Joe Wegg is reported to have said: “Neighbors, this electric plant is no plaything. It is going to give you all better light, at no more cost to you than kerosene. But it will do more than that: it will run machinery of all kinds better than steam will. You’ve seen electricity running the newspaper press, and the same current has operated the big paper mills at Royal. Here in this audience is a gentleman from Connecticut who has accepted my invitation to look over our village with a view to building a factory here, using the power I shall hereafter be able to furnish. I am in correspondence with two other manufacturers, whom I hope to induce to locate in Millville. (Enthusiastic cheers.) Job Fisher, who used to live at Malvern, is planning to start a lumber mill, to cut the pine just north of here; so you see we are about to arouse from our long sleep and have a great future before us if we keep wide awake. Another item of news merits your attention. Bartlett has sold sixty acres of his farm to Dr. Adam Matthews, for many years a prominent physician of Boston, who is going to build a good house on the land and become a citizen of Millville. We’ve always had to go to Huntingdon for a doctor, but now Dr. Matthews has promised to look after the health of the Millville people, although he has retired from city practice. More people will come here from time to time, attracted by our enterprise and the rugged beauty of our county; real estate will become more valuable, trade will prosper and every one of the old inhabitants will find opportunities to make money.” (Great applause.)
A general discussion followed concerning the “doin’s of Joe Wegg” and the prophecies he had made. Opinion seemed divided as to whether the promised “boom” was desirable for Millville or not. Some of the good villagers were averse to personal activity and feared the new order of things might disturb their comfort; in others a mild ambition had been awakened. But while they feasted at Mr. Merrick’s expense and gravely canvassed the situation, the newly installed electric lights suddenly failed. Darkness fell upon the assemblage and there was an awed hush until Sam Cotting lighted the old reliable kerosene lamps.
Joe Wegg was as much astonished as anyone.
“There has been an accident to the machinery,” he said to Mr. Merrick.
“I’ll run over to the mill and see what has happened.”
“I will go with you,” said Arthur Weldon, and Major Doyle also decided to accompany the young man.
Uncle John and his three nieces remained in the hall, and Mr. Merrick took occasion to make a little speech in which he explained that a hitch in the working of the electric plant was liable to happen at first, but after a few days the dynamos could be fully depended upon.
He had scarcely finished this explanation when Arthur came running back into the hall in much excitement. He approached Mr. Merrick and said in a low voice:
“The machinery is all right, sir. Some one has cut the wires.”
“Cut the wires!”
“Yes. Joe thinks it’s the work of the mill hands. The wires are cut in all directions, and several of the men from Royal have been seen loitering around by Cox and Booth, the detectives.”
The girls overheard this assertion, and Patsy exclaimed:
“I’m going to the office, to make sure our power hasn’t been tampered with.”
The meeting broke up at once and the villagers trooped out to investigate. Mr. Merrick and Arthur walked with the girls to the printing office, where they found Thursday Smith and Hetty working by the light of tallow candles.
“The power is off,” said Smith quietly.
“Then the wire from Royal has also been cut,” said Patsy. “What shall we do? His paper must come out to-morrow morning, in spite of anything and everything!”
“Do you know who cut the wires?” inquired Thursday.
“We think the mill hands must have done it.”
“Not with Skeelty’s consent, I’ll be bound,” said Mr. Merrick. “The manager is too fearful of a damage suit to play any tricks.”
“A cut wire may be repaired,” suggested the pressman, and even as he spoke Joe Wegg came in, accompanied by the two detectives and the major.
“Cox has interviewed one of the workmen from Royal,” said Joe, “and the fellow says there’s a strike at the mill and everything is closed down. Skeelty is barricaded in his office building, wild with fear, for the men have captured the company’s store and helped themselves to the stock of liquors. The man Cox spoke with, who seems to be a well disposed fellow, predicts all kinds of trouble, and perhaps rioting, before this thing is ended.”
They listened to this report in amazement.
“I conjecture,” said the major, “that the rascally manager has given his men too much leeway. He’s encouraged them in mischief until they’ve taken the bit between their teeth and turned against even their master. I have no personal acquaintance with the villain, but I imagine it serves him right.”
“But, dear me!” cried Patsy, wringing her hands; “what’ll become of the paper? It’s nearly ten o’clock now.”
Thursday turned to Joe Wegg.
“Can’t we connect our supply wire with your new plant, so as to use your power?” he asked.
“Easily. An hour’s work will serve to make the connection. But unless we watch the wire every minute those fellows will cut it again. The town’s full of the rascals, and they’re not exactly sober, either.”
“Watch the wire; that’s the idea,” said Uncle John. “It’s only a short distance to the mill, and I’m sure the villagers will volunteer for this duty.”
“Of course,” said Joe. “Major Doyle, will you mount guard over my men at the dynamos, to see they’re not interfered with, while I look after the wire?”
“Sure enough; it’ll remind me of the old war times,” said the major readily.
“Where is Arthur?” asked Louise.
“We left him at the mill.”
They left the office at once, Joe to get his line-men at work, and the major to join Weldon in guarding the dynamos. One of the detectives went with Mr. Wegg, but the other, whose name was Booth, remained to guard the printing office. Mr. Merrick now proposed that he take the girls home. Patsy and Beth refused to leave until the emergency was past, when the major and Arthur could drive them to the farm, but Louise was tired and went with Uncle John in his buggy, the surrey being left for the rest of the party to use. Arthur ran over for a moment to say everything was quiet at the mill and he did not think there would be any further trouble, and the report considerably reassured them.
CHAPTER XIX
A MERE MATTER OF REVENGE
Hetty and Thursday continued to work on the paper.
“We’ll have everything ready by the time the line is connected,” said the artist. “Then it will be but a few moments’ work to run off the edition.”
Patsy and Beth held candles for them, for the electric lights had been cut off with the power; so, seeing them all busily engaged, Arthur Weldon decided to return to the mill to join the Major. Booth sat in the front office, near the door, and in the darkness Arthur nearly stumbled over him.
“Going away, sir?” asked the man.
“Yes; I’ll see if I can be of any assistance at the mill.”
“Be careful. Those workmen have been drifting into town in squads, the last few minutes, and most of them are reckless with drink.”
“I’ll watch out,” said Arthur.
In the middle of the road a group of mill hands conversed excitedly in some foreign tongue; but they paid no attention to Weldon as he passed them. Others joined them, presently, and one began a harangue in a loud voice, to which they listened eagerly. Then Bob West slipped across from the hardware store and ran against the detective in the doorway of the printing office.
“Who’s this?” he demanded, holding the man in a firm grip.
“Booth, sir.”
“Good. I could not recognize you in this darkness. Are you armed?”
“Yes.”
“Then you and I will defend this door. Who is inside?”
�
��The pressman — Thursday Smith — and three of the girls.”
“The compositors?”
“No; they’ve gone to the hotel. Miss Doyle, Miss DeGraf, and — Hetty
Hewitt.”
West went into the hack room, which was faintly illumined by candles stuck here and there. The girls and Smith were all bending over the imposing stone, where the forms of the paper were being made up.
“Here,” said West, taking a revolver from his pocket and laying it on the table; “I’m afraid there may be an attack on this office in a few minutes, for I understand the language of those strikers and have been listening to them. If any of the mill hands attempt to break into this room don’t be afraid to shoot.”
“Why should the men wish to attack us, sir?” asked Patsy wonderingly.
“There are several reasons. They’re after Smith, for one thing. They’ve an old grudge against him to settle. Aside from the mere matter of revenge I overheard one of them telling his friends to smash the press and keep the paper from coming out, and Mr. Boglin would pay them well for the job.”
Smith carelessly thrust the revolver into his hip pocket.
“The paper will come out if Mr. Wegg gives us the power,” he said.
“Can you let me have a revolver, Mr. West?” asked Hetty.
“Could you use it?”
“I think so.”
He looked at her a moment and then took a second revolver from his pocket.
“I’ve robbed my hardware stock,” he said with a smile. “But I advise you girls to keep your hands off the thing unless a crisis arises. I don’t imagine the gang will get past me and Booth at the entrance, but if any stragglers come your way Smith has authority to drive them back. I’m justice of the peace, and I hereby appoint you all special officers of the law.”
He said this lightly, fearing to alarm the girls unnecessarily, and then passed through the doorway and joined Booth at the front.
The telephone rang and Patsy answered it.
“How soon will the forms be ready?” asked Arthur’s voice.
“In ten minutes — perhaps five,” she answered.
“We’ll have the power on in ten minutes more. Tell Smith not to lose an instant’s time in running off the edition, for we don’t know how long we can keep the line open. The strikers are threatening us, even now.”
“All right,” called Patsy; “just give us the power for a few minutes, and we’ll be through for to-night.”
She went back to Thursday and reported.
“There may be a few typographical errors, and I’m afraid it’s a bad make-up,” he remarked; “but I’ll have the thing on the press in five minutes.”
With mallet and shooting-stick he tightened the quoins, then lifted the heavy iron frames filled with type and slid them onto the bed of the press. They gave him all the light the flickering candles afforded as he adjusted the machinery, and all were bending over the press when a low, distant growl was heard, rising slowly to a frenzied shout. A revolver popped — another — followed by wild cries from the street.
The girls grew a little pale, but Thursday Smith put his hand on the lever of the press and said:
“All right. The moment they give us the current we’re ready to run.”
Patsy straightened up with a sigh of relief, then gave a low cry as the screens of the two windows of the pressroom were smashed in and through the openings men began to tumble into the room. At once Hetty confronted them with leveled revolver and the sight caused them to hesitate.
“Out o’ the way, you women!” called a burly fellow who wore a green sweater and an oilskin hat; “we don’t want to hurt you if we can help. There’s the one we’re after!” He pointed a finger at Thursday Smith.
“You can’t have him,” retorted Beth, half shielded behind the militant Hetty. “This is private property, and you’re trespassing. Unless you go away at once you will suffer the consequences.”
This defense seemed to surprise them, for they fell back a little toward the windows. At that moment, with a low rumble, the press started, moving slowly at first but gradually acquiring speed. The sight aroused the resentment of the invaders.
“Stop that press!” yelled their spokesman excitedly. “Stop it, Smith, or we’ll put both you and the machine out of business.”
Thursday paid no attention to anything but his press. The huge cylinder of white paper was unrolling, passing under the platen and emerging at the other end as neatly folded copies of the Millville Daily Tribune.
With a roar of rage the big fellow leaped forward, but at the action a shot rang out and he fell headlong almost at the foot of the press.
Beth and Patsy turned their heads an instant to glance at Hetty. The artist’s face was white and set; her eyes sparkled brilliantly; she held the still smoking weapon in readiness for another shot.
But the men were awed by the fall of their leader. They watched Beth leap to the platform beside Thursday Smith and draw his revolver from his pocket, where he had placed it. Hetty’s courage had inspired her, and Beth had handled pistols before. The men read the determined eyes fixed upon them; they noted Smith’s indifference to their threats. The defenders of the press and pressman were only girls, but they were girls evidently not afraid to shoot.
No advance was made and the tableau was dramatic. Smith watched his press with undivided attention and it clattered away at full speed until the frail building shook with its powerful, steady motion. Then suddenly it began to slow down. The power was off, and the machine came to an abrupt stop.
Thursday stepped from the platform and looked at the index of the counter.
“Four hundred and sixty-three. Twenty-two short, Miss Doyle,” he announced.
“That’ll do, Thursday.”
He came to her side, then, facing the sullen, glowering group of mill hands.
“Boys,” said he, “it won’t do you any good to interfere with us to-night. The paper for to-morrow morning is already printed, and Ojoy Boglin isn’t a big enough man to stop it, now or ever. Better go back to Royal and settle your troubles with Skeelty, for if you stay here the citizens of Millville are in the mood to shoot you down like dogs.”
They stood undecided a moment, but the argument had evidently struck home.
“What’s the matter with Harris?” asked one, pointing to the motionless form of the man in the green sweater. “Is he dead?”
“I suppose so,” answered Thursday coolly; but he stooped to examine Hetty’s victim, rolling him over so that his face was upward. “No; he isn’t hurt much, I’m sorry to say. The bullet glanced off his forehead and stunned him, that’s all. Take the brute, if you want him, and go.”
They obeyed in silence. Several stepped forward and raised the unconscious Harris, bearing him to the window, where they passed him to those without. Then they also retreated through the windows and the room was cleared.
Only then did Hetty and Beth venture to lower their weapons.
“Oh, dear!” cried Patsy, in a low, agitated voice; “I’m so glad you didn’t kill him, Hetty.”
“I’m not,” returned the artist doggedly. “He deserved death, at the least, and by killing him I’d have cheated the gallows.”
Then she glanced around at the horrified faces of her friends and burst into tears.
CHAPTER XX
DEFENDING THE PRESS
In the front room Bob West and the detective were having a busy time. At the first rush they each fired a shot over the heads of the mob, merely to let them know the place was guarded. In the darkness it was impossible for the strikers to tell how many armed men confronted them, so they fell back a little, but formed a cordon around the entire building. From the printing office to the old mill was a distance of only a few hundred feet, and every able-bodied inhabitant of Millville except Peggy McNutt and Sara Cotting — who had discreetly disappeared at the first sign of danger — was assisting Joe Wegg to protect the electric cable he was trying to connect. The men from R
oyal were scattered all along the line, peering through the dim light to discover a vulnerable point of attack but deterred from interfering by the determination of the stalwart defenders. Mobs are invariably cowardly, and this one, composed of the lowest strata of mixed American and foreign laborers, was no exception to the general rule. However, when word was finally passed along from the mill that the dynamo was running and supplying power to the printing press, a howl of rage went up and a sudden rush was made for the line, the attack concentrating at one point.
The defenders promptly grouped themselves in front of the threatened pole and Seth Davis, the blacksmith, wielding a heavy sledge hammer, did valiant service, clearing a space around him with little difficulty. Joe Wegg, Arthur Weldon, Cox the detective, Lon Taft, Nick Thome and even little Skim Clark were all in the melee, fighting desperately for time to enable Thursday Smith to work his press, using whatever cudgels they had been able to pick up to keep the assailants from the pole. Slowly, however, they were forced back by superior numbers until finally one of the mill hands clambered up the pole and cut the wire.
“Never mind,” said Arthur to Joe, as they retreated fighting toward the printing office; “I think they’ve had time to run off the edition, provided Smith was ready with the forms.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 487
