny babytalk voice.
“Doris,” he said. “Mine’s Charley.”
“Charley, do you like to dance?” she asked in the same tiny voice. “Sure,” Charley said, giving her hand a quick squeeze. Her voice melted like a little tiny piece of candy. “Me too. . . . Oh, so much.”
When they went in the orchestra was playing Dardanella. Charley left his trenchcoat and his hat in the checkroom. The headwaiter’s heavy grizzled eyebrows bowed over a white shirtfront. Charley was following Doris’s slender back, the hollow between the shoulderblades where his hand would like to be, across the red carpet, between the white tables, the men’s starched shirts, the women’s shoulders, through the sizzly smell of champagne and welshrabbit and hot chafing-dishes, across a corner of the dancefloor among the swaying couples to the round white table where the rest of them were already settled. The knives and forks shone among the stiff creases of the fresh tablecloth.
Mrs. Benton was pulling off her white kid gloves looking at Ollie Taylor’s purple face as he told a funny story. “Let’s dance,” Charley whispered to Doris. “Let’s dance all the time.”
Charley was scared of dancing too tough so he held her a little away from him. She had a way of dancing with her eyes closed. “Gee, Doris, you are a wonderful dancer.” When the music stopped the tables and the cigarsmoke and the people went on reeling a little round their heads. Doris was looking up at him out of the corners of her eyes. “I bet you miss the French girls, Charley. How did you like the way the French girls danced, Charley?”
“Terrible.”
At the table they were drinking champagne out of breakfast coffee-cups. Ollie had had two bottles sent up from the club by a messenger. When the music started again Charley had to dance with Mrs. Benton, and then with the other lady, the one with the diamonds and the spare tire round her waist. He and Doris only had two more dances together. Charley could see the others wanted to go home because Ollie was getting too tight. He had a flask of rye on his hip and a couple of times had beckoned Charley out to have a swig in the cloakroom with him. Charley tongued the bottle each time because he was hoping he’d get a chance to take Doris home.
When they got outside it turned out she lived in the same block as the Bentons did; Charley cruised around on the outside of the group while the ladies were getting their wraps on before going out to the taxicab, but he couldn’t get a look from her. It was just, “Goodnight, Ollie dear, goodnight, Lieutenant Anderson,” and the doorman slamming the taxi door. He hardly knew which of the hands he had shaken had been hers.
Newsreel XLV
’Twarn’t for powder and for storebought hair
De man I love would not gone nowhere
if one should seek a simple explanation of his career it would doubtless be found in that extraordinary decision to forsake the ease of a clerkship for the wearying labor of a section hand. The youth who so early in life had so much of judgment and willpower could not fail to rise above the general run of men. He became the intimate of bankers
St. Louis woman wid her diamon’ rings
Pulls dat man aroun’ by her apron strings
Tired of walking, riding a bicycle or riding in streetcars, he is likely to buy a Ford.
DAYLIGHT HOLDUP SCATTERS CROWD
Just as soon as his wife discovers that every Ford is like every other Ford and that nearly everyone has one, she is likely to influence him to step into the next social group, of which the Dodge is the most conspicuous example.
DESPERATE REVOLVER BATTLE FOLLOWS
The next step comes when daughter comes back from college and the family moves into a new home. Father wants economy. Mother craves opportunity for her children, daughter desires social prestige and son wants travel, speed, get-up-and-go.
MAN SLAIN NEAR HOTEL MAJESTIC
BY THREE FOOTPADS
I hate to see de evenin sun go down
Hate to see de evenin sun go down
Cause my baby he done lef’ dis town
such exploits may indicate a dangerous degree of bravado but they display the qualities that made a boy of high school age the acknowledged leader of a gang that has been a thorn in the side of the State of
The American Plan
Frederick Winslow Taylor (they called him Speedy Taylor in the shop) was born in Germantown, Pennsylvania, the year of Buchanan’s election. His father was a lawyer, his mother came from a family of New Bedford whalers; she was a great reader of Emerson, belonged to the Unitarian Church and the Browning Society. She was a fervent abolitionist and believed in democratic manners; she was a housekeeper of the old school, kept everybody busy from dawn till dark. She laid down the rules of conduct:
selfrespect, selfreliance, selfcontrol
and a cold long head for figures.
But she wanted her children to appreciate the finer things so she took them abroad for three years on the Continent, showed them cathedrals, grand opera, Roman pediments, the old masters under their brown varnish in their great frames of tarnished gilt.
Later Fred Taylor was impatient of these wasted years, stamped out of the room when people talked about the finer things; he was a testy youngster, fond of practical jokes and a great hand at rigging up contraptions and devices.
At Exeter he was head of his class and captain of the ballteam, the first man to pitch overhand. (When umpires complained that overhand pitching wasn’t in the rules of the game, he answered that it got results.)
As a boy he had nightmares, going to bed was horrible for him; he thought they came from sleeping on his back. He made himself a leather harness with wooden pegs that stuck into his flesh when he turned over. When he was grown he slept in a chair or in bed in a sitting position propped up with pillows. All his life he suffered from sleeplessness.
He was a crackerjack tennisplayer. In 1881, with his friend Clark, he won the National Doubles Championship. (He used a spoon-shaped racket of his own design.)
At school he broke down from overwork, his eyes went back on him. The doctor suggested manual labor. So instead of going to Harvard he went into the machineshop of a small pumpmanufacturing concern, owned by a friend of the family’s, to learn the trade of patternmaker and machinist. He learned to handle a lathe and to dress and cuss like a workingman.
Fred Taylor never smoked tob
acco or drank liquor or used tea or coffee; he couldn’t understand why his fellow-mechanics wanted to go on sprees and get drunk and raise Cain Saturday nights. He lived at home, when he wasn’t reading technical books he’d play parts in amateur theatricals or step up to the piano in the evening and sing a good tenor in A Warrior Bold or A Spanish Cavalier.
He served his first year’s apprenticeship in the machineshop without pay; the next two years he made a dollar and a half a week, the last year two dollars.
Pennsylvania was getting rich off iron and coal. When he was twentytwo, Fred Taylor went to work at the Midvale Iron Works. At first he had to take a clerical job, but he hated that and went to work with a shovel. At last he got them to put him on a lathe. He was a good machinist, he worked ten hours a day and in the evenings followed an engineering course at Stevens. In six years he rose from machinist’s helper to keeper of toolcribs to gangboss to foreman to mastermechanic in charge of repairs to chief draftsman and director of research to chief engineer of the Midvale Plant.
The early years he was a machinist with the other machinists in the shop, cussed and joked and worked with the rest of them, soldiered on the job when they did. Mustn’t give the boss more than his money’s worth. But when he got to be foreman he was on the management’s side of the fence, gathering in on the part of those on the management’s side all the great mass of traditional knowledge which in the past has been in the heads of the workmen and in the physical skill and knack of the workman. He couldn’t stand to see an idle lathe or an idle man.
Production went to his head and thrilled his sleepless nerves like liquor or women on a Saturday night. He never loafed and he’d be damned if anybody else would. Production was an itch under his skin.
He lost his friends in the shop; they called him niggerdriver. He was a stockily built man with a temper and a short tongue.
I was a young man in years but I give you my word I was a great deal older than I am now, what with the worry, meanness and contemptibleness of the whole damn thing. It’s a horrid life for any man to live not being able to look any workman in the face without seeing hostility there, and a feeling that every man around you is your virtual enemy.
That was the beginning of the Taylor System of Scientific Management.
He was impatient of explanations, he didn’t care whose hide he took off in enforcing the laws he believed inherent in the industrial process.
When starting an experiment in any field question everything, question the very foundations upon which the art rests, question the simplest, the most selfevident, the most universally accepted facts; prove everything,
except the dominant Quaker Yankee (the New Bedford skippers were the greatest niggerdrivers on the whaling seas) rules of conduct. He boasted he’d never ask a workman to do anything he couldn’t do.
He devised an improved steamhammer; he standardized tools and equipment, he filled the shop with college students with stopwatches and diagrams, tabulating, standardizing. There’s the right way of doing a thing and the wrong way of doing it; the right way means increased production, lower costs, higher wages, bigger profits: the American plan.
He broke up the foreman’s job into separate functions, speedbosses, gangbosses, timestudy men, orderofwork men.
The skilled mechanics were too stubborn for him, what he wanted was a plain handyman who’d do what he was told. If he was a firstclass man and did firstclass work Taylor was willing to let him have firstclass pay; that’s where he began to get into trouble with the owners.
At thirtyfour he married and left Midvale and took a flyer for the big money in connection with a pulpmill started in Maine by some admirals and political friends of Grover Cleveland’s;
the panic of ’93 made hash of that enterprise,
so Taylor invented for himself the job of Consulting Engineer in Management and began to build up a fortune by careful investments.
The first paper he read before the American Society of Mechanical Engineers was anything but a success, they said he was crazy. I have found, he wrote in 1909, that any improvement is not only opposed but aggressively and bitterly opposed by the majority of men.
He was called in by Bethlehem Steel. It was in Bethlehem he made his famous experiments with handling pigiron; he taught a Dutchman named Schmidt to handle fortyseven tons instead of twelve and a half tons of pigiron a day and got Schmidt to admit he was as good as ever at the end of the day.
He was a crank about shovels, every job had to have a shovel of the right weight and size for that job alone; every job had to have a man of the right weight and size for that job alone; but when he began to pay his men in proportion to the increased efficiency of their work,
the owners who were a lot of greedy smalleyed Dutchmen began to raise Hail Columbia; when Schwab bought Bethlehem Steel in 1901
Fred Taylor
inventor of efficiency
who had doubled the production of the stampingmill by speeding up the main lines of shafting from ninetysix to twohundred and twentyfive revolutions a minute
was unceremoniously fired.
After that Fred Taylor always said he couldn’t afford to work for money.
He took to playing golf (using golfclubs of his own design), doping out methods for transplanting huge boxtrees into the garden of his home.
At Boxly in Germantown he kept open house for engineers, factorymanagers, industrialists;
he wrote papers,
lectured in colleges,
appeared before a congressional committee,
everywhere preached the virtues of scientific management and the Barth slide rule, the cutting down of waste and idleness, the substitution for skilled mechanics of the plain handyman (like Schmidt the pigiron handler) who’d move as he was told
and work by the piece:
production;
more steel rails more bicycles more spools of thread more armorplate for battleships more bedpans more barbedwire more needles more lightningrods more ballbearings more dollarbills;
(the old Quaker families of Germantown were growing rich, the Pennsylvania millionaires were breeding billionaires out of iron and coal)
production would make every firstclass American rich who was willing to work at piecework and not drink or raise Cain or think or stand mooning at his lathe.
Thrifty Schmidt the pigiron handler can invest his money and get to be an owner like Schwab and the rest of the greedy smalleyed Dutchmen and cultivate a taste for Bach and have hundredyearold boxtrees in his garden at Bethlehem or Germantown or Chestnut Hill,
and lay down the rules of conduct;
the American plan.
But Fred Taylor never saw the working of the American plan;
in 1915 he went to the hospital in Philadelphia suffering from a breakdown.
Pneumonia developed; the nightnurse heard him winding his watch;
on the morning of his fiftyninth birthday, when the nurse went into his room to look at him at fourthirty,
he was dead with his watch in his hand.
Newsreel XLVI
these are the men for whom the rabid lawless, anarchistic element of society in this country has been laboring ever since sentence was imposed, and of late they have been augmented by many good lawabiding citizens who have been misled by the subtle arguments of those propagandists
The times are hard and the wages low
Leave her Johnny leave her
The bread is hard and the beef is salt
It’s time for us to leave her
BANKERS HAIL ERA OF EXPANSION
PROSPERITY FOR ALL SEEN ASSURED
Find German Love of Caviar a Danger to Stable Money
EX-SERVICE MEN DEMAND JOBS
No one knows
No one cares if I’m weary
Oh how soon they forgot Château-Thierry
WE FEEL VERY FRIENDLY TOWARDS THE
TYPEWRITER USERS OF NEW YORK CITY
JOBLESS RIOT AT AGENCY
Ships in de
oceans
Rocks in de sea
Blond-headed woman
Made a fool outa me
The Camera Eye (43)
throat tightens when the redstacked steamer churning the faintlyheaving slatecolored swell swerves shaking in a long green-marbled curve past the red lightship
spine stiffens with the remembered chill of the offshore Atlantic
and the jag of framehouses in the west above the invisible land and spiderweb rollercoasters and the chewinggum towers of Coney and the freighters with their stacks way aft and the blur beyond Sandy Hook
and the smell of saltmarshes warmclammysweet
remembered bays silvery inlets barred with trestles
the put put before day of a gasolineboat way up the creek
raked masts of bugeyes against straight tall pines on the shell-white beach
Big Money Page 3
