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 BROKEN 
 SHACKLES
 
 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN GORDON 
 
 "Such is man that it is reality which surprises us." 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 DORRANCE AND COMPANY, INC.
 
 COPYRIGHT, IQ20 
 BY DORfcANCE AND COMPANY, INC. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 THE PLIMPTON PRESS NOSWOOD MASS U S A
 
 THE HEWERS OP WOOD 
 
 AND 
 
 THE DRAWERS OF WATER 
 WHEREVER THEY MAY BE 
 
 2135920
 
 This is a Novel of Work; 
 
 and of the Wages of Work
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PACE 
 
 WORK 9 
 
 WASTE 71 
 
 REFINEMENT 117 
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 173 
 
 LAST WORD . 266
 
 broken Shackles 
 
 WORK 
 
 ASTHETIC souls have pried in vain for Slab 
 Fork's raison d'etre. The strictly business 
 sort, however, would have quickly touched 
 another side, seen that that side was business, and pro- 
 nounced it good. Slab Fork was only a victim of cir- 
 cumstances. Circumstances were forests, great counties 
 of them ; and a man large of pocket, small of soul. 
 The greater victim that was the Fork had shortly its 
 trifling victims: men and women, red hands, lean 
 bodies, tired feet. But they certainly did the 
 business. 
 
 The town sat at the wide-branched fork of a moun- 
 tain river which sprang from climbing hills and trav- 
 elled, swiftly first, then at an amble, to the sea. 
 Looked down at pleasantly from hilltops all about, you 
 would have claimed it "squatted" there, much more 
 than sat, for Slab Fork was the most one-storied, 
 sprawled-out sort of place man ever saw. It began 
 beside the River, and reached back in a struggling sort 
 of way to culled-pine forests. Woods choked it in 
 and hemmed it close, throwing advance-guards of trees 
 even to the Fork's back door.
 
 10 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 Great Moosehead River was a stream of much 
 vicissitude. It rose, as you of course must know, near 
 Canada. It started life as though it purposed going 
 north, then like some pretty wilful woman changed, 
 and shortly found its way on south, on by sharp peaks 
 and quiet valleys of the Adirondacks. Silver at even- 
 ing, at noon it held the color of the sky; and the woods 
 that lay about it sighed in comfort and in happiness, 
 so that at night their voices joined the noise of little 
 waves and polished stones to make the quiet places 
 glad. Its valley was a woods-set gem that Heaven 
 long ago had hall-marked beauty. 
 
 There occurred a speculator and a mill man, two in 
 one, and the timber over-night changed hands. A 
 mill screeched its siren one morning, and "Slab Fork" 
 was come to stay. Waste wood littered the forest and 
 town, slabs lay scattered about like water-lily petals 
 on a long-fouled pond; and hilled-up sawdust blown 
 around the mill formed drumlins high as that structure 
 itself, but much more vast. At that time there was no 
 insurance on the mill nor on the homes of its de- 
 pendants. The latter were not worth it, but the former 
 would not stand it. 
 
 The stream still coursed on its way. But about 
 the time that silver was well started on its struggle to 
 be free, and folks still talked of the "sixties" as though 
 they really remembered, the river had begun the man- 
 found work. Streams are not meant to play, and in 
 place of the forest came shacks upon its banks. Dams 
 stored water in the spring, then let it out again; 
 tumbled log-lengths stilled the noise of its chatter; and 
 dust from the mill and chips from the work spotted the 
 silver and dirtied the blue that sometime had lighted 
 the river. At night a deer perhaps might jeopardize 
 a life to drink its water; occasionally when snows
 
 WORK 11 
 
 were deep and foodstuffs scarce a wolf complained; 
 but gradually the wild was tamed, the land was mod- 
 ernized. The Man looked on, and saw that it was good. 
 A climbing, struggling logger's road reached hi from a 
 village fifteen miles below, one known as Mapleton and 
 built there advantageously on standard-gauge which 
 took the forest products of the hills, and carried them 
 away to other centers which altered them to dollars, 
 factories, homes. When there were any, this logging 
 railroad carried passengers upon its one trip up and 
 one trip down each day, and also mail. 
 
 Were you a passenger as it left Mapleton at dawn 
 one morning, riding in a caboose which trailed a load 
 of flats or logging empties, you would slowly and not 
 without some jerks and bounds have passed from coun- 
 try and into forest. The road ran Indian-fashion, up, 
 always up, on the sides of the hills and the ridges; and 
 the tracks below and above you looked not unlike the 
 shining folds of some huge, fairy-tale python stretched 
 out in the warmth of the sun. At the journey's be- 
 ginning, and well-nigh throughout, the forests passed 
 were only faintly reminiscent of the first, for they were 
 "skinned." Scrubby stuff now, but white pine nearly 
 all the first of them had been, the pine that housed 
 and warmed, and fortified and nourished thirteen puny 
 Colonies till they gave birth to more. Decaying butts 
 and fire-scarred, prostrate trunks of trees, disintegrat- 
 ing now and huts for squirrels, still lay about. 
 
 When the logging train had steamed to the edge of 
 a heavier forest, next thundered clear across the long 
 and slender bridge which spanned the Moosehead, 
 Slab Fork and your journey's end were reached. 
 
 An unpainted shed halted the train for passengers 
 and mail before the empties went on to the mill. A 
 shaky carryall took both to the Store. There was
 
 12 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 little formality with driver Pete. He simply spat on the 
 platform boards, picked up his sack and grunted, "Get 
 in if you're goinV 
 
 The road he took was partly built of mud, the rest 
 of sawdust. Erratically it passed by divers places 
 which revealed themselves as dry-kilns, lumber-sheds, 
 and yards. There were acres of yards, and more than a 
 few of the others, but they dropped behind as the road 
 led into the single street of a small, dun-colored town. 
 It was the residential section, "exclusive," as a cheerful 
 stranger said, "since one man owned it all." He owned 
 the houses, owned the land; he owned the school, he 
 owned the church; the Post Office and store, the rail- 
 road and saloon were his; the mills, the yards; the 
 homes, and most of those that in them dwelt. Born 
 in his huts, baptized in his church, taught in his school, 
 reared hi his town, worked in his mill or sold to his 
 saloon, they sank at last in two poor yards of ground 
 also his. You couldn't cheat. 
 
 In days bygone the owner of them all, one Holden 
 Gates of Mapleton, had sometimes summered here, 
 with many guests, and then the town perforce had 
 looked, if not attractive, at least presentable and liv- 
 able. But the cottage where the Moosehead widened 
 round an island had been cobwebbed many a year, 
 and thin-laid paint on other homes had slowly peeled 
 and flaked away. 
 
 Beyond dead rows of squat and little-windowed 
 shacks rose up tall mill-stacks and a smudgy burner, 
 both belching smoke and showering soot, to sky, on 
 neighborhood. To the left of the road there sagged a 
 building little larger than its mates. It was only 
 Social Hall. The road gave up completely at the 
 Store, Pete left you there you had Slab Fork. 
 
 If you remained so long, you saw at noon the Fork
 
 WORK 13 
 
 Hotel, so named, Jake Baker once averred, because 
 "you used your knife." There, with messes of others, 
 the traveller was served with a-plenty of "chuck." 
 Chuck was generally boiled, after the fragrant fashion 
 of the place, and it was also usually bolted. The 
 Company boasted of its food. They had a right: didn't 
 it cost them two bits per man per day? As they said, 
 and it did sound -convincing, "You can't work men on 
 an empty belly." Clerks ate one side in a sane 
 atmosphere of commonplaces, most generally climatic; 
 lumberjacks and sweating workmen bolted on the other 
 amongst a gurgling silence. Talk took time; they ate. 
 They said that if a man should stumble corning in, too 
 late to reach his place, he might as well resign his 
 mind to wait another meal. These chaps, care-free 
 of wife or shack, were hungry. To a great extent 
 they were self-helped. Some were apparently always 
 there. The night-shift rose at 6 P.M. to breakfast at 
 their fellows' supper, the latter falling into infested 
 bunks just vacant. Come Sunday, half lay on the floor. 
 So was a flop-house of the second class. 
 
 Always the mill gave up its roar, and sent out prod- 
 ucts for the New World that was building. Stacks 
 reddened by night the skies they darkened by day. 
 
 It could be wonderful, this game, man aiding man to 
 build a great America, hand touching hand and heart 
 kept close to heart to make a common land. Was it? 
 Of course not man against money; hard dollars 
 stacked against long days; a thousand builders to one 
 dweller in a house up-built by blistered hands, smashed 
 heads, and broken backs. Its utmost story felt some 
 sun perhaps; but down below, deep down, was damp- 
 ness, rot. 
 
 No man of them knew more anent Slab Fork, its 
 early, clinging forests, than old "Admirable" Rogers.
 
 14 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 No man would have told you less. Mill men, while 
 they laughed, respected the strange old fellow, not for 
 what he was or had been, but for much that still 
 survived. According to the Company his present value 
 was a dollar-and-a-half per day. He doubtless earned 
 it in the box factory in which he worked as able, when 
 neither drunk nor sick. 
 
 All, forest and mill and yards, were as tinder wait- 
 ing a match. A fire of pine-wood slabs and curly 
 shavings was the single luxury the poorest man among 
 them could afford. And they were poor. They had 
 never thought of ice, except in winter, nor sweet milk 
 once a day for babies, in the summer. A great many 
 of the babies died, but there were always plenty more. 
 Wind-leaking, dirt-floored houses were slow to take 
 the heat in winter, quick to lose it. Fires fell 
 low; sometimes you froze; but really, not often. They 
 were so poor that they were used to it. Having no 
 contrasts, they came in time to know it well, and felt 
 that it had always been. Which of course was a great 
 help, and democratic. 
 
 Families were greater than wages. Education, like 
 the teacher, "stopped around." The teacher, maybe, 
 stayed a week; the other lasted possibly three years. 
 Attendance was one to a family, and there were always 
 smaller ones to go to school. Graduates, aged nine or 
 ten, at once matriculated in the box factory. 
 
 Employment agencies outside had ever advertised 
 the "steady work" obtaining at the Fork. They said 
 little of wages, and knew what advertising meant. 
 Pay-days occurred by months, with a wait of two 
 weeks at the end of the month; that is, you were paid 
 on the 1 5th of February some eighteen cents an hour 
 for the time you had done in January, with deductions. 
 Between months, though, small coin of the Company
 
 WORK 15 
 
 was paid, albeit somewhat at a discount. It passed 
 current at the Store and "Pop's." They drew and spent, 
 and charged things. Come pay-day, and an envelope 
 which only held a notice. You had simply overdrawn, 
 somehow the charge accounts ran high. 
 
 Raises were not in vogue, much. "Take it or leave 
 it," as genial Black-jack Larrabie, the mill boss, said, 
 if by any chance your envelope held money. You were 
 grateful there wasn't less, for it was really inexpedient 
 to quit if owing money to the Store. Someone tried it 
 once, and got to Mapleton. Mapleton was the county 
 seat. The courts and jails were at Mapleton. 
 
 But credit was often extended. In the meantime 
 you worked. Twelve-hour days they were, sometimes 
 fourteen, often more, for these are the times of a real 
 man's work, not hindered by namby-pamby wage- 
 scales, double-time, time-and-a-half, or a legalized 
 limit of effort. Personal efficiency was at a discount; 
 "work and we'll do the thinking" served as the simple 
 credo. 
 
 And Myra Barnes, who taught school there and lived 
 around, was pleased to say at trying times, "They 
 have no poetry in their souls." 
 
 Yet these the breathing, moving, actual Slab 
 Fork did not in the least disconcert you, being only 
 what was expected.. They knew what sweat smelled 
 like, and how it felt to freeze, numb inches at a time, 
 in winter. The sun in its path had burned their faces, 
 when their backs were wet; the winds of winter chilled 
 and slowed the blood that in the torrid days had almost 
 burst through veins. They were the weak left hand of 
 wealth, a comic economic error. 
 
 The foreigners, and they led, wore what they had, 
 in summer for less discomfort, in winter for more heat. 
 Suits of the old, their weaker parts removed, wrapped
 
 16 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 up the young. Style was unknown. It was something, 
 sometimes anything, to wear . The native-born thought 
 some of neatness, and their economies would cause 
 the pallid, shame-faced cheek of old "threadbare gen- 
 tility" to blush for opulence. Close-cropped women 
 and long-haired men were they. If some of the women 
 were not, in all good faith they looked it, with 
 fading hair pulled back from vacuous faces, and 
 bunched in small hard knots that capped their heads. 
 As for their men it was one more economy, for in the 
 barber's shop, kept open nights and Sundays by a 
 whilom artist who meantime bent his fingers and abili- 
 ities to supplementary employment in the box mill, 
 it cost two bits to have the hair cut on the head and 
 shaved dish-like above the neck. Such cuttings were 
 endured when they might no longer be put off. 
 
 Yet in good Slab Fork such things passed by un- 
 noticed. No man was manly whose face and head 
 lacked suitable adornment, and apparently their 
 women satisfied them, for men at work stopped often at 
 their tasks to gaze upon thin-breasted, slab-shaped fe- 
 males that passed along the wooden trams whose pulpy 
 boards formed nearly all the highways and the by- 
 ways of the town. They were offering no disrespect, 
 and many of the women smiled with the attention they 
 excited. The workers of the woods and mill were 
 boisterous. It was hard to plant refinement when one's 
 shoes let in the snow. 
 
 Occasionally some met in Social Hall. On Sundays it 
 was "church" one religion and one God. Their 
 church was sectless, and its comfort was not warm. 
 God lived a far way off. The meetings of the week-day 
 were sufficiently unsocial, but those of Sunday chilled 
 and non-sectarian throughout. Social democracy 
 breeding discussion, they added little to that barren day
 
 WORK 17 
 
 which dangled hope all through a breaking week, then 
 by its awful emptiness made man and woman turn 
 again to work. It was a one-man Sabbath. 
 
 II 
 
 Two raggedly unkempt urchins struggled over a 
 wooden threshold, and with their feet on the hard- 
 packed ground outside the elder turned to close the 
 door. He relinquished for the moment a hand of the 
 smaller one, till then held in his own. The little chap 
 began to whimper. 
 
 He wept as if he knew how, as though he had before 
 that very day, and over the small, brown face, for the 
 most part wind-chapped and very grimy, appeared two 
 paler places where that day's tears an hour or two be- 
 fore had fissured out a crooked way. New drops 
 paused at the verge of his eyes, and stopped for a 
 bit to launch themselves from reddened lids to the 
 parallel lines that made way down his cheeks. The 
 other lad saw it, for he was quick to place a small, 
 weak arm across the shoulders of the mournful one. 
 
 He, now the man, had been crying too not many 
 minutes gone, for the length of the night before and 
 through the day that followed he had been the humbly 
 feeling host of a commonplace, insistent eareache. 
 Unable to remedy the ill themselves, in time his older 
 folk had tried to get him to the Doctor. And they had, 
 at least to the Doctor's office. A pity he was so often 
 away, as on the night before, and still that morning. 
 A good soul, too, but he wasn't a man-Doctor, really, 
 as even the children said, for this good Company was
 
 18 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 wise enough to hire a nurse for the brute animals 
 that aided in the conduct of their business, and added 
 not a little to the profits of their old and very meri- 
 torious concern. Teams cost real money. "Doc" 
 Wimple was meant for a purpose, and kept to a task. 
 And, far ways from superman, the "Doc" could sel- 
 dom cope with the impossible of sick-visiting two 
 spots at once with but a single work-complaining body. 
 His course in life was a horse-path, and it seldom lay 
 convenient to the rough-graded, broader highway where 
 lay the men, and the children of men, he knew. 
 
 As long as live-stock kept healthy, the men and 
 women with their children and they had them 
 worried along with his converted services quite well, 
 but since there were so many of the other creature- 
 patients in his sour little settlement, still more about 
 the woods and camps outside, quite naturally the 
 harassed Doctor often roved afield on other mission 
 bent than on the healing of the sick among plain 
 people. Since all of them were poor, sickness was not 
 uncommon; and as they often came into the world 
 without outside asssistance, so did they frequently 
 escape as simply from it. Every man's home was his 
 hospital; the Company veterinary did what he could 
 to them; and the Company store sold castor oil and 
 turpentine. 
 
 The boy's father had gone with him to the Doctor's 
 on the night before, and his mother just that morning 
 when the other had obeyed the whistle of the mill. 
 For it was persistent, and it would not be denied. 
 Small lives came and spent lives went, and troths 
 were plighted; men danced and wasted and drank, but 
 women seldom sang to the tune of its hoarse-voiced 
 blast. 
 
 Late that night the father, suffering, gulped once or
 
 WORK 19 
 
 twice when they were home and said, "Well, Andy 
 Johnson, boy, you'll have to stand it for to-night." 
 Andy did, and the others had not been shorn of their 
 rest, but he well, of course, he didn't sleep so very 
 much. Then came his second visit to the Doctor, an 
 hour or more ago. Again at home and freshly disap- 
 pointed, the young boy's mother bethought her of 
 a cure-all his father's father used across the seas. 
 For Andy was a New World member of an Old World 
 race, and the waters of the Skager Rack another day 
 had cast their salty mist against the fresh-skinned faces 
 of his ancestors. 
 
 The scrimpy medicine chest came forth, and from 
 the part-full, vari-shaped vials of wintergreen essence, 
 peppermint, cherry-bark pectoral, turpentine, also 
 something like oil, she chose the last. Andy, on his 
 knees, so placed his head in the mother's lap that she 
 was quickly able to inflict an earful of the liquid 
 without the spilling of a drop. The shock of in- 
 undation helped him to forget the pain, and the drops 
 that shortly percolated out and trickled down his back 
 as he arose diverted him so effectually that the tears 
 which had foregathered round his tired eyes for several 
 hours were sucked back out of sight again. 
 
 That duty done, the mother furnished Andrew a 
 little scrap of iron metal stamped by their Company 
 "five cents," and sent him out to buy the bread that she 
 had no time to bake. She saw that the younger George 
 went with him, for the store was not so near that the 
 absence of the pair might not afford her some much- 
 needed time to work, and think, and a little perhaps to 
 rest, all functions which the worthy woman but seldom 
 found compatible with care and bearing of a family. 
 Clutching their mite of bread-money in one hand, 
 George Anderson by the other, Andy went adventuring.
 
 20 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 He posed as a man and protector, a rdle he often 
 played, and filled. 
 
 The door shut them out, and for just a moment the 
 woman sank against a wooden rest to gain her strength, 
 as the two small chaps outside braced the searching, 
 inquisitive breath of a cold North spring. The boys 
 were six and eight, the former even the junior hi that 
 phthisical settlement where broods were only limited 
 by force of parent vine, no thought bestowed on what 
 should fill requiring mouths when they were weaned 
 to mushy stews of the Old World, or the pork and 
 bread of the New. The slattern creature who had 
 seen them go did not reflect like this. She was only 
 tired. 
 
 Neither boy, outside, was in any way encumbered 
 with overcoat or jacket to shield an ill-built body from 
 the frost-bit air. Andy turned up the small coat-collar 
 for the younger, afterward thought of his own. Both 
 shivered slightly. 
 
 About the head of Andy was loosely tied a piece 
 of cotton cloth. It was chiefly dirty and worn, this 
 wrapping, and kept a clumsy place a-cock his head 
 as by legerdemain. Perhaps one day it had contributed 
 to make his mother's underskirt, for it was dimly 
 figured, even hemstitched just a bit along the edge. 
 Over an eye it hung, and farther back as loosely 
 wrapped the oil-filled ear. Had any other boy observed 
 him, he would certainly have chuckled, loudly; some 
 mother might possibly have cried. Andy's clothing 
 and that of George was shabby and old, well-darned of 
 knee and seat and where the little bony elbows had 
 helped to thin the sleeves in all good time. The shoes 
 of course were poor, stubbed-out affairs, scant of toe 
 and low at heel. The stockings that stretched from
 
 WORK 21 
 
 the shoes to the much-bagged, cut-down or grown-out 
 trousers, as it happened to be George or Andy wearing 
 them, were no more innocent of mending nor of holes. 
 Neither had mittens, but two red hands sought for and 
 held each other tight, the while two others dug deep in 
 their respective pockets. 
 
 They passed nobody as they walked, and it would 
 not have mattered if they had. They might have 
 seemed pitiful to a "foreigner" from the great outside, 
 had there been such an idler in the place where men 
 rose to labor from whistle to whistle, and laid aside 
 oppressing work at night just so it might be handy for 
 another day. They simply coughed and froze from the 
 reluctant light of cold auroral dawnings, through 
 chilly noons to ice-marked nights; or bent with other 
 days, sun-dried with seething heat, slow-coming of 
 shadowy dusk and toil-marked nights which only 
 seemed less hard because there was no light to see the 
 sweat. Men lived, and finally died to find the easy way; 
 while women worked and saved and slaved, to make 
 the meagre wages of the toil and toll yield up poor 
 food and poorer clothing for far from meagre lacks 
 of always needing families. The left-over crust of a 
 day was respectable fare for the next, as the passed- 
 up clothing of one was fitted down to another. Families 
 seldom grew up. The elder children married early. 
 They courted responsibility; wed work; and bred 
 trouble. Re-enforcements took their places. 
 
 It was a System, an earth-old System of father and 
 son, mother and daughter and children. It nicely en- 
 gendered stupefied minds and soul-sick men; drab, 
 grubbing women barren of hope as they were not of 
 child. Meeting, the two brought forth new shoots well- 
 fitted to replace them. The offspring? They were 
 beaten before they were born. The mills themselves
 
 22 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 went on, and on. They paused not, and they ground 
 fine. It was a place of derelicts. 
 
 It may have been the air, perhaps a little craving 
 for the bread, that set the pace for Andy and the al- 
 most-running George. The walk was not a short one 
 from their corner of the Fork's undecorated shacks to 
 the Company emporium, where buck-shot was purveyed 
 with tea of the near-East, and coarse flour sold for a 
 consideration along with "views" of that fair city's 
 pock-marked spots. For the most part these sang of log 
 ponds, or of mills which filled the air with smoke 
 while the photographer exposed a plate, so giving 
 off a most desirable effect of a fall-born haze which 
 was delightfully enhanced by the ascending efforts of 
 a giant burner stood beside the mill. Outsiders called 
 the pictures "interesting." To those who saw the 
 views, first-hand, they were "the Fork." 
 
 Habitually, such dabs of home-grown color were met 
 and passed unseen by the two now going up the hill 
 that flanked a grinding, smoking mill, painted and 
 painting in soot, filled with the hollow cries of men, 
 alive with the shriek of machines that took and tore 
 and kept unsatisfied. To their father it was bread; 
 to the philosopher, "big business"; to a woman it was 
 dirt; to the boys, "the mill." 
 
 As they came to the clamoring bull-chain thick of 
 link, heavy of load, as it portaged its logs from pond to 
 saw their father saw them. He thundered down a 
 welcome. As quickly he looked to his task as the 
 trunk of a squat white pine bade him raise to the ut- 
 most the swinging door that opened inward to admit 
 the log, and out again to half exclude the air when it 
 was cold. The children answered as they passed, for 
 work was something to be undisturbed. 
 
 Nor did they stop just after, at an open, steaming
 
 WORK 23 
 
 engine-room, inviting by the open door and the warm 
 look of it within. It stood a little up the path, where 
 stout Bill Boddfish officially an engineer, in pay a 
 fireman, always friend bawled out to ask the elder 
 all about his folks at home, and just by chance to 
 inquire of the bandaged head. Of course he had a 
 remedy, and re-enforced his loudly-shouted questions 
 with others of the health of Andy's mother, and if 
 in fine his elder brother Hans had not been drinking 
 even more of late. 
 
 For Bill was always kindly interested, he being a 
 typically worthy oaf, and in the case of men and their 
 affairs obliged in leaving any little thing like work 
 he had in hand. To whom he talked didn't matter. 
 He pestered men, had gossip with their wives, chaffed 
 oddly with their daughters. 
 
 "It kind of eases things along," Bill used to say; 
 and probably the Management, forever stern, would 
 have eased poor Bill along some years ago had not 
 the ample energy belonging to Bill's father, and for 
 long expended to Company glory and profit, made 
 total restitution for any mental hookworm of the son. 
 
 He would have talked now had the boys stopped, 
 but they didn't. Not encouraged, no more dis- 
 couraged, he merely finished as they passed, "Nice 
 day anyhow, ain't it?" then heaved a sigh and re- 
 turned to his shovel. Ah, well, he could work when 
 there was nothing else. "Wordy Bill" had a single 
 cardinal sin. 
 
 From beyond the mill the path dipped down and 
 showed a bit of the lake beyond the log-mussed shore 
 and huddling buildings, a little lake fringed sparsely 
 in abandoned pine and hemlock, now bathed by sun, 
 now ruffling with the wind. It was all as old as 
 Andrew and George and it appeared much older, for to
 
 24 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 them it seemed as if it must have always been. Scenery, 
 if it had been there, would probably have failed to 
 make the younger boy forget the effort to make a 
 summer cap come down across his ears, or the elder 
 stop his hustling both to keep the younger warm. For 
 a while in the face of the wind, it caught and struck 
 at them again as the path curved round a yard of rot- 
 ting, low-grade boards, on up a short incline, just past 
 the Fork Hotel and to the Store which was its neighbor. 
 
 The store was set between two well-known build- 
 ings, for next it on the other side was Pop Baum's 
 "Drug Store." Pop apparently had always been on 
 deck, waxing increasingly fat, growing exceedingly rich, 
 on the nickels and dimes of such as came his way; 
 and they in truth were not a few, for the solace of drink 
 was denied to no man of that fair city. If he earned 
 much, he could afford it; if he didn't, he would fall 
 behind in spite of Hell, so just what difference could 
 it make? Perhaps it left the wife a little woebegone at 
 times, but then it sure made him feel a whole lot better. 
 Married men usually worked for a wife, and the 
 children. Liquor stood next. Single ones toiled by 
 the month for an evening in town. Liquor was first. 
 Six months of work equalled one wild night: a bodyful 
 of whiskey that ran down and burned; a jade; a dying 
 of the senses; a waking; an empty pocket-book; a 
 headache; possibly more. "Hard come and easy go." 
 Well, it was all in the way of the woods. It was all 
 right. Of course occasionally some sotted fool gave 
 to the mill an arm or leg, and some frail woman there- 
 by lost her right to eat. But the Company agreed 
 they had to have it, so for a slight commission they 
 tolerated Pop and everyone was satisfied. 
 
 Just now a crowd of idling men were gathered on a 
 very shabby porch. Pop "didn't believe in airs;
 
 WORK 25 
 
 might scare the trade." Men from the night crew lined 
 the railing and spotted the steps of his grog shop. The 
 day crew, being at work, was not then filling the beds, 
 and these took drink instead of sleep. They were 
 ringed about someone so closely that only the sound 
 of a voice reached out, one sadly well known to the 
 boys as it rose, in tottering tenor, to conclude a woods- 
 man's drink song 
 
 "So we'll wrinkle up our lips, 
 And take another sip 
 Oj the good old mountain dew" 
 
 The fragment ended, the song died. 
 
 The group parted with the last line, and the dis- 
 ordered person of a man emerged, a man so drunk 
 with the squirrel liquor of the place that he half-fell 
 down the steps. His walk was a roll, and another 
 lent the first his staggering company. Strangely, 
 the boys recognized this second comer first. He was 
 one who had long been tabu in Slab Fork, for Red-eye 
 Ed was generally and not unjustly known by a repu- 
 tation as rank as his breath, a reputation that had 
 first cost his job, then home, and finally forced de- 
 parture, worse than pauper, from the town. Now and 
 again the outlaw appeared, from where nobody knew 
 nor cared so he got back there fast enough. 
 
 The hat of the other was over his eyes, but with 
 an oath he raised it, threw it off, and stamped it on the 
 ground. This was Hans. 
 
 "Hello, li'l brothers, whasshu doin' way up here? 
 Better g'home. Ain't a place for li'l men like you. 
 Whasshu doin' here, anyway? Spick up. Ain't afraid, 
 hey?" 
 
 A boy better reared would not have answered; quite 
 possibly he might have disappeared, afraid. Andy still
 
 26 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 held his younger brother's hand, and said instead that 
 he was there to buy a loaf of bread. 
 
 "Bread, eh? Whaddoes an'body want of bread? 
 Wheel Lesh have another drink?" 
 
 He looked at Ed. Ed nodded. "Yeh, lesh have 
 'nother drink." Ed was an echo: he was always 
 primed for drinking; and never solvent for a drink. 
 When he "treated" he forgot to pay. That was Ed. 
 
 Drink-glutted as he was, Hans looked at Ed, and 
 recollected. He sobered a very little, and gave a side- 
 long glance in the direction of the boys. Wonder and 
 fear were painted on the face of the smaller, a young 
 surprise, not fear, causing the fine blue eyes of Andy 
 to open, the hand on his brother's to gradually tighten. 
 
 The other hand relaxed, the bit of money fell. It 
 rolled a little way. He took a step, and stooped to 
 pick it up not so quickly though but that the fuddled 
 Hans had caught his shoulder roughly as he rose. 
 
 "Gimme it, Andy," he cried, "gimme it!" The boy 
 to the drunkard was only his brother; the money a 
 drink. He caught the boy not over-gently, wrenched 
 at his hand, and would have shortly had the coin, 
 too, had not another witness just come up. One 
 "Admirable" Rogers had approached, till then un- 
 noticed, and the drunken fellow was set spinning by 
 the hand of a stooped old man, a man that rough life 
 and worse manners had as yet not altogether spoiled of 
 a cleaner and better-thinking manhood than was com- 
 mon. Even Boddfish's curiosity surrendered to an 
 exception. 
 
 The boys were satisfied. Not waiting to see more, 
 they left. The storekeeper was waiting at a window. 
 Had the Store been his and not the Company's, there 
 is no doubt but that the wily Louis Frank would have 
 arrived before the "Admirable," for Louis was a busi-
 
 WORK 27 
 
 ness man and would not tacitly have seen bread 
 money so diverted from his store to Pop's. He took it 
 now, and in a piece of old print paper that had once 
 upon a time no doubt been news, twisted a poor, 
 pinched-looking loaf grabbed from an open case, a 
 crumby goods-box at this season mercifully bereft of 
 flies, though of their memory still clear. 
 
 He shoved their package at them crossly and omitted 
 to say "thank you," walking to the Post Office along 
 the other side to finish distribution of the one day's 
 mail. He would read such of it as had not been 
 sealed, for Louis' post was a dull one, and he simply 
 made the most of it. It was even related that he could 
 take a paper from its wrapper, inspect it, and put it 
 back again with nothing so much as a crease in the 
 paper or a doubt in the mind of the ultimate customer. 
 As for the "thank you," it was unadulterated waste. 
 "Thank you" impliedly denoted "call again." Well, 
 the fewer the better, thought he, and it wasn't his 
 old store anyway. And even if it were, it wouldn't 
 change the status much. The Company town had one 
 store; it was the Company Store. "If people didn't 
 like it, they could go without." Buying by mail out- 
 side was pitifully transparent, express agent-post- 
 master-storekeeper being as one. It might have 
 saved the laborer a little money; sometimes it cost men 
 jobs. They usually spent where they earned, all of 
 it. 
 
 Andy had the bread, also enough of walking. Taking 
 the same way home, the mother opened for them when 
 they reached her door. She had had a little rest, had 
 done a bit of work, and she was glad to see them back. 
 Sometimes the tired woman told herself that she was 
 almost glad to see them go; and still their comings- 
 home, even from little journeys, gave her joy.
 
 28 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "But ain't you been a long time, Andy? What's 
 kep' you? Where'd you go?" 
 
 George's attention centered on warming his feet at 
 the red-heated stove which was a cooking range and 
 furnace, while Andy mumbled some reply. She would 
 know soon enough; she always did. Hans came home 
 when he could not go elsewhere. 
 
 The mother bustled about, too busy to catch the 
 boy's half-heard reply, sliced up her bread for one 
 good meal, and set the stew a little forward on the 
 stove. For noon was on its quickening way. The empti- 
 ness of morning was due to meet the need of night. 
 His all-in-all of meals, his plain-cooked, noon-served 
 dinner, must await the worker. It took a spell to come 
 and get it. There was no time to linger. The meal 
 was usually partaken of in gulping silence, an indi- 
 gestion-making gorge. 
 
 Andy sat down on the dirt-packed floor, hi a half- 
 warmed corner out of the way. He chose the floor, for 
 the chairs were at the table. The house was cold, and 
 he. A whistle far-off blew, and hi a little time his 
 father came. The man's eyes showed his pleasure hi 
 stepping into the little home that he had quitted some 
 six hours before. His smile took in the room, the 
 mother, then Andy at the stove, his head now shorn 
 of aural covering. 
 
 "Feel better, don't you, Son?" he called to him, and 
 then the mother summoned them to table. Their grace 
 was unsaid gratitude, though the father's face clouded 
 at the empty chair beside his wife's. Questions he 
 might have asked had answer soon enough. The pine 
 door swung upon its hinges heavily, Hans stood there 
 for a moment in the opening, then spilled into the room. 
 
 Not speaking, they carried him upstairs, frail mother, 
 wretched father. They said nothing; it was not new.
 
 WORK 29 
 
 Again they were at the table. Andrew touched his 
 mother's hand, and she smiled wanly at the child. Her 
 smile was full of love; she had done with being happy. 
 Heart- tragedies were simply spelled. There was no 
 need to mourn. Indeed, it was nearly time for the 
 whistle. 
 
 Ill 
 
 To such of the old-American as Hamlin County 
 boasted in its Slab Fork corner came the freshest stock 
 of Europe, well-formed men, hearty women, who had 
 frankly come to get and take away. Citizen, mer- 
 cenary, earned alike; one striving to support a soul, the 
 other happy with a body. A nation lent its warmth, 
 but clinkers filled the melting pot. The citizen gave 
 of himself, heart, body, soul; auslanders laughed, and 
 took. 
 
 They gave as little as they could, grabbed what 
 they might, in the end turned with sneers from 
 Samaria. Their patriotism was business; they worked 
 for the Old and lived by the New. They left the 
 former, peasants, young and poor and cursing; they 
 went back with gold.. After all, there was no place 
 like home. 
 
 Yet not all of the alien Fork were of these. Those 
 there were, from the Northern lands of the Old World, 
 who with the first emigres' spirit had come to get, and 
 give. Them the born sons of the new land met and 
 married, though as yet they had not perfectly ab- 
 sorbed the other ones of Scandanavia, blue of eye 
 and fresh of face, sturdy of hope, true of heart. This 
 might have been a happy meeting.
 
 30 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 The father of Andy was Norse, his mother Ameri- 
 can-bred. From Mandal, near Christiansand, he came, 
 where had you only seven-league eyes you could 
 see Denmark to the South of you; the Cattegat and 
 Sweden to the East; more Viking country to the North; 
 but a great vastness over all the West. Johnson, 
 father, was a large, keen-visaged man. He had a 
 weathered look, and a weary walk. His clothes never 
 fitted; he didn't care. 
 
 His wife, the children's mother, looked tired, and 
 worked tirelessly. New England ancestors had once 
 owned property; she still had conscience. Were 
 Andrew to describe her, he might have only said that 
 she was good. She was good to them and they were 
 good to her, if anybody thought about it. She knew 
 the coming of a child, with clumsy hands to give it 
 life; and what it meant to nurse that little one on 
 starved-out hope, and slipping faith, and food that 
 scarcely kept the spark alive in her, the mother. 
 
 The father aged and grew old in the crushing dis- 
 appointment of his life, but in the woman still lived the 
 spirit fresh, strong, courageous. Yet in this freez- 
 ing, God-abandoned corner of the land her days had 
 changed. Her forbears were not rich, but free. She 
 had existence, always poverty, often suffering. 
 
 While the husband marvelled, her courage and 
 love still bloomed, like the sprig of bleeding-heart in its 
 small, cracked jar that stood at one of her windows. 
 He did not know it, but he loved the little plant which 
 still flowered in a land where all things left that 
 could and all the past was barren. Indeed, they felt 
 no need of tenses. Hans promised well at first, and 
 almost as soon the promise failed, his decency and 
 virile manhood swallowed, bit by bit, by the swill 
 which claimed at times the greater part of Slab Fork.
 
 WORK 31 
 
 Men could not earn enough to keep their families, 
 anyway, so as the rum helped them their families helped 
 themselves. There was a box factory which lived on 
 waste of the mill, and fed on a stock of women and 
 childhood, the child from its school, the woman from 
 home. The factory was a dust-filled, noisome place, 
 cold as a barracks in winter, a parching hell in summer. 
 Its pennies merely held the scales between a profit 
 and a loss. Profit was life. They usually worked. 
 
 The workers had reached a stopping-place, though 
 they did not know. They could feel it, perhaps, they 
 must have, and sometimes Andy waked at night to cry 
 out, in the darkness and the chill, until he touched his 
 brother George beside him, or heard the heavy sleeping 
 of the elder Hans across the room. For a while he 
 would lie and stare up, unseeing, in the blackness of the 
 room, the shingled ridges just above his head. Perhaps 
 his father stirred uneasily and loudly on his hay- 
 stuffed mattress in the room below; and then the eerie 
 soughing of the wind across the shack might send him 
 off again, to hear almost at once the early whistle of 
 the mill, his mother hurrying about in her kitchen 
 underneath. She was always hurrying, young Andy 
 thought, hurrying and working, working and hurrying. 
 But she put an arm about him, sometimes, to show 
 that she was satisfied. 
 
 Except in mid-summer it was pitchy dark. Some- 
 times, for the moment before stepping shivering from 
 bed, he wondered idly how long she had been up. Late 
 at night he heard her at work, as in the morning, often 
 a song upon her lips which lilted happily up, through 
 boarded ceiling and pine-matched floor, while she 
 washed the clothes that they would wear next day. 
 He often wondered when she rested, but that he never 
 knew till late. She and his father left the loft for their
 
 32 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 sons, since the house, like the greater number of its 
 kind, had just three rooms, if such you called that one 
 where Andy and his brothers slept. There was a bit of 
 stringy matting for the floor. The sides and sloping 
 ceiling of the whole were bare and rough, with places 
 in them where you scratched your head upon a nail, or 
 saw by day a goodly chink of light between the loosely- 
 fitted wood. 
 
 Their breakfasts did not differ much from dinners, 
 since silence made the grace and and haste the sauce. 
 It was generally a case of sour-raised bread and raw 
 tomatoes, re-enforced at times by coffee-colored fluid 
 which was hot. The master of the house and Hans 
 stood not upon the order of their going. They were 
 both large men, the son of the mould of the father. A 
 gap of years separated Hans from the next, since there 
 had been another little one who had not stayed to share 
 their life. As his mother sometimes said, "George 
 sorta favors me." But Andy's was the true complexion 
 of the Norse, which means to those who know a head 
 of curly yellow hair, eyes deep with all the color of the 
 sea, and round, smooth cheeks as clear and pink those 
 days as tender petals of an early-blooming flower. His 
 limbs and body, straight, well-formed, assured strength. 
 There was every chance for early use in the tasks which 
 packed those hours between their breakfast and the 
 coming of the night. 
 
 That was the portion of the day they all antici- 
 pated. The father's work was done, the mother's 
 nearly, and the lolling heads of youth fell easy prey 
 to the warmth that filled the room and made the 
 rough shack home. The mother's face gloated with 
 contented pride when all the coarse food disappeared 
 with many a sincere, appreciative smack. The father 
 backed his chair against the wall, carefully chose a
 
 WORK 33 
 
 splinter from the ready wood-box, and let his wife re- 
 move her dishes to the tiny, crowded table in another 
 corner of the room. 
 
 While she did the work they talked of a future 
 which was brighter at night than at breakfast; when 
 Hans had gone, of his wedding to the little Emmy just 
 next door, and of what the wholesome child, although 
 a woman here, might do for him where they had failed; 
 and now of Andy, old enough to take his place in 
 school "come fall." They expected much of Andy, 
 since his mother, not rich in learning but more lucky 
 in ambition, had already taught him how to read in 
 simple words, and there were other things he knew. 
 
 And when her work was done, her man built up a hot 
 pine fire in the little stove which warmed the small 
 "spare room." There, sitting at their great extrava- 
 gance, she played upon a small old organ quaint pieces 
 learned as a girl. The father smoked a fumy pipe or 
 whittled cut-plug, with now and then a snatch of 
 hoarse Norse song. To placid mind and welling heart 
 the clumsy fingering of "Comin' through the Rye" 
 or "Annie Laurie" was as the finest chords that ever 
 sprang to life from a Beethoven. 
 
 As tired fingers quit the keys the old man fell to 
 musing of the days when he had been a soldier of 
 this great Republic. Young, very young, to America, 
 he yet had done a man's work in the "sixties." Those 
 fiery strugggles were dim, but he kept toward his flag 
 an ardour and love as rarely splendid in the native-born 
 as it is noble from adopted. And all of this the eldest 
 of the house of Johnson was. Honorable and brave 
 in war, the petty strife and selfish bickerings of peace, 
 less understood, had found him timorous and vacillat- 
 ing, until his drifting stranded him at last at Slab 
 Fork, to leave him high and dry. But hi his tales,
 
 34 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 were George and Andy old enough to see, their father 
 was himself as he would never be again. 
 
 And Andy listened to his tales until the colorful Ben 
 Hur, across from where he sat, assumed less hueful 
 tints; the horses grew a blur upon the wall; and Hur 
 was falling from his car. Whereat Andy himself 
 dropped loudly from his chair, forgetting the picture 
 entirely; which was usually the signal for the evening's 
 end. A sharply-featured dawn leered early at the 
 Fork. 
 
 IV 
 
 THERE came to the woods town a morning in May 
 when the sun shone, and the cold was not, and the 
 winds with their ear-aches and frost-touched fingers and 
 toes had ceased to blow. It was spring. The birds were 
 glad, and in their tuneful fashion lifted up their voices 
 to the sky, and said so. The woodpecker set his wire- 
 less to "sending" on a tree-trunk near the mill; when 
 a squirrel came out of the top, and sat on his haunches, 
 and made a mock obeisance to the sun. 
 
 The children, those that could, were early at play, 
 while the women sang as they toiled, in kitchen or 
 garden patch. The men, as near daybreak they started 
 out, cried back and forth in home-spun English, "Fine 
 day!" "Yeh! Fine day, all day," and quite as if 
 they meant it. 
 
 At Johnsons' none set out to toil, but all were busy. 
 Holidays were two in Slab Fork, every year, and the 
 day of vacation was not yet, but the week before a lot 
 of freshly printed invitations had come up on the log- 
 ging train to Mrs. Hanson, the neighbor on the John-
 
 WORK 35 
 
 sons' right. These said, in rather an erratic type that 
 might have been Old English but looked a great deal 
 more like German script, that on this day, now come, 
 would be the marriage of her daughter Emmy to Mr. 
 Hans Anderson Johnson, both of Slab Fork. The 
 groom's family breakfasted early as was usual, when 
 dishes were cleansed with dispatch and somewhat 
 hurried neatness. 
 
 While Hans and his father removed the parlor organ 
 by their front room window and portaged it across 
 the little square of yard to Emmy's, Andrew brought 
 up with the stool, which was not so very massive, 
 having sometime lost one-half the top. Though there 
 was much to do, a day lay ahead, for the wedding ser- 
 vice came that night at eight o'clock, someone once 
 having vouchsafed in the hearing of good Mrs. Hanson 
 that such was a fashionable hour. Six o'clock or high- 
 noon weddings had never been tried on Slab Fork. 
 If bride and groom and minister could possibly have 
 slipped away to meet respective obligations, the mill 
 and factory would certainly have yielded up no more, 
 for guests. A crowd was the thing. 
 
 The pine-board doors of the Johnsons and Hansons 
 sagged open from the morning, and their respective 
 owners fetched and carried. A calico-shaded light, 
 pride of the Johnsons, followed their organ, and Andy 
 was proud to carry the breakable parts while George 
 behind made shift with the shade. The Johnsons' 
 dinner was eaten from boxes, and supper was served 
 from the stove. 
 
 Hans, too, prepared. In excitement, a pink tie, and 
 a three-parts shoddy suit bought as a bargain from a 
 "Yew" who had a little shop in town, he quieted his 
 nerves against the Drug Store bar. Glass in hand, 
 foot touching rail, elbow on top, he responded with
 
 36 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 drinks and cigars to numerous jests and coarser jesters. 
 By close application, Hans shortly grew as witty as the 
 best. He even made it warm for Wordy Bill. Bill that 
 week was working on the night-shift, which left day- 
 times free for talking. The songs and joking grew, for 
 they and Hans looked on it as a final celebration in 
 the spirituous. And there was much rejoicing. 
 
 At the house of his bride approached seven o'clock, 
 and guests who wished to be sure of the show. Small- 
 ness marked the house as had generosity its invita- 
 tions. Milady and her man, buxom daughters and 
 sheepish sons, came early, converged upon the house, 
 and entered it with giggling and much craning. Many 
 an arm in faded brocade, or encased in a wear-worn 
 coat, was sharply bulged out by paper-rolled bundles 
 that gave off mystery. Wedding gifts were not dis- 
 couraged here, aping a better world, and to the end 
 there might be no mistakes each giver brought his 
 present with him. In ones and twos or families of 
 ten they entered the open door. 
 
 The bride? Was all but ready, so they whispered; 
 "and waitin' for the groom," Bill Boddfish mentioned 
 sotto voce. Soon after eight Hans came, some said 
 a-leaning on his father's arm. He was red of face, and 
 made his presence felt. This never caused a stir. 
 
 Nothing lacked. The organist was in her place, the 
 bridal-party waited on the staircase. It was a steep 
 and winding way, the top well hidden from below. 
 Almost at once Andy sang out, "All ready," and anxious 
 visitors had almost put their heads together across the 
 foot or two of space reserved with difficulty for the 
 nuptial way. Miss Myra Barnes was underneath the 
 staircase. From broken stool and panting parlor 
 organ she offered up in minor key her very best, "The 
 Maiden's Prayer." The stairway creaked. Andy him-
 
 WORK 37 
 
 self, in haste to see the end, was easily first. He 
 landed on his hands. The "Prayer" perceptibly stag- 
 gered. Then the squeak of the stairs attuned to the 
 creak of the organ, so that one of several worthy 
 women looking on was heard to murmur, "Ain't it 
 grand?" and shed a tear. 
 
 Hans' collar yet contained the new pink-cloth cravat. 
 Even this bride wore white. Likewise her maid of 
 honor, and each held a clump of crimson, spotted 
 flowers. They were artificial, but they were very red, 
 and the bride she had a gown that "rustled!" The 
 best man was brave in a red sweater-vest and a nice 
 blue ring just tattooed on a little finger. They pushed 
 through the guests, losing step and finding it again, 
 each marching as seemed good to him and rather care- 
 less of the music which was welling up and down in 
 leaps and bounds that made Miss Myra's touch seem 
 strange and sensitive, a wondrous thing. The Rev. 
 Leonard Olson, severe and dark of coat and Sabbath 
 manner, was watching for them in the parlor. The 
 organ gave a parting wheeze. 
 
 The pastor's words came haltingly at times, but his 
 success was ultimate. Religion was a side-line, its 
 fees about a grub-stake for the church-mouse. So 
 Reverend Olson strove at other things, mainly at nail- 
 ing boxes. Boxes were his vocation, souls his avoca- 
 tion. On the whole, he was probably better at boxes, 
 as there were now and then delays and gaps of 
 knowledge in joining couples and depositing his dead. 
 He seldom had a chance to use the blither service, 
 though praised for doing thorough work. No one 
 among his dozen nuptial-takers had later heard his 
 wedding-bells die out in a divorce. Yet his charges 
 were poor. 
 
 At length the shaky Hans had found his ring and
 
 38 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 slipped it on her finger, and the Reverend One had 
 said, "I call you man and wife." There was a little 
 murmur of applause about the room. There was tear- 
 letting, too, but in the main hardened old females and 
 blushing young things bore up wonderfully, with usual 
 sympathy extended to the mother of the bride. 
 "Hearts and Flowers" was ground from the organ, and 
 the world was glad. 
 
 Then at last the gifts were heaped on all the tables 
 in the room, and those who still kept coigns of vantage 
 on the chairs and sofas began to clamber down and 
 look about. And what a gathering was there, for sure. 
 The low ceiling fairly cracked with the clatter of all 
 the shrill, unmusical voices, the patois, the accent and 
 brogue; the high-pitched voices in all their unchecked 
 stridency, as they are heard in little homes and in the 
 far-wide places of the country. Belles of the Fork, 
 Annie Jensen, Lizzie Berg, Anna Hanson, and Myrtle 
 Mickelby, all were there; Joe Jensen and William 
 Mickeluski, and even the stern old "Admirable" were of 
 the merry-making. While the scolding mate of one, 
 Ardella Hansen, for once in all her wretched life forgot 
 to watch her husband in a very timely eagerness to 
 see that thing the neighbors from next door had given. 
 There was Big Business too, which for a space forgot 
 great cares to mingle with its fellow-men again. Pop 
 Baum had come to give his beery blessing, and even 
 "old Doc" Wimple had left a poor, sick equine to be 
 present. The house was honored. 
 
 Slab Fork's police force, Sandy Jackson, had left 
 off his patrolling of the yard for half an hour that he 
 might come, while Chapman Jones, who held rank 
 sway above the Company's Hotel, was there, as was his 
 head and only waitress, Miss Ophelia Claiborne, in 
 much ado and real blue denim. She had humanly
 
 WORK 39 
 
 that night postponed her dishes to another day to come 
 with Louis Frank. The latter, of their local store, was 
 greatly in demand, since he could lend a little light 
 in cost of others' gifts. There he was, looking, talking, 
 letting little escape. He had as many prices as there 
 were wage-scales for the customers ; and he didn't like 
 to give even information. Thirsty Ed had projected 
 his tell-tale presence part-way through the rear door, 
 when he was easily induced by some refreshment to 
 leave them for a time at least; and Wordy Bill was 
 "talking scandal" to everyone with ears. One of the 
 happiest of mortals there was Mr. Charlie Wall, Slab 
 Fork's laughing undertaker. He had a very long and 
 dank moustache. At sober times he smirked without 
 its being seen. To those who may not know, Charlie 
 it was who brought the "Fifty-Dollar Funeral" to 
 Slab Fork, one of its cheapest boons and best. He had 
 a sunny, buoyant soul, a man well- wrapped in his 
 future. Just now he was inquiring with nice and no 
 doubt actual concern as to the precise and present 
 state of so-and-so's condition. He was ever thoughtful 
 of the helpless, the infirm. He seemed alarmed, yet 
 interested, in conning o'er the "shootin' rheumatiz" of 
 poor old Mother Witzke. 
 
 Even Jack Larrabie, boss of the mill, was noted 
 among those present. Admiring gifts, he now and then 
 exclaimed "Jemima! I'll be swiggered if I ever seen 
 the like o' that before!" Which was winning, as 
 usually true, and givers right and left were apt to 
 smile, quite audibly. Each donation was plainly 
 marked, oh, very, and Mr. Larrabie, when all was 
 said and done, was not a half-bad sort. He was as 
 near all right as he could be and hold his job, and if 
 at times he seemed even harder than the hand that 
 encircled them all, you must remember he had once
 
 40 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 been underneath himself. It is a school which shrivels 
 hearts. 
 
 Some of the gifts were elaborate, and nearly all 
 were interesting. From bridegroom to bride had 
 come a crayon drawing of self, a local artist's work. 
 And she had given him a pair of cotton blankets, with 
 an accordion. The mother of the bride had brought 
 an old-time print of "Every Man His Own Physician." 
 The groom's own mother had made for them a book 
 of home-tried recipes, each one a gem of doing much 
 with little, the while his father had contributed a 
 large round cheese and steel engraving of Niagara Falls. 
 One friend had sent five yards of sheeting, another 
 chickens, with a pair of towels; a dear old lady brought 
 a rather skimpy piece of quilting yet made entirely 
 of cast-off clothing of the groom. A maiden aunt of 
 Emmy's, down in Mapleton, had sent them by the 
 logging-train a large tin canister of quite efficient, 
 withal slippery, soap. She had made it herself; she said 
 it would "do up" anything. There were others: dishes 
 and vases and handkerchiefs; shoes for the bride and 
 gum-boots for the groom; a salt and pepper service 
 sans the salt; one or two pitchers with chips and cracks, 
 yet still tricked out to hold; knitted wash-cloths, hand- 
 stitched towels, a "comforter"; even a large, nicked 
 bowl which Mrs. Minsky brought (as if everyone 
 hadn't known it without the poor soul's name). It 
 had been a very nice bowl, probably for fruit. She 
 never had any, so she thought she'd pass it on, "wishin' 
 'm luck." 
 
 There was ware of silver, some of it like to hold its 
 pale gray flush until the morrow. And in Mrs. 
 Minsky's bowl, because the largest, were quarters and 
 dimes, a half or two, and even a dollar, from those 
 who had no other thing to bring. More silver came
 
 WORK 41 
 
 its clinking way as dancing started up to Myra's 
 jingling "Old Gum Stump" and "Shake a Leg, Mariar." 
 When the gallant well-to-do had a kiss and a dance with 
 the bride of Hans, and in token thereof threw much 
 largess in the dish. Emmy blushed, though the bowl 
 was half-way filled, and there was much rejoicing. 
 
 To one side Andy served the older, stiffer ones with 
 resiny beer and limp cake, while their sons and 
 daughters trod a measure. His father kept it flowing 
 from the keg and held the drinkers in a friendly 
 mood with many an ill-remembered joke and tale. The 
 jokes were stale, the beer was fresh. They went down 
 well together. Anyhow, they were so happy it hardly 
 mattered what you told them. Hans' mother, here 
 and everywhere, looked to the comfort of their guests 
 and seemed to have a deeper pleasure in the laughter of 
 the others. It was loud, usually rude, and sincere. 
 
 Laughing and dancing, dancing and drinking, cake, 
 cut-plug and beer. Some sipped because they danced, 
 the rest because they could not. All soon fetched 
 twelve. The boss had long since gone, but here and 
 everywhere still fluttered out the coat-tails of the merry 
 undertaker. Those coat-tails, how they danced to the 
 old, and their wants; how zealous and careful of the 
 lame, the halt, and the drinking. Charlie oozed kind- 
 ness of this world, and promised even better. 
 
 As they had come, in ones and twos and tipsy little 
 groups they left. Andy and the rest stayed on to 
 straighten things around. Nothing was put off till to- 
 morrow, tomorrow being more of today. Finally all was 
 done. The Johnsons went on home and Andy to bed, 
 before their fire downstairs. It was no longer very 
 cold; the dirt floor thinly blanketed would do. 
 
 Long after the others beside him slept he heard from 
 the loft the nervous voice of the little girl, and now and 
 again the rough, hard tones of the groom.
 
 42 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 AT noon of the following day a siren, high-up from 
 its place on the ridge of the mill, sent out its kindest 
 summons to all laborers below to quit; to lay off 
 from their task, and for the space of one-half hour store 
 up new energy to take them through another six. 
 Shortly before a smaller blast apprised the ones in- 
 side the mill itself that power would stop as soon as 
 "Flapjack" Boddfish, engineer, could throw his switch. 
 What it was most of them knew not, none of them 
 cared. A shut-down was never unwelcome; hang the 
 cause! 
 
 A moment earlier a very sturdy log of old white pine 
 had ridden up the bull chain. Old Johnson threw it 
 on the narrow wooden roll-way. Such thick-boled 
 stuff men of the woods called "accidents." Once the 
 rule, the woodland round about the Fork was only 
 thinly peppered with them now. The thicker log lay 
 on the roll-way until the smaller ones ahead had run 
 their course out on the carriage. Gleaming bandsaws 
 tore the boards from logs that flashed their length but 
 half a dozen times upon the track, then passed from 
 sight, leaving new boards for edgers and trimmers, bark 
 slabs for the burner that ever ate all which entered its 
 fire-red maw. 
 
 It was the big one's turn. Perhaps from the thick, 
 crooked root-stub still clinging to its butt, there was 
 delay in settling it upon the carriage that Hans and the 
 two others rode. Hans was there, as usual, for there 
 was a holiday to marry and another one to die. Honey- 
 moons were not. Still elated and flushed with the 
 happiness of his late venture, he was equally un- 
 steadied and unnerved today.
 
 WORK 43 
 
 The carriage stopped, the endless band screamed 
 out impatiently in countless revolutions. Hans worked 
 at the head, nearest the saw when the carriage was at 
 rest. Cant-hook in hand, he now stepped quickly 
 forward to roll the heavy trunk his way. While he did 
 so a man at the other end of the thirty-foot stick cut 
 away its one projecting root. Released, the log rolled 
 quickly to the front and not unnaturally it found Hans 
 off his guard. The hook fell from his hands and flew 
 another way. He swayed uncertainly a moment, then 
 screamed and fell. The log stopped when the man was 
 carried with it, to the blade. 
 
 So the little whistle blew, and when the saw was 
 stopped there was no need. It was sharp, and it was 
 free. The boy's body was nearly in two and he was 
 dead. The father fainted, though of men called tough; 
 a douse of water was all he wanted. The smaller whistle 
 blew, shrilly, impatiently, and the men were back at 
 work. Others filled the places of father and son. They 
 worked along just the same; soon they had the great 
 log sliced; then it was noon. 
 
 To a corner behind the sawyer's pit first came the 
 Doctor, without fault of his, miraculously near. 
 Charlie Wall appeared on time. It was his job. He 
 came in a lumber wagon. Just then the mill's loud 
 siren blew noon, and he had help with his load. In 
 the wagon it was covered loosely with a bit of sack, 
 and Charlie drove along. He drove rapidly, being 
 efficient. He reached the house before the father or 
 the men. While he drove a little fleck of crimson 
 appeared about the sides and bottom of his wagon-box; 
 a stray dog sniffed at his rig. The horse jogged com- 
 fortably along. 
 
 They passed knots of men who had seen it, and 
 nearly all had heard, news travelling quickly. One
 
 44 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 who had not liked Hans looked at the passing cart, and 
 laughed. He said that as for him he just "allowed as 
 how that one'd be a darn-sight more of use to folks 
 just that-a-way than if he'd hung around." There 
 was a low, angry murmur when this was heard, for in 
 their free-and-easy way Hans had been liked. Another 
 said that that was "pretty brash" for him, stepped up, 
 and struck the first across the face and felled him. The 
 rest went home to dinner. 
 
 At the Johnsons' door the undertaker stopped. He 
 and another got down. They rolled their burden on a 
 plank, stepped briskly to the house, and as Andy 
 opened at the knock of the man ahead they raised the 
 plank a little at the sill, slid it across the room, and 
 in Charlie's cheerful voice announced to those inside, 
 "Wai, here he is!" 
 
 Then Andy ran to keep his mother from the door, for 
 the canvas sack had slipped away. But she was there 
 with Emmy, and little George. Johnson himself en- 
 tered at the front as Emmy ran from the rear door, 
 crying wildly. Andy's mother fainted, while George 
 fell sobbing on the floor. They must have felt some 
 loss, though ignorant. 
 
 Andy crossed the room. Putting an arm around his 
 father's neck, he led him away from "it." Together 
 they went to where the mother was lying. They 
 lifted her and carried her away. 
 
 On a still, warm afternoon a few days later the 
 body of him who had loved and wed, and lived and died 
 in only a few poor hours, was deposited among the 
 pine trees on a hill beyond the mill. The Rev. Leonard 
 Olson came once more. It was a Sunday. 
 
 His spiritual comfort was ashes, although he said, in 
 part, "the mother here will wait and watch no longer 
 for her son when the toils of a day are done; the
 
 WORK 45 
 
 father, robbed of his companionship, will struggle on 
 alone where once they labored side by side; the wife, 
 a wife for hours, a widow for the rest of time, 
 will hark in vain at night, when the day's work is at an 
 end, for the footsteps of the man she loved, and lost. 
 And all may look, or they may listen, and he will come 
 not." His words of healing smelled of the poor-souled, 
 earth-daubed man who sees God from afar. 
 
 There were people outside, too. They were waiting 
 to see "the box." 
 
 VI 
 
 IT was a small, close-fitting building, even as such 
 things go at the Fork, this graded school over whose 
 dustiness Miss Myra Barnes was arbiter. Certainly 
 she herself was as unresting energy. "My stars! how 
 she does fly about," old women used to say. Indeed she 
 did move nervously from place to place, and not unlike 
 the dust that hovered over everything inside, dirt that 
 a poor old janitress' broom never actually ousted but 
 just stirred on. 
 
 It blanketed walls and the floors and the ink-wells. 
 First duty for early-coming pupils was the furrowing 
 of names in desk-tops covered fairly with the morn- 
 ing's coat. It was really quite remarkable that not a 
 weed or two was seeding in a filth-blown corner. It 
 was a pity, too, for Mother Minsky's man had been a 
 very faithful laborer, and when he lost his job through 
 being killed she and the dust had filled this berth per- 
 sistently these many terms. The Company wished to 
 do something. Who cared for rubbish in the school? 
 
 But it was not the dust on their desks that ever
 
 46 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 really hindered. The dust of the mill and the mill town 
 lay many years deep on their minds. It was a slowly- 
 gathered pall. You did not move it with a brush; you 
 could not make initials with it. It got in people's eyes. 
 It thickened life. There was a great deal of it. 
 
 Miss Myra liked to hear "The Graded Slab Fork 
 School," which was true. It came in two parts, one 
 being the primary, the other elementary. Others 
 called it what they liked, but few could give it a better 
 name. In fact, it was "Miss Myra's." Herself a 
 product of that town in the valley below, she had 
 been dedicated early to a lifetime's teaching, nature 
 not having gilded her as a lily, nor yet as the rose. No 
 Mapleton affording that latitude she sought for in her 
 inmost soul, she had come years since to the town in 
 the hills, bringing her ambitions with her. They both 
 stayed. She came to create, a school; and she stayed, 
 to dictate. The Fork was better for her. Socially, 
 Miss Barnes had good demand. In music's realm 
 she constituted Slab Fork's all-in-all. She organed 
 them to wedlock, played for the church, gave them 
 material for dancing, and finally, at least in very 
 urgent cases, could sing for them, ah, sadly, at the 
 end. 
 
 When Andy entered this school he was nudging eight, 
 and in the course of his first year there he probably 
 evinced neither more nor less ability that the re- 
 mainder of the little Bergs, and Mickelbys, and Han- 
 sons, who cluttered up the place. Indeed, he was more 
 than once allowed to stay behind at night for fighting. 
 There was a boy named Harry Larrabie, a stocky ten- 
 year old who was the "little boss's" son, and by that 
 token and his own fair size a kind of bully-born among 
 the chidren. Yet when this lad had said to another 
 from out a hard boy-heart that Andy's dad couldn't be
 
 WORK 47 
 
 much of a soldier to work on a bull-chain now, which 
 certainly was not heroic, Andy had picked himself a 
 billet from the wood pile and eased it down on Harry's 
 head. To the end that others were edified, and Harry 
 wore a bump. 
 
 The autumn went and the shivering, pinching chill 
 of the winter came while Andy went to school; and in 
 mid-winter he stayed away two months for school 
 was closed, since education was a seasonable thing in 
 Slab Fork and a single rusted stove, although quite 
 full, could not suffice to keep the clapboard building 
 warm. In spring it would open again; by summer the 
 children were ready for box-work. 
 
 It was a tight winter, even as such things go in the 
 wooded hills of northern Hamlin County. Feet were 
 frozen within the mill, and out among the board-piles 
 in the yard; and in the houses old women hugged the 
 stoves while chills clutched them; the younger moved 
 about in shawls, with clumsy frost-marked fingers. 
 Clothing lacked. Sometimes the larder ran low and 
 there was talk, among the men. The Company had 
 seen its like before ; it looked for things to slacken with 
 the coming of the thaws. 
 
 Emmy went back to live next door. Mrs Johnson 
 came and went with many dishes "I just ran over 
 with this; we had so much we just couldn't eat it" 
 a state of affairs that had probably never existed except 
 in her mind; and Andy fetched them, often, bundles 
 of pine-knots and air-dried fagots. Winter settled a 
 grizzly hand. It had time in plenty. The Company, 
 business-like and anxious to get rid of all the "dead- 
 wood," would gladly have sent the Hansons out of its 
 house at the first passed rent; but Larrabie somehow 
 forbore, at least for a time. It might have brought an 
 undesirable effect just then.
 
 48 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 In mid-winter good Dame Fortune smiled upon the 
 Hanson woman and her daughter, for the Company 
 paid its death benefit in full on Hans. You must know 
 that for everyone who gave his life in serving them the 
 Company would pay his widow or his children, and 
 there were nearly always both, one hundred dollars, 
 cash. If after that they came to want, surely it had 
 scrubbed off its hands. 
 
 Winter ultimately waned, as this hundred of money 
 passed to the Store, and flamed in their lamp and sat 
 upon their table. It was well; the present was enough, 
 hi Slab Fork. Maybe the God would help them, 
 though they had never looked to Him. Somehow He 
 seemed a long journey away. Among the men there 
 was a little talk. Some spoke of the accident, others of 
 the women; a few, thinking, of rights. But what were 
 they? 
 
 One night there came to the Hansons a caller, to 
 whom many looked up and some called "Brother." 
 Parentally dubbed Cosmopolis Thorn, he came from 
 none knew where. Of course he worked. The Com- 
 pany, it was said, looked upon him as about pure fool, 
 but if the men agreed with this they did not say so, 
 since he was treated decently and conspicuously, often 
 as "Mr." Thorn. Conspicuously, for Mr. was re- 
 served for the minister when he was not in the box- 
 factory, and the owner if he were present. When the 
 talk was of the latter, it was just "the damned Old 
 Man." 
 
 As to the "Brother," the men for about a year had 
 been starting up among themselves a kind of semi- 
 secret brotherhood. They called it Eureka Lodge. 
 In the beginning the Company approved, in fact had 
 tacitly encouraged it: "for the promotion of good- 
 fellowship and sociability," the Charter read. As the
 
 WORK 49 
 
 Old Man aptly stated when Jack had put it up to him 
 one day in Mapleton, "Let 'em have it; give 'em some- 
 thing to think about. Shouldn't cost us anything. Even 
 save a bit. C'n step in when we like." 
 
 Eureka grew and flourished and soon had passed 
 original expectations. The Company at first had paid 
 but scant attention. They only knew or thought of it 
 as once-a-month or so assemblies of their men, fore- 
 gathered in the Social Hall that had gone up about a 
 generation back for goodness knows just what. The 
 "Lodge" waxed fat. It swelled with the interest of 
 many, but the credit mostly went to "Cosmo" Thorn. 
 He certainly filled a place among men who had opinions 
 and beliefs a-plenty, but did not know what to do 
 about it. 
 
 When their caller had quitted the Hansons he left 
 behind a little bag of money, exchanged for fresh ideas. 
 
 A few days later, it was pushing the first of May, 
 Andy was restless when he had finished supper and had 
 satisfactorily performed his part in the general order 
 of things. It had been a trying day, all around. Early 
 that morning his father had fallen and injured himself 
 at the mill ; not badly, just enough to dock his pay for 
 three, four days or a week. On top of that he, Andy, 
 had gone to school, where he had had to lick a boy 
 who trampled on his rights, also his cap, at recess. He 
 had not emerged unscathed when the teacher whipped 
 him in school, so that his fruits of victory were very 
 near to ashes. 
 
 Lessons he had had about as usual, yet as a whole 
 his day had dragged. The night at least was fine. He 
 would go out. Leaving by the door at the front, and 
 lightly hopping the low slab fence that bordered his 
 house toward the road, Andy swerved to the right and 
 headed away from the mill.
 
 50 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 As he turned, he saw it sending showers of incandes- 
 cent sparks about, some red, some white, all dulling as 
 they swept above the stacks. Smoke darkened the 
 sight of the mill below, noise fixed it strongly in the 
 hearer's mind, as now and again hoarse calls or shriller 
 yells broke away from the greater clamor that filled the 
 still blacker building and overflowed in failing echoes 
 sent out to lose themselves in night. Black ants, the 
 men, in their still blacker hole, thought Andy. He did 
 not think that ants are self-governed. They were 
 working hard tonight, for logs were coming in a steady 
 stream, and the owner had just got an order which was 
 good for several months. 
 
 Behind the boy was nervous life and restless din; 
 nearer, he could have heard great shaggy men curse 
 tools, machines, each other in a very dispassionate way. 
 Ahead was sober darkness for the most part, and the 
 night-lent quiet of dark forest places. Here and there 
 faint lights peeped from small-sashed windows; a dog 
 lifted his head to bay at the thin sickle of a moon which 
 sent its first, pale-saffron rays between and through the 
 scraggy branches of a lone, upstanding pine across the 
 town. 
 
 Some of that night's splendor reached in to the boy. 
 For a space the spot was obscured where men like mill 
 "culls" warped and shrank, and did not know nor care. 
 The poor, small town transcended itself. The boy felt 
 it. His spirits rose in cadence to a breeze that made 
 a soothing music in the trees along his path. 
 
 A light flared brightly ahead. The boy came near, 
 seeing it burned in Social Hall. What was afoot to- 
 night? The place was seldom lighted, and he had 
 heard no talk of any dance; unless yes, that was 
 it, Eureka met that night! Skirting the front of the 
 shack, he slid boylike to a corner. Here, he knew, a
 
 WORK 51 
 
 hole existed. He had peeked through, and blown in 
 peas during Bible School one Sunday. Not stopping 
 to consider the right or wrongness of his plan, he 
 pushed through the weeds, close to his corner, and 
 listened. Then he looked. 
 
 Yes, he was right. They were in session now. Late 
 arrivals were even entering, for now and then the 
 single door in front creaked, opened, then as quickly 
 closed. A buzz of conversation and occasionally a 
 grating word or syllable reached out to him. It was 
 new, and it was therefore very interesting. 
 
 The other boys could hardly know what they were 
 missing. He would have to tell them all tomorrow. 
 
 VII 
 
 "WHO is there?" cried a voice in the front of the 
 room. Andy could see that the challenge came from a 
 person dressed in a dirty, torn robe, with a thick stick 
 in his hand. 
 
 Another voice said, "La "; " bor," replied the 
 first, the keeper of the door. "Come in." 
 
 They came mostly one-by-one, and as they knocked, 
 paused at the door, and were passed, they went toward 
 the front, and through a smoke-haze of pipe and 
 cigarette clouds Andy saw there many whom he knew. 
 So far back at his end as to be hid from sight, 
 addressed as "Chief" by those who entered and saluted, 
 Andy knew more from the voice replying to the men 
 than from what he might see that this Chief was 
 Cosmopolis Thorn. Three other chairs were ranged 
 about the hall a little higher than the rest. As each
 
 52 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 man entered he saluted the Chief, then passed in succes- 
 sion around the hall, from the first to the third of the 
 others. Andy knew from what had filtered through 
 his crack that the lesser three were styled the first, 
 second, and third "Autocrats." Just what did that 
 mean? He didn't know. 
 
 Something pounded at the Chief's end, and Thorn's 
 voice rose while conversation stopped. There seemed 
 to be preliminaries they all passed through together, 
 when Thorn's voice was heard again and all sat down. 
 
 "Brothers of Eureka, we are here tonight to con- 
 sider a number of matters. The first of them is suffi- 
 ciently important to affect each one of us; and after 
 us, our people. 
 
 "Last week at your request I called upon the widow 
 <of our recent member, Hans Johnson. I find that 
 the Company, after a wait of six months, maintains its 
 policy of giving one hundred dollars cash to the sur- 
 vivors and dependants of those thoroughly mauled, or 
 else killed outright in its service. 
 
 "Mrs. Johnson and her mother had received the 
 hundred about a month before. Of course, with un- 
 paid bills from Hans' death and burial, the widow's 
 got but mighty little of it left now. As you said, there- 
 fore, I left some money from our common fund with 
 them. And, I have certainly determined to land some 
 scheme to wrestle from this company of ours some 
 justice, where and when that much is due." 
 
 Cries of "Yeh! Yeh!" and noise of hand-clapping 
 was thereupon evident, as was the fact that Thorn 
 had reached a timely topic when he invited some opin- 
 ions from the rest. Discussions rose. 
 
 Admirable Rogers had the floor. Andy was sur- 
 prised to see him there, yet the old man was at ease in 
 a respectful silence.
 
 WORK 53 
 
 "Brothers," Rogers began, his voice vibrating, "I 
 guess, if you knew, I've got at least as big a grudge to 
 settle up as anybody here. 'Grudge/ though, it ain't, 
 not by a hot shot. All we want, and all we're ever 
 goin' to ask, is justice! right pay! and a little common, 
 ordinary decency for us and our families! It's mighty 
 little. 
 
 "We, you and I, haven't had none of these, times 
 past. In the future we're goin' to get 'em all!" 
 
 The voice of the old man rose, and the flickering 
 light of the hall cast a warming glow on his head, 
 bended with hardship, whitened with age. He radiated 
 light; it seemed almost a sign. 
 
 Great shouts, "You bet we will!" made the clap- 
 trap building shake, and Thorn rapped hard with his 
 gavel for more caution in their demonstrations. 
 
 Then said the old man, "Probably we're just about 
 as poorly fixed, one way, as any men could be. There 
 aren't any big sinews of organization bindin' together 
 the fellows of our woods, no more the mill. We're like 
 a kid tryin' to run afore it hardly walks. 7 don't 
 think our time is here, not quite. I'm for action, all 
 right, but we've got to hustle slowly." 
 
 The Admirable stopped, with a generally approving 
 murmur from those who are always convinced by the 
 last speaker. A few thought, nevertheless, he went at 
 things too easily. 
 
 So up rose Arthur Witzke, whom rumor connected 
 with the founding of their lodge, as it had Cosmopolis 
 with its organization. 
 
 "Brothers" and it was no longer in the mumbled 
 English of the poor old ravelled fellow who sat down, 
 but in a jargon of a man who looked, with half an 
 eye, what comfortable folk must call an agitator. 
 
 "Brothers! In my own country, Polen, we have
 
 54 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 had long to work for the cause justice and liberty. 
 Those causes have much suffered, and so we have, my 
 brothers. Deutschland, Oestreicht, another, it does not 
 matter. It is the same always. They grind us down, 
 they wear us out, old shoe for the world to walk on. 
 The people, they are pounded down; and they are never 
 the less poor! 
 
 "One year back am I in London. It was on a May- 
 Day, not far off here, the first of the month. But May- 
 Day there had different. Red flags they have, and 
 the police, they dare do nothing. In all the parks men 
 spik as they choose. Nobody there was who dared 
 say to them 'NO!' The police are there. They only 
 look. They try nothing. 
 
 "Then, I remember, speaks one man, and he say 
 'What we care for country? something only to work 
 for; or what we say of love of country? something 
 only to fight for. Love for the countryman, that is 
 what! and let the country look for itself!" 
 
 There jumped up a man the boy could not at first 
 see clearly, though he was quick to recognize the voice. 
 The words came crookedly enough, but there was 
 nothing wrong with them. When he had come the boy 
 didn't know; it was his father. 
 
 "I have been," the old chap cried, "in this country 
 for nearly fifty years. I have suffered for it, fought for 
 it, by god ! and I have never had regret. 
 
 "Blame the guilty, if you like, my Brothers, but 
 never to forget the flag that covers innocent. It is a fine 
 flag, a wonderful flag. For it I would die. Red flags, 
 might be, fill pockets. Our flag fills hearts, means every- 
 thing big things in men's minds, love in women's 
 hearts, good blood in bodies, strength, great strength 
 in souls." His voice rang out. 
 
 "Brotherhood of man? It only wins for man where
 
 WORK 55 
 
 country comes before, and men behind. The love of 
 country? It is everything! It is no more to blame for 
 Holden Gates than us ourselves. I have fought for this 
 flag once, many times. Again would I do so. Let us 
 plan, but not forget. Foreign ways are not of ours in 
 the native land." 
 
 Applause roared out, the old man sank down, tired. 
 Witzke looked sour, and thought of something to say. 
 But Bill Boddfish had the floor. Bill had tact, with 
 something of humor, and it is possible was simply 
 warding off Witzke. The agitator, if such, was self- 
 opinionated, clung tenaciously to his conclusions and 
 was careless of the rest and theirs. Also, to return to 
 the last of the speakers, Bill had been drinking. Most 
 of them did at times. When Bill drank he saw him- 
 self peculiarly oppressed. 
 
 "Brothers," said he, "and Chief, a little while back 
 I was a-lookin' at a paper of a night, and I seen men- 
 tion made of some all-fired old feller down the State 
 as had just a-bought a nine thousand dollar what? 
 A nine thousand dollar dog-collar! When I read it I 
 knowed I knowed that guy, and sure enough, if it 
 wan't our own 'Old Man.' " 
 
 "And I sat there and thank of the idacity of a feller 
 to get a dog-collar that-a-way; and for a dog! I felt 
 kinda sick to my stummick. And, I says, 'Ain't that 
 ignorant?' If I had a been down there in Mapleton 
 about that time, I bet I'd a snuck up behind that dog, 
 and I bet they'd a had to have the muni-cipal police- 
 man out to kep me from a doin' what I'd liked to. 
 
 " 'Tain't like me, 'tain't at all. I mebbe was born 
 once with a plated spoon in my mouth, but I bit the 
 handle off en it right quick! You bet. 
 
 "Puts me in mind o' something else. I disremember 
 now just what it was, but anyways I says, 'Here is a
 
 56 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 pretty howdy-do.' An' I says Damn! What was 
 it I says, anyways, Joe?" 
 
 A good many laughed and Thorn rapped sharply on 
 his table. The recalcitrant Bill, when he would go on, 
 found himself well-seated next to Joe, and with some 
 final forms the meeting closed, not very prodigal in re- 
 sult or agreement. But when Thorn and Witzke left, a 
 child with half an eye could see that they were satisfied. 
 
 Dimming lights and trampling men roused Andrew, 
 and just enough of caution lasted in the sleepy boy to 
 hinder his return till things were quiet. Going by a 
 back way, he clambered the fence while his father 
 fumbled at the door. Expectant of abuse the boy was 
 quiet, but the father scarcely saw him. Andy had 
 thought to tell him, but the elder's stern face dissuaded 
 him as he limped inside and bade the boy good-night. 
 
 VIII 
 
 ANDY thought for a day of the meeting. New things 
 came up, and in time he completely forgot it. 
 
 If the men remembered at May-day, at least they 
 gave no sign that he could see, and soon the school 
 had closed, for June was come. The season that to 
 other boys spelled rest and vacation, swimming, and 
 camping, and tramping, meant to the lad only a change 
 of work. Idleness was a condition Slab Fork had 
 never tolerated; it could not afford it. When school 
 closed one entered the box factory, swept the mill, or 
 tried a hand at cleaning up the yard. The last was 
 healthful, and there was little of it. 
 
 Andy made boxes, for he was strong and growing
 
 WORK 57 
 
 and the next year would be ten. The box factory 
 never paid so well in coin, but anything was something. 
 Sometimes it sent its boys and women home with 
 twisted fingers or saw-bit hands, and nearly always 
 at night with lame backs and sorry hearts. But what 
 were any of these, or all of them in fact, just so a 
 body still could work? 
 
 Andy began with the strength of nine and the energy 
 of more, to the end that now and again his wages rose 
 to thirty cents a day. People there worked by the 
 piece. As work went up, rates slid down, for it did 
 not do to earn too much. They might get wrong ideas. 
 
 He started with plenty of health, spirits, and ardor. 
 Most of them did. He pulled square, shook-laden 
 trucks through and about the plant; he trimmed the 
 ends from boards and sized the boards for cases; and 
 more than once he glued the boxes or worked about 
 machines that sealed the ends with grooves or nails. ' 
 The boy liked it, this sense of making money, and when 
 pay-day neared in mid- July he used to speculate on 
 how he might get rid of all that he had made. For 
 Andy could have a dollar of his wages, every week. 
 Only the rest would go to his mother, though mostly 
 folks felt and maybe rightly that all their children 
 earned belonged to them. It was a case of bread, 
 not ethics. 
 
 The boy worked happily, and though he waked 
 tired and breakfasted half-heartedly and went to bed 
 again at night with ears and head that thrummed to the 
 roar of the mill, limbs that ached with its tasks, he got 
 along, since he was doing something for himself. Be- 
 cause he had known no foolish philosophy of doing 
 something for the other fellow, he felt no reason why 
 he might not dream dreams or sing at his work. He 
 liked it.
 
 58 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 Now Andy knew that in their life the Company gave 
 dispensation for two full holidays in each and every 
 year. With it they gave their blessing to one and all, 
 but no wages, for indeed there is a limit. In return 
 they only asked that nobody get so drunk those days 
 as to be sick the next. Here Andy recollected that in 
 the normal course of men and things the next great day, 
 come soon, would be the Fourth. 
 
 His father, rarely, told of other Fourths that he 
 had known, and judging by his tales the day had 
 sometime had a meaning. Though the dry-rot of the 
 Fork had never sapped completely his remembrance, 
 this man would certainly have been far less than 
 human if the spirituous fervor of that day of the woods 
 had not caused a rebirth of much he once felt. The 
 day meant little now but getting drunk, and men came 
 in from woods and far-off camps to meet the others 
 of the town who had quit on the night before. There 
 were always old friends, and fights, and subsequently 
 bone-dry throats and long-drawn faces to be taken 
 home. Rather naturally, Andy looked half-heartedly 
 upon a day in which he was not old enough to take 
 a very active part. In Mapleton, he heard a man say 
 once, there was speaking and parading and a band, 
 things called fire-crackers and torpedoes, too, which 
 must have been good fun even if they failed to make 
 as great an outcry as the pistols and the shotguns 
 which he knew. 
 
 With early morning the mill's siren was still, but in 
 its place there rose to greet the sun the bark and snap 
 of rifles up towards Baum's, where rows of men fresh 
 from the woods had come to quaff the customary 
 drink that opened eyes, and was the Slab Fork peep- 
 o'-day for most, in even ordinary times. They break- 
 fasted late that morning, at Andy's, and it was after
 
 WORK 59 
 
 eight o'clock when he had done his share of stacking 
 and washing the dishes and filling the wood box with 
 slabs from the yard, which last lay quite conveniently 
 across the road from home. 
 
 Mid-morning saw Andy on his back beside a pine- 
 tree near the river, tiring of the noise behind and 
 wishful of a change. The woods rose up around him, 
 fresh and cool, damp, too, and odorous with the oily 
 smell of the needles that lay upon the forest floor and 
 softened the bumps of his couch. It was ideal "poor 
 man's weather," where the rain meant lay-offs. 
 
 Birds called across the weaving tops of the pines, 
 while here and there, far out, now close to shore, a fish 
 rose undisturbed to send a little swirl of curling ripples 
 along the silent places of the stream. Had he been older 
 he would no doubt have thought great things through 
 the nearness of a Nature more often wonderful than 
 understood. Being but a boy, and of Slab Fork, with 
 some ten winters and nine summers to his credit, he 
 was probably not greatly inspired, but satisfied and 
 soothed, by mysteries he could not solve, and did not 
 wish to. 
 
 His dreaming took form in a nap, to such good pur- 
 pose that when a chipmunk from on top let fall a 
 seed which struck his head, and followed it up with 
 a torrent of squirrel-like abuse, he awoke of a sudden 
 to find himself feeling like dinner. The rays of the 
 sun struck straight downward on the trees, and he 
 knew his feelings had not played him tricks, as boyish 
 stomachs do. Thereupon he got him home without 
 delay. But after dinner, so unaccustomed was he to the 
 feel of holidays, he walked about the lumber piles and 
 sawdust streets for possibly an hour or more without 
 encountering that thing of which he was in search, 
 just fun. True, now and then an incident occurred
 
 60 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 which served to gild his day. Up near the Hall a 
 drunken fellow from the woods had fired the fuse of a 
 giant cracker, held in one hand, by the light of a short 
 cigar in the other. The cracker spluttered in his 
 hand, apparently went out, and then shot off with such 
 a roar that women screamed and boys yelled out in ner- 
 vous glee. Then other men came running up to see 
 the 'jack gaze stupidly upon a wrist and some of what 
 had been a hand. But they fetched turpentine, bound 
 up the stump, gave its owner a drink, and hurried him 
 off. 
 
 In the Hall near-by the din of a dance had been 
 progressing undisturbed. From a corner window Andy 
 saw stout fellows in checkered suits and bagging 
 pants dance awkwardly but happily enough with some 
 young women of the town, who tittered and choked 
 when the strains of the lone organ and drum died 
 down and their sweating swains led them to a place 
 where something frothingly yellow ran in an endless 
 stream from a very large, black keg. It fell, when it 
 did not spill, into roomy mugs held shakily below, and 
 when the cups were emptied of their draught the music 
 set tirelessly to work anew and the drinking gave way 
 for a spell to waltzes and two-steps done in the ways 
 of the woods, which you must know are first of all 
 home-made. There were other boys around, some 
 smoking cigarettes, others just loitering until some 
 kindly soul or elder brother passed out a portion of 
 the beer. 
 
 Andy did not relish beer, as he had never tasted 
 it. A little later he decided for a walk. He started 
 out beyond the yard, then followed the track that led 
 to the station. Where the wagon road turned south 
 for Mapleton there was a car, an automobile. One 
 man sat in it, beside a wheel. An older one, with a
 
 WORK 61 
 
 cap and long tan coat, was standing to one side. He 
 was talking with Larrabie, the only one among the 
 group that Andrew knew. A little ahead of the car 
 two women and a little girl were slowly walking. Now 
 and again they stopped in their stroll, while the more 
 apparent of the older persons looked back impatiently. 
 
 Cars were not common. Roads were ultra-poor, 
 which did not matter greatly as there was no one 
 to ride them anyway. Andy sidled past, as close as he 
 dared. He thought of asking questions of the one in- 
 side the car, who looked a friendly sort, but the man 
 with Mr. Larrabie glanced up and Andrew changed 
 his mind. Walking more rapidly, he was shortly even 
 with the three pedestrians. Not knowing them he felt 
 at liberty to gratify his curiosity, which he took out in 
 staring. One seemed young, strong, rather fattish, 
 and was bright with color; the other grown-up looked 
 very neutral. She was drab, and said little; must be a 
 grandmother or something, he thought. He did not 
 know some folks have nurses. 
 
 It was the third among them, though, that held 
 attention longest. He did not know just what she was. 
 She seemed to be a little girl, and very pretty, maybe 
 a foreigner. She might be six or seven, ten or twelve. 
 The little Bergs and Wickstroms that he knew were 
 not an index. Her hair was dark, with dainty ribbons. 
 She was carrying a flowery hat which dangled from one 
 hand. There were other ribbons on the hat. She was 
 very airy, so bright and sweet-looking too. He thought 
 perhaps he would like her; but he was more afraid of 
 her. Accordingly he hesitated. 
 
 The older lady did not, that gay, rich-looking one. 
 She had been walking on ahead and treading most judi- 
 ciously upon the sawdust of the road. By right of snug 
 shoes made for riding or an innate squeamishness, she
 
 62 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 always seemed ready to step on a nail. Andy had seen 
 his mother walk like that when she was looking out be- 
 hind his house for eggs. 
 
 Now turning, this other person called, quite sharply, 
 "Come, come, Barbara, don't keep so far behind!" 
 The little girl jumped, as she had in turn been vir- 
 tuously appraising the odd-appearing lad. Balked hi 
 an attempt to classify, she hurried on. 
 
 Very shortly the machine with the two men caught 
 up with them, the others entered it and soon were gone. 
 A cloud of thick dust that gradually cleared was the 
 last that he saw of a very red car. 
 
 When he got home he thought of speaking to his 
 mother about a very small and pretty girl that made 
 him think of angels. His mother was paring potatoes, 
 very thin, and he gave up the plan. 
 
 By night crowds gathered from the camps outside 
 and when Andy, still wandering, peeped in the door 
 of Baum's, he found the Drug Store crowded to its 
 walls with swearing, jostling men; and now and then 
 one issued forth to find a place of comfort and con- 
 venience on the ground before the door. Strangers 
 were there, others he knew, men, some women too. 
 A cheap piano rattled rebelliously; the crowds laughed. 
 The men were of woods and mill. They took their 
 Fourth hi terms of booze and women, both bad. 
 
 Andy heard one great fellow say to the rest by the 
 piano, "Who were the best man here 'fore / come in?" 
 Someone from behind tapped him with a bottle, set- 
 tling the bet. 
 
 The men were frank about it all. They brought 
 money to see a woman again, and drink. They were 
 honestly picturesque, with their colored shirts and 
 bulging pants, crushed-up hats and the shapeless high- 
 top boots that met their trousers at the knee. They
 
 WORK 63 
 
 were exactly what they looked. Their women were 
 birds of passage. They were smooth with talc, 
 glary with color. They had animal beauty and human 
 appeal for the locally fastidious, if drunk enough. One 
 or two of them had fairly decent bodies. Their faces 
 were nicely prepared, their clothes too fine. Their 
 hands were cold and hard, but they had very polished 
 nails. 
 
 The 'jacks did not expect to keep their pocketbooks. 
 
 The old Admirable, no longer his sombre self, was 
 the center of an interested group, much as in his other 
 days, if what men said were true, folk of another sort 
 had heard him quite respectfully in different places. 
 But he had slipped and fallen, even as he now seemed 
 on the verge of dropping from the chair-seat where 
 he stood by grace of luck. The old fellow had tasted 
 deep of the spirit of the day, but younger men en- 
 couraged as often as his glass went dry. 
 
 In return he seemed to entertain them, vastly, for the 
 old Admirable could be witty and rather disgustingly 
 funny to boot when in his cups. Witzke, the ever un- 
 easy, was saying, "Give us that little song you wrote 
 the other day." The old fellow, as he balanced there 
 with a glass in one hand and a flag, yes, Andy saw it 
 was a flag, his flag, in the other, seemed not to under- 
 stand. But the other was patient, and his insolence 
 finally bored through poor old Roger's drink-dulled 
 mind. When the rest had quieted a little the old 
 fellow straightened his back, his voice rose quavering 
 and queer. 
 
 The flag of the Fourth waved in one hand, his glass 
 kept up the time. The words reached out to the boy. 
 What the tune was he did not know. Presumably the 
 author made it as he went along, though indeed it was 
 a medley. The words seemed mixed, not dainty. The
 
 64 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 crowd didn't mind and they, of whom Witzke was 
 center, persisted until he was sung quite dry. 
 
 Admirable Jack was not a singer and his rhyme 
 would not hold water, but it took the crowd, as it 
 was oj them. It was something like 
 
 "Though Hunyaks, men say, are jar and away 
 The poorest damned trash in this town, 
 Though they curse, though they fight, though they 
 often are tight 
 
 They've got jeelings, with guts, deeper down" 
 
 "Yeh! Good! Go on, go on," they yelled, so 
 
 "Work levels all men, and lays upon them 
 
 The knocks and the struggles, the ups and the downs, 
 
 Till the days with their nights, the wrongs and their 
 
 fights, 
 Might bring other times, better fellows, around." 
 
 "Another! Give us another." Obligingly he went 
 along 
 
 "It isn't the labor, the cold or the heat, 
 It isn't the blows and the curses that sound, 
 
 It isn't low wages that grind to the bone 
 It's the devil-built System that's knuckling us down." 
 
 "Yeh, Yeh! Set 'em up for the Admirable," came 
 from the crowd. 
 
 He waved his flag in an excess of zeal and the 
 success of his effort, which together brought him and 
 his flag and his empty glass to a quick, unfortunate 
 finale. The glass broke to bits under his feet, many 
 stooped to succor the fallen singer, and Witzke prof- 
 ited by the confusion to right and step upon the chair. 
 
 Drunk, he could still "agitate." He talked wildly of
 
 WORK 65 
 
 the men, and the Fourth, and at last the flag he had 
 plucked from the floor. His words came rather dis- 
 connectedly and no one noticed much, till with an oath 
 he threw the flag away, and spit upon it. Then a hand 
 reached out. It cast him crashing from the chair, 
 and Andy saw his father in a group of yelling men. 
 
 Things grew blurred. Glasses and bottles flew. 
 Finally the throng gave way and good Bill Boddfish 
 tottered out with Sandy Jackson, the right arm of the 
 law, and in between them Andy's father. The noise, 
 hardly broken, kept on inside, but the boy had seen 
 enough. He reached home first, to overhear Sandy 
 say at the gate, "Good man! Johnson." 
 
 His father entered, and the others left. 
 
 A cloudy morning; empty bottles and well-filled men 
 lying about the board piles, and the street; money 
 strayed, sense flown. The bottles laid there. Men 
 slowly gathered themselves together and left for the 
 woods or their work. Many had spent their Fourth in 
 town. It was a great success. 
 
 IX 
 
 " 'WHEN in the course of human events ... a 
 decent respect to ... we hold these truths to be self- 
 evident: that all men are created equal; they are en- 
 dowed by the Creator with certain inalienable rights; 
 that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of 
 happiness. . . .' 
 
 "This, ladies and gentlemen, was the rich gift of 
 some forefathers to their children. It was their bargain 
 with posterity's future. Hev we tried to do our share? 
 Hev we? There have been times, I say, when Justice
 
 66 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 has almost fell down from her chair. The pursuit of 
 happiness has almost ended in a riot, liberty made 
 a by-word, life hardly worth living. Discouragements 
 have piled up fast and almost overcame us. 
 
 "They said, 'Prudence indeed will dictate that gov- 
 ernments long established should not be changed for 
 light and transient causes; . . .' 
 
 "But if this be so, did it persuade them, did it hold 
 them back? No, not one! One hundred times no! 
 Like them, we should get up and say: 
 
 " Tor the support of this declaration, with a firm 
 reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we 
 mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, 
 and our sacred honor.' ' 
 
 So rolled the famous words of time from the grimly, 
 queerly puckered lips of Benjamin Bergland Bronson. 
 The day was Slab Fork's graduation, and "B. B." was 
 "oratin' " for the school. His effort, the teacher main- 
 tained, was his own, though the sentences and phrases 
 which followed one another rapidly and trickled out 
 in now the treble, next the bass, of the awkwardly slip- 
 ping voice seemed strongly tinctured with the Declara- 
 tion; in fact, the latter seemed but weakly watered with 
 the words of his oratin'. 
 
 But who cared? Not Benjy's mother, certainly. 
 Quotation marks do not disfigure in a speech, they 
 rather emphasize, and so there was no way for her 
 to tell just what was his and which was not. So she 
 set it down to him, in toto, in the way of all good 
 mamas. The teacher was pleased she had had a 
 finger or two in Benjy's oratorical pie; none of the 
 fellow-graduates or other scholars were disturbed by 
 the words in the least. Declarations and Constitutions 
 and Magnae Chartae seldom troubled Slab Fork. 
 They got lost in the woods. Progress and literature
 
 WORK 67 
 
 alike were typified and lived in countless pages of un- 
 used mail order catalogues which lay beside the family 
 Bible on the table. Only often there was not a table, 
 and frequently no Book. 
 
 Apart from Benjy's words, the others were glad 
 to keep pace with his gestures which, boylike, were sel- 
 dom packed with grace. Evidently they had been 
 caught from meetings at the church. The Rev. Olson 
 was an eloquent man. He drove nails into boxes at the 
 factory; he handled words the same way at the church. 
 
 Benjy's effort, on "Man, His Rights" had 
 "took." Written by Continentals, reinforced by Olson, 
 shot straight at them by Benjy, it held his hearers to 
 a tardy end. A little girl declaimed upon the modern 
 trend of Shakespeare, though about as near as they had 
 ever reached that Muse of Men was in the weekly 
 verses of "The Village Blacksmith" which were pub- 
 lished in the Crier, Mapleton. There was a boy, also, 
 who had his way on "Suffrage and Ancient History; 
 Then, and Now." Myra's fine hand made the day. 
 
 But Benjy was the only one who talked of love of 
 country. Stripped of historic trimming, Benjy's effort 
 would have been an empty shell. Given as it was, it 
 had impressed the younger Andy quite profoundly, 
 for he had always liked the other. Benjy never picked 
 on smaller boys, he was too big. Accordingly, Andy 
 listened raptly and comprehended some. A little 
 soaked in, and the words of the proclamation immortal, 
 so different in meaning and tone, filled him with pride 
 of the past and a glimpse of the spirit which could burst 
 out unafraid in men without even a country only, it 
 seemed, to gradually lower and simmer as the country 
 rose strong from its cradle. 
 
 Why, then, this failing in his country's growth? Ah, 
 but he knew. He had heard old Rogers say, once on a
 
 68 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 time, that if they all had kept in one band as they 
 started, the spirit of 1776 might have been the spirit 
 of 1876, no end. Some men went up, but most came 
 down. Many tumbled, a few got pushed. As the old 
 fellow had put it, "This country won't never amount 
 to shucks until her gifts return to all her people, with 
 well-filled lives, a share of liberty, yes, and 'the pur- 
 suit of happiness' with an even chance of catchhV 
 up with it." 
 
 Miss Myra's voice broke up his study and he awoke 
 to see the pigtail of the little girl in front. Just as 
 he heard a touch of asperity sound in the second sum- 
 mons of his teacher, the little tow-haired girl turned 
 well around. 
 
 "Andy, Andy! go an' get yours!" 
 
 And when he came to, he found himself receiving the 
 diploma of the Slab Fork school. He had been to 
 school, if off-and-on, a long, long spell for 
 Slab Fork and he realized that now at last was 
 he master indeed of lots of the law, if none of the 
 profits, as such bosh went up there. He'd show it to 
 his friend Bill Boddfish, who would hand it back 
 and surely say he "had forgot his glasses." And 
 the knowledge of all that he knew appalled him. 
 He walked home with a proudly conscious mind and 
 a royally happy heart, his mother with him. At 
 their gate she kissed him, and they went in together. 
 
 She kissed the boy good-by. He was ripe for the 
 Mill. 
 
 The summer ate deep in that one day's pride. It 
 took toll of his youth and made sport of his learn- 
 ing. It molded him to suit machines which ran by 
 the power of the System that they might run and 
 work and mold for It.
 
 WORK 69 
 
 It calloused his hands and hardened his heart and 
 made his mind afraid. The spirit of the boy was 
 hovering to wing away, and the look of the impotent 
 earner got ready to replace it. Lines came that are 
 sketched by the hand of long hours and monotonous 
 toil, and of the spirit which is not Hope. Her name is 
 Luck, and "workin' against the odds;" working not 
 for something that will be, but simply that which is. 
 The boy fed his machines; fed the endless chain and 
 iron jaws with wood; fed them with the right of boys 
 to boyhood; with the wish for better, and the hope 
 for nothing worse. 
 
 His mother saw. To his father the lad grew more 
 manly as his envelope each month became a little 
 thicker and the son a little thinner. 
 
 One night voices in the tiny living-room below kept 
 him awake; he heard his name; the sound of his father 
 speaking, his mother's reply. Other nights there were 
 when talk was late and days when there was even more 
 economy, upon their table less of what one needed to 
 keep poor bodies all alive. If the bodies could go on, 
 it was enough. Souls were well enough for those who 
 could afford them. 
 
 Fall reached them early in the North, where the 
 short summer's heat could torture just as hard but 
 not so long as the winters which held the workers 
 and their huts in frosty teeth. There was a day when 
 Andy stayed at home and on toward night he packed a 
 few worn clothes, the way his father said. Together 
 they left Slab Fork, on the railroad which every day 
 at dark turned down to a town below. His father said 
 to bid the rest good-by. He kissed his brother, but 
 his mother almost smothered him. 
 
 The brothers of Eureka met again that night. 
 
 Another year of the Lodge was up, so that they paid
 
 70 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 their dues as Witzke bade them, as they had done be- 
 fore. Their numbers had grown, with feeling of their 
 strength. 
 
 They talked. Their Secretary wrote two letters. 
 Both went to Mapleton next day, toward night. One 
 was thick, its contents worn and dirty some of it 
 torn, all of it good. The other was thinner; it went 
 to Holden Gates. They had waited a long time to 
 send his letter; they expected to hear from both, so 
 they were patient. They had been waiting for a 
 generation. 
 
 They stopped at Pop's on going home. His friend- 
 ship was always the same.
 
 WASTE 
 X 
 
 THERE abides a town in the north of New 
 York which long ago was founded by the first 
 stout-hearted builders of the Empire, those 
 toilers in wood and stone whose early handiwork ex- 
 tended far beyond their own days and their sons'; to 
 even the coming of iron and steel, and now. 
 
 They set the town upon a sloping, fertile piece of 
 uncleared land; for to the east and farther north was 
 water, pure, cool and straight from outcropping hills; 
 and on the other sides were forests and a sloping plain, 
 and still another stream, more quiet, which edged them 
 roundabout and at last placidly threw in its lot with 
 the first. And because shadebearers of the name stood 
 beside the stream, and on the plain were many of that 
 name, they called their village Mapleton. The name 
 endured and the place grew up and out, until one 
 day twin lines of steel reached to the settlement that 
 at the first lay only by the water whose bosom lapped 
 the edges of the town. Prosperity edged in as its 
 people settled on the land, till at last it made a city, 
 small but virile. 
 
 Yet one day its growing slackened, almost stopped. 
 Trains still rolled along the heavy rails but many went 
 on through without so much as a pause, and industry 
 and business sped overhead in the onrush of progress 
 and quickening civilization which passed westward and 
 beyond, still farther. 
 
 A bilious quiet fell upon the place and men, young 
 
 71
 
 72 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 men, talked of the past: a town of yesterday with 
 memories of one-time common fortune. Encompassing 
 fringes of bare, abandoned farms, poor mud-splotched 
 streets, paint chipping from the fronts of old, substan- 
 tial houses which were fashioned in the styles of other 
 times, were of the now. In pre- Revolutionary days the 
 place had been a trading-post, a jerry-built metropolis 
 in the forest-wrapped heights that hemmed it in be- 
 tween the valley of Great Moosehead river and the 
 high, jet spurs of threatening hills. 
 
 Justly was Mapleton proud of the past; as happily 
 did it wave careless fingers at a future. 
 
 Some prestige still attached by virtue of its desig- 
 nation as the county seat, but business was quiet and 
 factories few. An industry was now and then attracted 
 by the natural water-powers and reasonable accessi- 
 bility the town afforded, yet few concessions and little 
 real encouragement were ever given them to settle. 
 Mostly, they didn't. Conservatism was the keynote. 
 Further and greater factories meant labor, and they 
 were not so far from Slab Fork as not to know what 
 labor looked like. There was industry and just 
 enough to leave prosperity in spots. No booms for 
 them. Their quietness was safety. 
 
 Such travellers as had to pay infrequent visits to its 
 marts in search of trade, which was not, were some- 
 times suspiciously complacent when they took their 
 leave of "Dave's" and rode in his 'bus to the train for 
 home, or anywhere else at least. The dust of the town 
 was not the good, soft, city smoke. One filled the 
 eyes, the other lined their noses, but the latter was the 
 breath of hurry, industry and business; the other 
 just descended and more quietly remained. 
 
 Dust there was, at all times save when it turned to 
 splashing pools of mud and water; or when the idle
 
 WASTE 73 
 
 streets filled deep with piled-up drifts old-fashioned 
 winters brought, these village streets so primly 
 fringed with double rows of sugar maples. And maples 
 caught the sun in summer before it reached the road, 
 or hindered winter's drifts. Again, come spring or 
 fall, they gave a pleasant savor of the season as their 
 leaf -buds swelled to full or as the dead-ripe foliage first 
 turned then fell in wealth of red and green and 
 tawny gold which was the last good gift of the advanc- 
 ing cold. They furnished life, green life, to Mapleton. 
 In this there was but little competition. 
 
 Broad were the streets and quiet, save when a body 
 passed along the stone-flagged walks or rattling demo- 
 crats and buggies jogged into town, dust-flecked or 
 mud-encrusted from fine old packed-dirt roads un- 
 troubled still by cement or Mr. Macadam; passed into 
 town and out again, occasionally most days, almost till 
 gray of dawn in the course of a Saturday's night with 
 its trading and holiday-making. 
 
 The town's own "square" devised by usefulness 
 rather than beauty contained not too compactly a 
 wooden banking structure which also might with just 
 as great propriety have been a notions store, a lodging- 
 house or bakery; the Post Office Building, until the 
 last administration a leading grocery; a harness- 
 maker's place and baker's shop; and less important 
 miscellany. In toto Mapleton possessed three meat 
 markets, twenty stores, one bearable hotel, a Civil War 
 cannon and a soda parlor, two millineries, a single jail 
 and a rotting bandstand. The stores were small, the 
 hotel poor, the millineries strange. The meat markets 
 were all, dirty to boot, and smelled to Heaven. But 
 people, more or less, bought perforce at the stores and 
 occasionally bided at "Dave's." The merchants and 
 Dave were monopolists; they did accordingly.
 
 74 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 The marts of Mapleton reminded dimly of the ad- 
 vertising spaces of a city's journal, and they might 
 well have catered to the crassly curious or such as 
 sought variety for its own sweet sake. They had 
 benches before them, partly for groceries and mostly to 
 sit. Wind-tattered, rain-splashed signs in front adjured 
 him who knew to chaw "Corn Cracker"; old "Watch- 
 Dog" galluses would see that his affairs were kept in 
 place. Soft drinks were featured, as also patterns, 
 dress shields, and shirts for lumberjacks; with cheap 
 cigars which, stanchly built, were there to lend their 
 crimson-banded, fly-flaked presence to the view. 
 
 Window space teetered 'twixt dishpans and dentri- 
 fice, grape juice and colic cure, shoe polish, indigenous 
 plants. Most purveyed food. It was fresh while it 
 held together, fruit if it did not spoil while you waited, 
 for Mapleton was more than the span of a day's going 
 from the oranges of Florida and the pineapples of 
 Honolulu. 
 
 Most marts had the cheese-box rostra for dissect- 
 ing men and things of state, albeit with dull knives. 
 Wagner's "chorus of villagers" topped off the general 
 mise en scene. Some stores offered clothing, often 
 the suitings of yesteryear. It wasn't their fault; folks 
 ought of got 'em sooner. You did not have to visit 
 half-a-hundred shops to do your purchasing at Maple- 
 ton. What one man hadn't, the rest hadn't either. 
 One sign said bold and black "Team and Auto 
 Hiring; Fresh Meats and Ice for Sale; Funeral Direc- 
 tor and Embalmer." Dwelt in the village the little 
 brother of our good department store. 
 
 The place was slipping back. It had put down a foot 
 on the new and radical; it had left it there the foot 
 and it had gone to sleep. It happened so easily, 
 without effort. Effort would have forged ahead. The
 
 WASTE 75 
 
 stores and business places spoke for the present; occa- 
 sionally some building, the Court House or a home 
 along State Street, made answer for the past. The 
 roofs of all were coated with moss, the streets in spots 
 with weeds. 
 
 This Court House, an old, age-tempered edifice: it 
 set you hankering to settle down inside the quiet, stout- 
 built offices a second and maybe take a nap. It 
 was no longer busy; it was restful. As the official 
 center it held the Board of Education, County Treas- 
 urer and Surrogate and Clerk, the State's Attorney, 
 and the Register of Wills, all stuffed inside as anyone 
 could see who cared to con a painted strip within. It 
 stood in a square of tall old maples, where its tower 
 showed by day the four faces of a clock which looked 
 out North, East, South, and West, and whose chime 
 by night, answering for unseen faces, sometimes early, 
 often late, reached throughout the town to say that all 
 was well and bedtime come or gone. Beside the Court 
 House, 'way back in a park-like place, the high school 
 stood, the Free Academy of Mapleton as it was known. 
 All through the year the vine-clung walls gave shelter 
 and fair learnin' almost free to those who could not 
 have a modish school. 
 
 But Mapleton had something of the modern, a village 
 paper, several splendid factories and two dentists, 
 again monopolists. These plants were not too large, 
 but prospering and run on rather proper lines. They 
 turned out cooperage, redoubtable vehicles, wooden 
 novelties, underwear, some metal castings and old em- 
 ployees. Automobiles had a few years since scared 
 their first country horses, and then there were 
 railroads. They were two, and they were not much 
 used. Few of the faithful ever fared forth. But if 
 they did it was to come again one day and say, de-
 
 76 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 lightedly, "How very natural it all looks! I don't be- 
 lieve the dear old town has changed one bit." 
 
 Generally, they were right. 
 
 The yeomanry of Mapleton was chiefly all-American, 
 if unenthusiastically. They were so American that the 
 roots of their family trees were planted deep in the 
 soil of the first Thirteen. Down to the old bedrock of 
 undivided allegiance they reached, and there was never 
 any other country for them, whatever faults they may 
 have held as individuals or altogether. 
 
 This much, then, they may have missed by being un- 
 progressive: the putrid claw of foreign infidelity had 
 never touched nor weakened the fundamentals of their 
 growth, or rather life. There was rarely a man and 
 never a reason to speak for one land with the lips 
 while the heart kept time for another. 
 
 True, a few auslanders had wandered in, but they 
 apparently had been absorbed; they were prosperous, 
 and leading, and Mapleton was as much of the one as 
 was the Fork of the other, since the native-born lived 
 in the valley, supported in part by the efforts of aliens 
 who had passed on through to the woods. A few had 
 been rich a long time; the rest poor the same time. It 
 was a pot-pie of simmering emotions, things friendli- 
 ness, cruelty, kindness, sham; meddling, largehearted- 
 ness, bravery and cowardice, clean neighborliness, 
 anonymous letters; good brewed with the bad, the 
 worthless, and the moss-touched. Its crust was thin, 
 and it had been cooked in a shallow dish, over a slow 
 fire. 
 
 Folks loved municipal peace. Even elections did not 
 disturb them much except there was Republican wea- 
 ther, which brought the land-tillers down from the 
 hills to carry the vote that way. They of Slab Fork 
 voted not, neither did they share in what was voted.
 
 WASTE 77 
 
 There had been infrequent talk of going up and making 
 real Americans, showing them just how to take their 
 part as citizenry in local statecraft. But this the more 
 conservative had frowned upon. Why bring them down 
 when they were so contented? 
 
 Occasionally old Holden Gates and partner, Her- 
 mann Vogel, had speech on this. For as law in a small 
 town is seldom sufficient unto itself, and the field of 
 limited litigation must be strengthened and combined 
 with real estate, insurance, business enterprise, coal 
 and wood and politics but most with politics so 
 the legal union of Vogel and Gates had messed a bit 
 therein. They were Prominent Citizens. Both were 
 sufficiently careless, or ambitious, so that it often 
 seemed that if the foreign ignorance of Slab Rock 
 could only be "managed" with some Yankee shrewdness 
 at the polls, voted as they were worked, en masse, un- 
 thinking, it would be a handsome factor. 
 
 Election days still passed as any other at the Fork. 
 The foreman, occasionally some other, came down to 
 Mapleton to vote. The doltish, unnaturalized rest 
 worked; "Americanization" had passed on the other 
 side anyhow. Also, voting took time; time was 
 lumber; lumber money. Viola tout! 
 
 Vogel was a radical, for Mapleton. Gates perhaps 
 was also, but knew his people. He owned a fine nose 
 for smelling out political weather, had been already a 
 State Senator, was Mayor as long as he had wanted, 
 and now was waiting for something better to turn up. 
 
 Ordinarily, in Mapleton, things "turned up" slowly. 
 A contented, meandering, comfortable folk were they, 
 but most of all contented; sitting back in winter upon 
 their hair-cloth best in sunny parlors, in light and 
 warmth of slumbering wood-fires; more clement sea- 
 sons of the year, and they were rocking easily on little
 
 78 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 cramped-up "stoops." It was quite logically a 
 goodly village, "The Queen of Hamlin County," and 
 everyone was satisfied. 
 
 In the day of our fathers man needed man. James, 
 trader, required Jerry, miller; and Thomas, house- 
 holder, looked toward young Tim, the smith. They 
 leaned on one another's shoulders, they took each 
 other's arms. But even Mapleton could never be like 
 that again. The first people were usually those who had 
 always been so. They had made Mapleton. Why 
 should they not keep it? The rest simply worked in 
 their mills. 
 
 The Gates had always been there. They were there- 
 fore established, though they had not always been rich. 
 It was thought that this would be forgotten. They 
 were very successful now. 
 
 Gates the elder had seen his son go through a law 
 school without much help from him. The good man 
 had then died. He bequeathed a worthy name, there 
 being no need of a will. There had, in fact, been lia- 
 bilities. The younger, oddly, had met them before he 
 married Emma Carter. Some time before the son had 
 set on quite a different heritage when it should come 
 his turn, for his had been a somewhat acrid pill. The 
 poverty was mostly his; his wife supplied the bitter- 
 ness. Meantime there was law practice. There were 
 also lean years. Subsequently Gates branched out, 
 became a lumberman. Shortly he was rich. He swal- 
 lowed Slab Fork, and the anthill was prolific industry. 
 It only needed stirring up. 
 
 About that time a man named Richard Crimmins 
 disappeared, also his wife. He had been retired, a 
 substantial man of family. He was a gentleman of 
 quiet tastes, cultured rather than cultivated. Strangely, 
 he had a strong affection. It was his wife. She was a
 
 WASTE 79 
 
 beautiful creature, very young, but her vivacity was 
 poorly foiled in Crimmins. He was not the sort who 
 has a plaything. He only loved her. 
 
 His wife went out. Sometimes he did too, but very 
 frequently she went alone, as he was generous. Occa- 
 sionally she went with Mrs. Gates, and not so rarely 
 Mr. Gates went too. They were a pleasant little group. 
 
 It happened one day that their town partway awoke, 
 and saw that Gates was rich. A little while before the 
 Crimmins left to pay a flying visit somewhere. They 
 had not come back. 
 
 Yes, Gates was rich. He worked harder and lived 
 faster, but he patronized the arts, endowed a club, gave 
 rather noisily to charity, contributed to upkeep of a 
 church. He replaced a coachman with a chauffeur, 
 took on another hired man folks called a butler, and 
 all allowed his was a practical success. 
 
 XI 
 
 A LIMOUSINE stopped by a smooth granite kerb. 
 The driver sprang to the ground. Leaving his car, 
 he ran up a short stone walk which ended in a flight 
 of easy steps, and ascending these rang a bell which 
 tinkled nicely in the house. 
 
 A maid in cap and apron answered, said, "In a 
 minute, Jerry," and disappeared. She left the door 
 ajar, for it was warmly spring, and the windows even 
 had been raised to draw their share of the new, live 
 air not long rid of its frost-rimed bite. The chauffeur 
 withdrew to his car, where he waited with a hand on the 
 door. It was a new car, with fine oak wheels and 
 saffron trimmings; the driver shared, somewhat, its
 
 80 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 newness. If grey coat and visored cap, and his black 
 puttees, lacked a little of the shiny coloring, they none 
 the less had been as closely cleaned. The man himself 
 looked capable, and ever so courteous, as he glanced 
 now proudly at his charge beside the street, then 
 toward the house. 
 
 That house stood up erect and vain behind its 
 little strip of short-clipped lawn. First leaves were 
 peeping curiously out from ivy on the brick-built walls, 
 and on the branching sugar maple which showed its 
 head above a corner of the mansard roof. Fresh cur- 
 tains fluttered at the windows, and the knocker and the 
 bell-pull at the door were very brassy. The small 
 square porch had newly blossomed out with armchairs 
 and a hammock, and a man was busied hanging nicely 
 painted boxes to the rail. That done, and he would 
 raise a striped awning on the front. The storm-house 
 down, her awning up, and people passing might there- 
 fore know that spring was come to Mapleton. The 
 curtains on the porch of Mr. Gates meant, barometri- 
 cally, that it was now correct to speak of "spring." 
 
 The house was not new, but the bricks were nicely 
 weathered and the windows set in curving tops, and 
 inside shutters folded back behind the newer shades. 
 The house was stiff, yes, formal, yet at the least it wore 
 a rather settled, deprecating look, as if its own fagade 
 peered down a trifle satisfiedly upon each other houses 
 as had come there since. The House of Gates was 
 thoroughly established. It looked very refined. 
 
 The half -shut door was fully opened, and a little girl 
 of six or seven years appeared. Composedly she de- 
 scended the steps, smiled a nice "Good-morning" to the 
 driver, and with a pretty air received some pads and 
 school-books of the maid who followed. 
 
 At an upper window a lady appeared, waved, called
 
 WASTE 81 
 
 "Good-bye, Barbara," and went away again. She was 
 not fully prepared for her day. The little girl herself 
 promptly smiled and waved her hand, then settled back 
 against the cushions as the maid turned toward the 
 house. The chauffeur handed her a robe, not that the 
 morning was cold but it was precisely what he had 
 been taught. He closed the door, cranked his machine, 
 and they started. 
 
 It was a wonderful day, and Barbara called to open 
 the windows of the car, for she was young as the 
 spring. The streets were shot with sunlight, the skies 
 held only little puffs of cloud, and the mating cries of 
 the first-come birds started a song in her own small 
 throat, she probably could not have told you why. 
 Remembering just in time, she suppressed the little 
 tune, and sat well back to the enjoyment of the day. 
 
 The little maid was not large for six, though pretty 
 and very well-formed. The child gave promise of a 
 maiden who might well be charming, and perhaps still 
 more. She was a dainty mite. The lashes and eyes 
 were softly dark, as was the hair that in a pair of 
 ribbon-ended bows hung down behind. Her hat that 
 morning was large and floppy. It had daisies on it, and 
 the little gown was very neat and trim. Its close-wove 
 wool was nice and it looked expensive. So the little 
 girl was pleased and satisfied. 
 
 Sunshine, so warm and gold you would have sworn 
 it never saw a cloud, stole in the windows of the car; 
 the light breeze stirred with its motion promised her 
 vacation and longer rides and summer trips, and maybe 
 and maybe a walk with old Hattie that night. 
 Then why not smile and wave to tiny schoolmate- 
 friends she saw at corners now and then? One child 
 she sometimes met, a thin-faced thing who studied at 
 "the public," was hurrying in that direction now, but
 
 82 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 not so very fast, since one of the little feet and legs 
 was lame; and probably could never grow just like the 
 other. For a moment Barbara considered stopping, and 
 only just in time recalled her mother. 
 
 While the car spun along on its way to school, the 
 birds sang on the newly-leaving trees. Behind, the 
 little lame girl stubbed along. 
 
 Miss Brownscombe's school, where Barbara was 
 bound, stood at one end of Main Street. The parents 
 of several little Barbaras sent their daughters thence 
 to imbibe much not taught in public schools; and miss 
 more that could not be learned anywhere else. The 
 lucky students at Miss Brownscombe's, young as they 
 might be, were treated to a finishing process which 
 usually endured, so that her product stood out among 
 the ordinary throng. The product did not object; and 
 the ultimate consumer was apparently content. 
 
 The car reached Miss Brownscombe's, its door auto- 
 matically opened, and Barbara ran in. Miss Browns- 
 combe met her in the hall, saw to her hat and coat, and 
 the little girl went on to the school-room in a front 
 wing of the house. It was not quite nine o'clock, so 
 that pupils were gathered in knots of two or three by 
 size or age, or family, and were talking divers things, 
 like grown-ups. Some were relatively old, at least 
 of the high school age, though there were others quite 
 as young as Barbara. 
 
 "Oh, my dear," said one, as the latter joined them 
 at the door, "what a horribly smart gown you have on. 
 Where in the world did you get it. I never have any- 
 thing to wear like that." 
 
 The children were all progressive. 
 
 "Do you really like it? Mother got it in New York 
 last week." 
 
 "Well, it certainly is the sweetest thing! Mamma
 
 WASTE 83 
 
 has promised to take me there in June, and I am wild 
 to go." 
 
 "What are you going to wear for Freddie Hunter's 
 party, Barbara?" spoke up another. 
 
 "I don't know. My new white one, I suppose," 
 answered the one addressed. "What are you?" 
 
 "Young ladies, young ladies," said Miss Browns- 
 combe in a nicely ice-cooled manner, just coming in, 
 "please take your places for the morning's classes." 
 
 Exercises finished with a prayer through which a 
 few were stooped devoutly forward on their foreheads. 
 This over all vouchsafed a loud "Amen!" one part 
 thankfulness, three of relief. 
 
 Work went as usual. In all good time the slow black 
 hands of the schoolroom clock said twelve, and here 
 and there about the town a whistle sounded. An 
 Angelus was rung, and the noise of horns and clutching 
 brakes outside was further proof that they might leave 
 for lunch. So out they piled. The door of the shiny 
 limousine opened again to Barbara, and she got in, 
 but this time not alone. Dorothie Turner lived in a 
 large brown house next door to hers. It was permis- 
 sible to ride with Dorothie. 
 
 The little girls sat back dangling their feet, and rode 
 laughing up the Main Street of the town, past Mill 
 Road, just now vomiting forth the operatives of a pair 
 of factories farther down there by the stream; by a few 
 of the town's few stores; turning up State Street to the 
 residential section where their set lived and moved and 
 had a being. Dorothie and Barbara entered each her 
 home, where the latter was promptly set upon and 
 seized, washed, combed and brushed by the maid, then 
 sent below. Steven was just announcing "Luncheon 
 served." 
 
 Mrs Gates went in with Barbara, and her father
 
 84 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 entered from the street. He came in briskly, whistling, 
 and sat down with them. 
 
 "Well, what news today, Holden?" Mrs. Gates in- 
 quired very genially when eating had progressed enough 
 to warrant talk. 
 
 "Very little, my dear. Oh, yes now I think of it, 
 another of the men was killed up at the Fork yesterday. 
 He left a wife, just been married a day or two, but the 
 Company's all right. He was drunk when it happened." 
 
 So Barbara's Mother said, "My, how fortunate!" 
 
 And shortly after, "Barbara, dear, run up and have 
 your gown changed. You should start back for school, 
 and you do look so untidy! " 
 
 XII 
 
 EVENING had laid its pall of dusk across the homes 
 and streets of Mapleton. Factory whistles blew; 
 workers were stumbling home with empty dinner pails 
 and stomachs; the clock atop the Court House dinned 
 out the toilers' reprieve of six; and here and there 
 bright lights flashed up inside the brick-front residences 
 on State Street. 
 
 Small, futile lamps were flickering on corners, their 
 rays surrendering to darkness in the maze of maple 
 trees and leaves that hemmed them in. Lighting in 
 Mapleton was not a civic science. It mainly empha- 
 sized dark spots, and never got much farther than the 
 lamp-posts. 
 
 Fatigue was daubed upon men's faces, with dirt and 
 grease on clothes. In paint or varnish discernment 
 read which worked on furniture down by the river; or 
 by the caking grime, beside which ordinary blackness
 
 WASTE 85 
 
 paled, picked those who forged large water-wheels for 
 small, reluctant dollars inside a hard-by foundry. 
 Girls were there, too, poor slips with cringing backs 
 and burning feet and likely tired heads, who stood be- 
 side a labyrinth of circling spools and spindles for 
 weary years of days. Of course, they were girls from 
 the mill. None of them were tired; they were numb. 
 
 Work crowded old flag walks, but in the street that 
 lay between Life flowed along by motor. The cushion 
 was soft, so the road was smooth. Ladies talked and 
 children laughed, or sang. Their cries lay cheerily 
 upon the ears of those who stumbled. There is so much 
 for which to live when man stands waiting with a check- 
 book and your maid will do the rest, though these have 
 not eaten either. 
 
 And here is one in misery soft gown, rich fur, and 
 fine- wove wrap; plunged deep in it. For the new pink 
 silk, it has not come. 
 
 Exclusiveness is out. Scattered as they emerge from 
 different homes, the motors by degrees converge until 
 in single file they sweep along and up a pebbled drive, 
 to stop inside the porte cochere of White Hall, the old 
 home, excellent and formal, of the Thomas Watson 
 Hunters. 
 
 Colonel Hunter was a gentleman by birth and a man 
 by inclination. As a "Colonel" he was war-made. As 
 all three he was authentic. His wife was a very good 
 woman. They were prominent and did not trouble to 
 be snobbish. Creme de la creme, of the best, the 
 Colonel Hunters were apt occasionally to offer hospi- 
 tality to Mapleton. Mapleton gorged. You met at 
 Colonel Hunter's, now and then, poor friends of the 
 Gates and Carpenters and Twilbys. The Hunters 
 were so well established they frequently practiced 
 democracy, and really meant it.
 
 86 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "Colonel Thomas," strangers said, was certainly "a 
 fine old man," as old and near gone as his type. He 
 was a lawyer, and a good one; he was honest, yet suc- 
 cessful. He had occupied at times some fairly high-up 
 offices, but he enjoyed the good-will of those who 
 hadn't. 
 
 Years ago the Hunters had a daughter, a girl who 
 made them live again. A lovely child became a woman 
 who was exquisite. Then she had died, perhaps ten 
 years ago. It is not easy to reckon time in a small 
 town. But the Hand that had taken returned them a 
 son, a boy much younger, Frederick Cushman. At 
 present he was Fred, and Mrs. Hunter had prepared a 
 little party for him. Her trifling gatherings were gen- 
 erally affairs of no mean size. Many of Freddie's age 
 were bade, and to the end there might be some amuse- 
 ment for herself she asked their mothers with them. 
 
 The children were ready at four o'clock, not so their 
 mothers. It was a little after six that Gates' machine 
 had made its way down State, up Main, and finally 
 found itself behind a row of others fronting Hunters'. 
 The Gates were far to the rear, for goodwife Gates 
 was informed. 
 
 They had not very long to wait, and gradually they 
 worked inside and were assisted from their car. 
 Though it had room for six or seven, just Mrs. Gates 
 and Barbara were in it. They noticed going in that 
 some had come afoot. 
 
 Inside was Mrs. Hunter, dispensing welcomes and a 
 smile according to the guests. She had a pleasant little 
 laugh for Mrs. Gates and Barbara, "So glad to see 
 you, dear, and little Barbara . . ."; then beams fell 
 somewhat less intensely on succeeding ones, still further 
 paled at Mesdames Schwab and Watts, who were con- 
 sidered rather earthy.
 
 WASTE 87 
 
 Mrs. Schwab and Mrs. Watts were sisters. They 
 were also personalities, the former being Mrs. D. F. 
 Schwab, whose husband was editor and owner of 
 Mapleton's Town Crier, and, don't forget, a joint owner 
 of "the cheapest store in town." The sheet was some- 
 times termed affectionately the "Augur" but figure it 
 yourself. Mrs. Schwab's husband was also the manag- 
 ing and chief contributing editors, described men's meet- 
 ings, knew how to set type, and read proof when they 
 were busy. He was it. But being a jack-of- trades the 
 proof of the paper was not in his reading, so he usually 
 confined himself to other duties, abandoning the proof 
 to care of itself or to that of William Smith, the boy, 
 which was very much the same. 
 
 The Madame Editor wrote "society" when present. 
 Even now, as Mrs. Watts allowed, you saw her gazing 
 fixedly at someone's crepe de chine, and visioned in the 
 Crier of next Wednesday that the house was taste- 
 fully fixed up with roses, trailing autumn leaves, and 
 that the whilom well-known matron, Mrs. Rumble- 
 Bumble, had been among the guests from out of town, 
 quite tastefully got up in rich black taffeta or old point 
 lace. 
 
 Mrs. Schwab and sister approached the hostess' 
 throne. Mrs. S. was visiting, likewise the mate of 
 T. Ephraim Brodribb Watts. Folks sometimes short- 
 ened it to Mrs. "Tattler" Watts, quite in the homely 
 fashion of the place. As they reached Mrs. Hunter 
 they started to settle. Mrs. Hunter said, "How do 
 you do? Why, how do you do? Go right into the room 
 at the end of the hall. You will find the others there." 
 Mrs. Hunter was efficient, charmingly. 
 
 There were first polite preliminaries. Soon they all 
 got down to gossip, then the nice refreshments. Per- 
 sons chattered of the heaps of poverty there were that
 
 88 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 fall, and had some more ice cream; and dwelt on all 
 the woolen things (in barrel) the church had sent 
 only the week before to certain of the Bengalese, in 
 warmest India. Please recollect that in our little aris- 
 tocracy we have not got before us either Paris or 
 Vienna, neither New York. Provincials are not magni- 
 ficoes who hail from Pennsylvania Avenue Mount 
 Vernon Place Fifth Avenue or Rittenhouse. They 
 are neither bad, nor very interesting. Indeed they may 
 but do their best; sometimes they just don't compre- 
 hend, themselves, what they have square before them. 
 
 Nearly everyone was there, and Mrs. Bodeheaver was 
 talking forcefully with Mrs. Lucy Sparks about the 
 theatre, Mrs. Sparks being advanced and Mrs. Bode- 
 heaver conservative. Poor Mrs. Sparks wasn't even 
 attractively homely, but she was very vigorous. She 
 owned a weakness for modern breakfast foods and 
 Harrold Chalmers-Sobb, modern mushmaker. She 
 had even been suspected of being "suffrage." You 
 could see, now, that Mrs. Bodeheaver did not approve 
 of the theatre but they all agreed that it was ex- 
 cellent weather for the time of the year, of course; and 
 one lady said her husband had just returned from a 
 hunting trip up near the Moosehead's source. He said 
 the woods were really charming, and that as he passed 
 through the Fork he had encountered one of the 
 strangest funeral processions he had ever been fortunate 
 enough to meet, don't you know. It was just a man and 
 a woman, with two small boys and a minister. Oh, yes, 
 there was a pine box on a wagon, but the mourners 
 walked. He told her they must have been quite poor. 
 
 Mrs. Gates was telling of the opera she expected to 
 visit in the Metropolis next week, and anyway, she 
 really did not recall much of the Fork. Yes, she had 
 been there once, but it was terribly dirty. It was
 
 WASTE 89 
 
 nicer to think of it as motors or a little jaunt abroad; 
 which was perfectly sensible in the fact, since the 
 Fork had seldom varied from an annual return of 
 thirty-five per cent in twenty years. When it had, it 
 was higher. Judicious timber investing at the tradi- 
 tional dollar-per-acre did sometimes grow an awfully 
 pleasant net. 
 
 Children were merry, and the rest kept comfortable. 
 They made a pretty picture. There were tall ladies 
 with short hats, short women with tall hats, and stout 
 persons with no hats. All were happy in themselves or 
 pitying some neighbor. The children looked very 
 attractive, and Barbara danced several times with 
 Master Hunter. Everyone had a delightful time, and it 
 was really too bad they had to go, "but, you know how 
 it is, husband home, baby to kiss good night, and these 
 children. . . ." 
 
 The ladies began to say good-by. In time the last 
 motor had chugged down the drive and Mesdames 
 Watts and Schwab were trudging chattily from out. As 
 Mrs. Watts exclaimed, it was "a memory!" 
 
 Houses on State Street showed their lights, while in 
 the little streets men slept. Up in Slab Fork they may 
 have stirred uneasily, for night was partly gone; then 
 fell to dreaming of another day. 
 
 XIII 
 
 THE Very Reverend Isaac Sykes was a fetish to his 
 flock. However much the members of his fold were 
 wont to differ on the Canticles, they were agreed on 
 that. He was a harmlessly good man, and preached as
 
 90 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 you liked it; saying, to an unpleased few, "And what 
 the mission of the church if not to bring great comfort 
 to the flock?" Which was unanswerable, and saved 
 the Rev. Isaac a vast deal of trouble. 
 
 There was a cold morning in the white months when 
 for one day the clouds lifted, the sun smiled brightly 
 if not warmly, and the snow came not. The maple rows 
 wore icy frosting, and from their myriad points shot 
 out a million spears of light to give a welcome to the 
 morning and to a few poor snow-birds which came 
 and for a moment perched there. There had been snow 
 and hail, and rain and freezing on the night before, but 
 the morning was clear and you imagined, if you thought 
 of it at all, that up in the great woods North it was 
 cold. Arch Baker and his old bay team had come out 
 early and run their side-wind plow first up, then down, 
 the coated walks of State Street, next changed to Main, 
 and cleared the piled-up drifts from Col. Hunter's 
 to the church. The poorer streets they saw to after, 
 though dwellers rose and went out earlier. 
 
 There were a number of churches, and none of them 
 could pay expenses. A few, like Reverend Sykes', had 
 wealthy members. They made out. They grouped to- 
 gether with a nice precision like New England. The 
 churches were not ambitious, but structures were 
 greater than congregations. Once there had been a 
 single strong, fine church; fell a day when there was 
 too much Creed for one, not long enough prayers for 
 another, and when old Deacon Stinson had had the 
 leading seat for mercy knows how much too long; which 
 netted many little churches standing in a row. The 
 Very Reverend Isaac saved souls of the better class. 
 
 The wooden plow had gone and snow now slanted up 
 from the walk to the banks on either side, with a foot- 
 way in the center eighteen inches wide and not more
 
 WASTE 91 
 
 than half as deep in partly trampled snow, so that 
 those for whom the day was not too cold, the hour too 
 early, or the sun too bright had picked their way along 
 to church. 
 
 Under the agued touch of Zekiah Bailey, who taught 
 weekdays and pedalled Sunday, the uncertain notes of 
 the organ filled to a great and partly tuneful fulness 
 the high-gabled sanctuary of the First Church, falling 
 dully upon the ears of the Rev. Sykes as he hugged 
 himself in his pulpit. The head was bowed, in thought 
 or else because the meal his wife Phoenicia had lately 
 fixed had turned to lead. Stained-glass sunlight 
 trickled in, and a transient ray slanted across the 
 church to fall immediately upon the high bald head of 
 Ezra Bodeheaver, who sat with Mrs. Bodheaver well up 
 in the seats of the mighty. As Ezra himself said, "Re- 
 ligion is what you make it. It is mighty, and must 
 avail." Ezra was packed with good things, and if a 
 word escaped him he at once employed another vocable 
 which sounded like one. 
 
 The Gates were prominent in church, that is, they 
 filled front seats for which he paid spot cash. He was 
 "a godly man," as Mr. Sykes had sometimes thought 
 aloud; they were all godly men and women. No doubt 
 Reverend Sykes implied that were every one as godly 
 as this eminent pew-holder he might very well devour 
 more salary, with less vegetable and culinary free-wills. 
 He had tastes himself. 
 
 Mrs. Gates always rustled in first, Barbara followed 
 starchily, and Mr. Gates heavily closed the pew, frock- 
 coated, terrible and formal for the day. Mr. Gates 
 dressed well. So did the other Gates, and no one had a 
 better right. It was even so this morning. Barbara 
 was very pretty as she sat between them looking very 
 rightly straight ahead to where, among the little gusts
 
 92 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 of air which eddied through the church, a multitude of 
 tiny candles flamed and flickered beside the one great 
 taper which burnt with dignity and steady fire beside 
 the pulpit. 
 
 The organ ceased from troubling, Mr, Sykes pulled 
 down his vest. Having done so, he b-r-r-d twice or 
 thrice impressively, arose, and read a hymn. It was a 
 long hymn, and he read all of it. "We will sing," he 
 amended, "the first two and the last three verses." 
 Zekiah, who high up behind them in his loft had cut 
 in once upon the Reverend Isaac's reading with a 
 little tremulo, now pulled his stops, the first soprano 
 lost her music but rediscovered it again, and the House 
 of Worship sounded with the clamour of their singing. 
 
 Much of the very fair-sized congregation sang, loud 
 or faintly with their consciences or sense of hearing. 
 Mr. Gates was strictly bass, Mrs. Gates trebled, and 
 Barbara piped. The choir was composed of volun- 
 teers. They had made no reservations, and they did 
 all they could. Their efforts were abetted stoutly by 
 Mr. Bodeheaver, whose singing was a factor. Once 
 upon a day a bad boy, long abandoned by our good, had 
 suddenly repented and occupied a seat up front for 
 near a month. He had only come to learn to sing like 
 Mr. Bodeheaver. Then he relapsed. 
 
 After the hymn of praise they sat upon hard seats or 
 knelt on padded stools and throbbing foreheads while 
 Rev. Isaac prayed. His was no half-hearted praying. 
 He prayed long, and strong, and his repertoire covered 
 the gamut of total human emotion. He always in- 
 cluded abject thanks for "giving us everything, better 
 than we can ask or even think." 
 
 His prayers were thorough, and they were amply re- 
 inforced by the sermon which descended heavily upon 
 his auditors soon afterward. He did not use the ser-
 
 WASTE 93 
 
 monette, God being too busy for trifles. Having cast 
 out his text, something on brotherly love since Chris- 
 mas was nearing, he began to mull over the words, 
 half to himself, before starting to ravel up the thread 
 of his discourse and assail the pleasant weaknesses of 
 man. He did so well, and to the end that nearly 
 everyone among them offered praise unasked that he 
 was not as were most others. Becoming dig- 
 nifiedly enthusiastic, he plied the tale of the Good 
 Samaritan and of the great majority whom public 
 opinion even then encouraged to pass on the other 
 side. He talked as it was then; he brought it down to 
 now. The congregation felt a slight uneasy itching 
 they need not have until he told of how, long years 
 before, he, unknown, unknowing, had come to them 
 a stranger, to minister unto their needs. And they had 
 taken him in, into their homes, their hearts, their 
 lives. 
 
 " 'As ye have done it unto the least of these. ..." 
 And people, his people, smiled, exhaled "Lord love us 
 all," and knew that they were good. 
 
 This being done nothing more remained to be said, as 
 the sermon had previously been dispensed in the first, 
 second, third and fourth parts. After which the collec- 
 tion was taken, and there came a spontaneous solo while 
 the older and graver in their midst passed up and down 
 the aisles, and Mr. Bodeheaver made change from the 
 plate. He never made a mistake, that is, he never in 
 haste gave more than intended. Another hymn, and 
 the blessing of Sykes fell over them. 
 
 Zekiah produced a march. Together they arose 
 and passed out. The minister reserved a handshake 
 and good-morning for each, to which were added sweet 
 words of their own anent his sermon. Mrs. Gates 
 liked it particularly. She as much as said so.
 
 94 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "It almost took you out of yourself, you know; made 
 you think of those who are not so fortunate." 
 
 Mr. Gates lent smiling confirmation, and the minister 
 agreed to come to them for dinner, soon. Mrs. Sykes 
 did not go out much. Without, all chatted for a 
 moment with the ones they knew, friends met and 
 neighbors gossiped, and some strangers who were there 
 fetched an escape quite easily. 
 
 Mrs. Gates told Barbara to stay for Sunday School, 
 which the poor child didn't fancy. Her class was 
 taught by Mrs. Rev. Sykes, who told them horror 
 tales of foreign missionaries who were come upon, per- 
 haps at church, and buried neck-deep in the burning 
 sands. And left there, too, unless they gave their word 
 as Christians to be heathen. Which foolishly they 
 didn't, but ended by having their heads sanded up 
 too. Her instruction was effective, with a moral. Bar- 
 bara used to have cold chills. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Gates left and motored to the Post 
 Office, well and easy in body and soul. His was the 
 vista of a fresh successful "deal," she saw a picture of 
 herself a hat just new, a suit that was not old 
 and both were greatly cheered and happy. For a 
 moment was come contentment. They could not think 
 of anything additional that they wanted. 
 
 In the mail was news from Larrabie. He wrote that 
 it was cold up at the Fork, and with a bit of suffering 
 among the people. Himself hard, he recommended 
 Gates do something: give them a little added pay, or 
 have some food and clothing sent. 
 
 Which, upon reading, Mr. Gates showed to his wife 
 and she said, 
 
 "I don't believe, Holden dear, it's really half as bad, 
 do you? They always do exaggerate so terribly. I 
 can't imagine anything like that myself."
 
 WASTE 95 
 
 With a dead but popular Queen of France she might 
 have added, "Since they have no bread, why don't 
 they eat cake?" 
 
 Instead Emma Gates glanced hopelessly in the direc- 
 tion of the heavy double panes closing a splendid oriel, 
 which caught the little chilly gusts that whistled com- 
 fortably outside. A few starry flakes fell on the thick 
 plate-glass, mirrored their crystals for an instant, then 
 thawed away. It is good to have a home. 
 
 Gates waved his hand good-humoredly. 
 
 "Don't bother, it isn't. Suppose it were, my dear? 
 Old winter's all right! Why, I've seen men work just 
 for the sake of keeping warm." 
 
 Barbara came home. They called to Steven to re- 
 stock the grate, an open blaze looked so cheerful, and 
 all sat down to a good chicken dinner with biscuit. 
 
 XIV 
 
 EVERYONE says and no man denies that the proof 
 of the gardener sprouts in his garden, the test of the 
 doctor lies in his pill. Now conceive the hand-picked 
 charges of Miss Brownscombe emerging from their 
 desks and blackboards armed with Greek enough 
 to build a fire or cook an omelet. Indeed, 
 you learned to eat your omelet, not to cook it. 
 In better channels the diploma of Miss Brownscombe 
 was the blue ribbon of a horse show. 
 
 Barbara Gates spent with that teacher eight out of 
 thirteen years. The little girl who went to school by 
 limousine became a larger girl who went to school in 
 a new limousine. Her figure lengthened and filled. Her 
 face took on a longer shape, then turned to oval. She
 
 96 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 was enough grown up at thirteen years so that she was 
 no longer very awkward as a child. Her little-girl 
 prettiness had not left; it promised something yet 
 prettier. Her cheeks were very round and red, her 
 eyes were deep and dusky, and two long braids of hair, 
 dark brown and looking very soft, fell down her back 
 together. The face was sweet, but had a shadow of the 
 petulance which always was a part of Mrs. Gates. 
 
 Mrs. Gates, the girl, had once been poor, sincerely 
 sweet, and simply happy. Mrs. Gates, the woman, was 
 wealthy, disagreeable (at home), and chronically un- 
 happy. One fancied she had bit too well of the apple 
 of life, expecting only sweet; and it had turned out 
 sour. 
 
 Mrs. Gates' body had fattened with ample years. 
 She reckoned her days by engagements, and rested 
 heavily on maids and soda mints. Her soul, or some- 
 thing, had atrophied, was working badly. Her mind 
 had left deep wells of girlhood and lay upon a shoal of 
 thin meanderings. Neither head nor heart was guide. 
 When Mrs. Hunter coughed, she sneezed. Poverty? 
 She loathed it, so helpless, horrible, a thing that lay 
 against low ground. 
 
 Emma Gates possessed a single keen, fine love. It 
 was herself. She had perhaps one real, kind liking. 
 That was Barbara. Her husband had been something, 
 originally. She understood him. He might have been 
 a worthy, ordinary man had not Mrs. G. been jealous. 
 Ambitions outstripped extravagance, but they perforce 
 encouraged his resourcefulness. Emma, in brief, sup- 
 plied the bitter leaven of their life, the Josephine of 
 our Napoleon. 
 
 Before they were married Gates had believed some 
 men born clever, and that a few women became so, but 
 very few. His exception, or sweetheart save the
 
 WASTE 97 
 
 term could have lived on fifteen dollars a week, well. 
 Fifty thousand could not answer for his wife. He was 
 forever set to scratching for some more. All-in-all 
 Gates succeeded, and his wife preceded. Sometimes 
 she pushed, others she clawed. Gates had been born 
 to be well-off, and Gates' wife loved him for it. Be- 
 sides, had he not, she would have been very unhappy. 
 Some folks claimed they were well above par. We shall 
 not dub them typical because they are real. 
 
 The wife could be generous. Such as she had to 
 spare she gladly showered on Barbara. The parent 
 vine was strong, and this should be a single precious 
 graft. Barbara after all did rather well. She was yet 
 chiefly child. She feared her father and studied her 
 mother, but she loved the old nurse who had so cheer- 
 fully put up with her when she was small, and squally, 
 and spilled her food and wiped her spoon on plain old 
 Hattie's sleeve, and nearly died of croup. 
 
 Now that Barbara was so advanced, Mrs. Gates was 
 for Hattie's going out forthwith, but the little girl 
 begged not, and Mr. Gates said, "No, let her have her 
 way." So poor ancient Hattie lingered on in place of 
 a "foreign companion." No one else had the latter, 
 though, which made it very desirable. Hattie was so 
 funny, plain, old-fashioned. The poor old thing was 
 real. But Hattie had to leave, with Barbara, that fall. 
 Barbara would go to school, and Hattie she would 
 depart. Better so, for her little girl was all she under- 
 stood, and loved, in the excellent home of Gates. 
 
 Spring had popped in one day, and found that Bar- 
 bara was fourteen. It was time to graduate. Many 
 were in attendance. There was a multitude of parents 
 with innumerable friends, and as if that were not 
 enough the Rev. Sykes. 
 
 There was also Miss Brownscombe; and the Rev.
 
 98 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 Sykes had made a prayer. Their amen was honest, 
 because he had done. That, though, had been only 
 a beginning, and there had come fine arts and nice 
 sciences. One of the oldest, Hermione Smith, gave 
 them a reading upon "The Bishop's Candlesticks." 
 Bernadette Dennis, who played so well for thirteen, had 
 rendered something of "Samson and Delilah," no one 
 was really sure what part. Miss Brownscombe her- 
 self, in a few well-chosen words, had given them a 
 "short appreciative talk," to borrow from the Crier. 
 And she called them, one-and-all, the very best classes 
 of her school, which was a counterpart of each year's 
 graduation. 
 
 Afterward there were diplomas, good times and con- 
 gratulations no end, with tea; and Mrs. Editor Schwab, 
 who had got in officially, used cream and lemon both 
 while babbling confidentially to Mr. Sykes upon some 
 higher types of education. Barbara was pleasantly ex- 
 cited, and her mother quite as proud of daughter as of 
 new silk dress containing same. That latter the best 
 modiste of Mapleton, good Mme. Flaherty, had made. 
 
 Gates was at home for dinner. He never refused 
 his daughter, and had kissed her to show his pleasure. 
 People called Gates "cold"; they didn't know him. 
 After dinner the Gates talked for awhile to each other. 
 Mr. Gates went out when able. Tonight he felt a cold, 
 and Mrs. Gates asked Barbara to play, for the child 
 had been afforded music and gained the usual stage. 
 But Barbara was tired, and when the old nurse passed 
 through the drawing-room, following her dinner, Bar- 
 bara had run and slipped a hand in Hattie's. She 
 waved a kiss to the others, and they went upstairs 
 together. 
 
 Years before this Hattie had formed the evil pre- 
 cedent of story-telling. Rare bed-times without a
 
 WASTE 99 
 
 story meant the woman was away. She told good 
 stories evidently, for the first was followed by many. 
 A thread of half-similitude ran in the warp and woof, 
 but it did not worry the child. 
 
 Hattie's creations were many-named. There was 
 "The Enchanting Cat," "The Homely Princess," "The 
 Cross Young Man," "The Wretched Rabbit," "The 
 House that Never Grew Up," and "The Rich Little 
 Boy with a Hole in His Pocket." Hattie said they 
 were "all true fairy stories," and who indeed ever 
 heard of a tale beginning "Now once upon a time . . ." 
 that there wasn't a tame, good fairy or a hunch-backed, 
 crabbed old elf concealed somewhere about? And 
 everyone knows how very, very real they are. 
 
 Barbara had not grown up, though done with Miss 
 Brownscombe and nearly with braids. Another year 
 would see her in another place than Mapleton, no 
 Hattie, and no ... 
 
 "Hattie, tell me the story of 'The Rich Little Boy 
 with a Hole in His Pocket.' Please!" 
 
 "My! child, you've got too old for my poor stories. 
 You've heard old Hattie tell her fairy tales a million- 
 hundred times. And / don't think she tells them very 
 well now, either. You don't want stories tonight." 
 
 "I do, I do. Please, please! Hattie, tell me the story 
 of 'The Rich Little Boy.' " 
 
 The first "please" set the old heart caving in; the 
 second completed her confusion. Victory was com- 
 plete, and Hattie made shift to capitulate. 
 
 "Well, child, if you must. . . . 
 
 "Now once upon a time, oh, a long time ago, there 
 was a very poor young man." 
 
 "How poor, Hattie?" 
 
 "Now, Barbara, don't interrupt or I'll never get it 
 told. There was a very poor young man, so poor that
 
 100 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 he had nothing in the world, nothing in the whole, 
 whole world but his own round, honest face, a heart 
 that was happy when the birds sang, and two large 
 eyes that saw sunshine, and the trees wave in the 
 wind." 
 
 "Didn't he have anything else, at all?" 
 
 "Well, he did have a Mother and a Father, yes, and 
 a little Brother, too, but they were even poorer than 
 the poor young man. His Father's heart was very cold 
 and tired, and his Mother's eyes were closed so that 
 she couldn't see the sunshine and the trees; and his 
 little Brother's face was thin and pale; he had no rosy 
 cheeks." 
 
 "Why was it pale, Hattie?" 
 
 "You know well enough why it was, child, you've 
 heard it so many times." 
 
 "Yes, but I want to know now." 
 
 "Well, then, if you must have it, the little one's face 
 was thin and pale, because, no matter how hard the 
 Father worked, he could not get enough to give them 
 all the food and clothes and wood they had to have to 
 keep them well and warm. 
 
 "But the poor young boy grew tall and strong, for 
 he worked, and he walked in the woods and the fields. 
 The work made his heart beat fast, and the sun and 
 the wind left color in his cheeks; while the fresh, cool 
 air brought a song to his lips, and sometimes made him 
 glad. 
 
 "Now when he was just fifteen he went away." 
 
 "Away from all his people?" 
 
 "Yes, far away, to the Land of Promise, for his 
 Father grew weak and old, and his Mother fell ill and 
 was blind, and the little Brother had no one at all to 
 give him what a dear little boy should have. 
 
 "The poor . young man was a long time gone, so
 
 WASTE 101 
 
 long indeed that his Mother and Father and weak 
 little Brother thought surely he'd forgotten them, and 
 they were very sad. He was getting that way him- 
 self, for the Land of Promise was a far way off, and his 
 legs couldn't carry him half as fast as he really wanted 
 to go. 
 
 "But one day he saw It when he 'woke, and it was 
 very beautiful. The trees bore golden fruit, there was 
 also a river of silver; and the dew on the flowers was 
 pearls and diamonds. He took one of the apples, and a 
 little of the running silver, and picked some of the shiny 
 jewels from the buttercups and daisies. He didn't 
 want to take too many, for he thought there might be 
 other little boys like him. He didn't know that every 
 morning left new diamonds on the grasses and the 
 flowers, and there were always apples, while the river 
 never, never lost its silver. 
 
 "He didn't want to take too many, and besides he 
 only had one pocket in his coat. He filled it, oh! so 
 carefully, then took one last long look, so that he would 
 not forget this wonder-place. The very next morning, 
 very bright and ever so early, he was off and away 
 to the Land of Real. He went quickly, even quicker 
 than he'd come, for he was going home! 
 
 "It was still a day's journey away when one night 
 he fell down to rest, tired, and lonely, and lame. As he 
 took off his coat to make a pillow for his head, he 
 found . . ." 
 
 "Yes, Hattie, what did he find?" 
 
 "He found that his pocket was empty!" 
 
 "Oh, did he?" 
 
 "Yes, it was empty, and in place of the golden apple, 
 his lovely silver, and all the jewelled dew he found a 
 hole only a small, mean hole. 
 
 "The night was dark, and he lay very still on the
 
 102 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 ground. The poor lad, he cried. He cried so hard 
 he cried himself to sleep. 
 
 "But in his sleep a hand touched his, and a sweet 
 voice said to him, 
 
 " 'Little boy, why in the world are you crying?' 
 
 "And he said, though he couldn't see a thing and it 
 seemed as if he still slept on, 'I cry because I've lost 
 my gold.' 
 
 "The sweet voice said, again, 
 
 " 'Why, how can you be so selfish? You are very 
 young, and strong. Some time you can get some more. 
 Were you crying just for that?' 
 
 "But the little boy said, 'No.' He cried to think 
 of his poor old Mother and tired Father, and the very 
 little boy at home. And then he saw the Fairy's face 
 close down to his, sweet and happy it was, and very 
 beautiful. 
 
 "She kissed him, stretched out a starry wand, and he 
 woke up to find that it was day. His tears were dry, 
 and in his coat he felt his apple and the jewels, all the 
 silver, too, and the little mean hole was gone. 
 
 "That night he reached his home, after all. The 
 Father left his work, and smiled; the little Brother's 
 face grew rosy once again; and when his Mother cried, 
 the tears of happiness and joy ran out her eyes and 
 opened them, and she could see. 
 
 "So the Poor Little Boy was a Rich Young Man. He 
 never left home any more, and all of them were happy, 
 ever after. 
 
 "Then what did the young man do?" 
 
 "I don't know, child; do go to sleep." 
 
 "I wish I knew. I'd like to be a good fairy like that; 
 now wouldn't you, Hattie?" 
 
 Old Hattie devoured the little crumpled figure in 
 the big soft bed, and lost an honest tear.
 
 WASTE 103 
 
 Downstairs, Mr. Gates had just subdued his wife at 
 pinochle, and was having an excellent temper. Mrs. 
 Gates called a maid, and ordered a bit of lunch. 
 Hattie prepared it. The other servants sat around to 
 have a word on Gates, and Mrs. Gates. While she 
 worked, Hattie defended them. When she had finished, 
 the maid served and was thanked. 
 
 The sherry was good, the plush-filled chair was com- 
 fortable, Gates' world was fair. He promised to look 
 at a brand-new car in the morning, and his wife kissed 
 him. 
 
 XV 
 
 SOMC nights thereafter a little part of Mapleton was 
 at its Founders' Club. Yes, Mapleton possessed a city 
 club, "Just large enough, you know." They were din- 
 ing. Later they would dance, a party being given by 
 the Turners. Among the diners, later on the dancers, 
 were the Gates and Barbara. The T. Watson Hunters 
 sat at dinner with them, Fred included. Fred and 
 Barbara were excellent friends. They "went together." 
 The boy was sixteen, beginning to be a deal of a man, 
 so that girls of his age sometimes criticized and talked 
 about him and parents looked approvingly upon his 
 first long pants. 
 
 Mapleton was unaccustomed to surprises. Accord- 
 ingly, its privileged and curious were always mildly 
 intrigued to see a Hunter dining with a Gates. Despite 
 ingrained disparities, Mrs. Hunter and Mrs. Gates 
 were not bad friends, but their husbands had never been 
 close. Perhaps it was for the children, this evening. 
 
 No one had ever threatened the Colonel with being 
 progressive. He was very polite, but insisted none the 
 less on being and acting conservative. Yet he was
 
 104 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 wholesomely concerned with broad-gauge topics of the 
 day. His was a birthright from the old ideal, to serve. 
 Gates never said so, but you rather fancied he ex- 
 pected service. 
 
 The dinner, though, was very pleasant, and the ladies 
 dwelt at length upon some splendid people they had 
 met, from Malvern, via a recent Bridge. That re- 
 called the party old Mrs. Brown was giving, Tuesday of 
 next week. Colonel Hunter mentioned a trifling na- 
 tional trouble they were having, and wished his land 
 with one great mind. 
 
 "Confound it, sir, the needs of the times demand we 
 take some thought of other things than money- 
 grubbing. We have a country rich in great resources, 
 populous with people, noble in its possibilities. 
 
 'In Europe, sir . . ." 
 
 While Barbara and Fred were chatting volubly 
 enough, and Mr. Watts came by and told a well-loved 
 story. He was apprehended by Mrs. Watts, who tried 
 to execute a flanking movement on them all. But her 
 attack was sadly confounded through their immediate 
 departure for coffee on the porch. 
 
 The sun was slipping down. Only its rosiness 
 lingered, to hang for just a moment on the town. It 
 touched the churches' tops with gold and richly shad- 
 owed trees. It even made a few black factory-stacks, 
 far-off, a little cheerful, until it sank and left a haze of 
 broken outlines tree-etched along the sky. The town 
 was gone, yet a carriage rattled by in the dust and the 
 stones of the streets, a dog yelped in his box, and a 
 baby cried behind some far-off darkened window. Talk 
 barkened long enough to give mellifluent small sounds 
 of the night a little turn; a bird sang as it found its 
 nest, a cricket chirped down on the lawn, a lonely 
 frog called somewhere from his pool down by the
 
 WASTE 105 
 
 river. Fireflies rose from the grass, enough it seemed 
 to set the earth afire; winds came warmly scented 
 from green fields and sprouting crops, fresh woods, 
 ripening fruit, and growing corn. And it held the 
 odors of nearer at hand, from the roses before the 
 Club. The maples swung a little in the soft night wind, 
 and tugged hard at their roots. 
 
 Within the Club a fiddle string was tightened into 
 tune, the key of the piano spoke, and then an orchestra 
 began. Barbara and Fred prepared to leave the porch. 
 Fred was saying "May I have the honor of this num- 
 ber?" for boy, like father, was enough old-fashioned 
 to be fair-mannered. They lost no time in getting to 
 the floor, but some was lost in getting around it. The 
 ballroom's size was usually sufficient, for attendance 
 was restricted to the Club except on party nights. At 
 such times congestion was great. Feet suffered, gowns 
 frayed. 
 
 Through the wide doors of the hall guests still 
 trailed in, men in black, children in white, women in 
 gauze and shiny clap-trap, all talking, all merry, all 
 fretting to enter into the joys of the night. Into the 
 Club, up to the cloak room, down to the ballroom, past 
 the receiving Turners they went. Then portly dames 
 and dashing dandies were out upon the floor. And 
 everywhere was motion, noise, and light. They cir- 
 cled the ballroom and stopped at the punch, finished 
 the dancing and walked to the porch. The merry 
 Andrews of the town warmed to their work, and puffy 
 parties strove to hold their own. There were gray- 
 haired men; young, pretty girls; men who were not so 
 gray, and boys; ladies who were not so young, but 
 dancing. These kept on moving and their husbands 
 swore, but softly. 
 
 After the first or obligatory number, the latter all
 
 106 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 danced from choice. While sons of chivalry endured 
 mothers of fair daughters, fathers danced with the 
 daughters themselves. The "Paul Jones" cared for all 
 quite well, except that time when Ed. Schwab's partner, 
 Filcher, became the portion of sour old Mrs. Cham- 
 bers. This worthy woman, large of self, was short of 
 temper. She likewise favored her own feet. 
 
 S. Filcher, you recollect, saw things much better 
 near at hand. He was also new to dancing, and owned 
 a torpid tendency toward mussing collars. Indeed, 
 the good man's hands had once or twice left faint, dank 
 spots upon a partner's back. He danced because Mrs. 
 Filcher danced; her relatives, who lived with Mrs. 
 Filcher, also danced. Which was excellent, except 
 that many reaped where she had sown. Poor Sammy 
 always counted steps, trying to watch his feet. When 
 reading, a book or a paper was usually stopped at his 
 nose. His feet being sixty-five inches below, he peered 
 toward them intensely. This caused a certain in- 
 erectness when in motion. Not being able to raise 
 the feet above a foot or two, he bent his head to see 
 them. While stooping he lost the crowd, and hi count- 
 ing lost track of all else. 
 
 It worked to the end that Mrs. Chambers' feet were 
 often counted out, and Mrs. Chambers' back came 
 often in hard contact with other frames and shoulders. 
 Though not a heavy man, he made his presence felt. 
 Mrs. Chambers quickly groped for ways and means. 
 Facial expressions brought no reactions; for ever 
 were his eyes on his feet. She wished him off among 
 the down-and-outs, the wall-flowers, but mercifully 
 the whistle blew. Mrs. Chambers drew a better partner 
 and a breath, Mr. Filcher passed counting away. Bar- 
 bara laughed. 
 
 For Gates the party was not. He danced with Mrs.
 
 WASTE 107 
 
 Gates with well-dissembled fortitude, and Mrs. Turner, 
 gracious hostess, with convincing courtesy, then quietly 
 but firmly absconded to dim and smoky corners far 
 away. There, where the fumes were thickest, in an 
 atmosphere of poker, stale smoke and cigar-stubs, he 
 found old Hermann Vogel. Vogel had also come, with 
 Mrs. Vogel and Karl. Himself, he had not gone in. 
 Mrs. Gates and Mrs. Vogel were not intensely inti- 
 mate, and Barbara did not care much for Karl, so that 
 the partners and their wives had not met earlier that 
 evening. 
 
 Gates took a seat and a cigar, lighted the cigar, and 
 asked, 
 
 "What news from Maugan Grubbs?" 
 
 Mr. Vogel, who spoke with the characteristic slow- 
 ness which did not apply to his thoughts, looked first 
 about the smoking room and then at Mr. Gates. The 
 game went on, and men were sunk in arm-chairs in 
 the somnolent enjoyment of a smashing dinner, good 
 perfectos, and light reading. 
 
 Then he cautiously answered, 
 
 "Maughan says we're likely to be bothered with the 
 factory votes this year; he says they've got some 
 notion they aren't getting all they ought. 
 
 "A man from the Fork came yesterday and talked by 
 the Stevens plant at noon, and " 
 
 "Damn the Fork! I see what's going on up there. 
 Vogel, I've got a lot of thick-skulled chaps who can't 
 tell when they're decently well off. 
 
 "I'm afraid some day they're going to make me 
 trouble. I understand what they're after. I was up 
 there only last month, just for the day, and they're 
 getting just as good treatment as they ever did from me. 
 They want a raise/" 
 
 "Well, you might give it if you have to."
 
 108 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "I will, if I have to. They had one, a cent an 
 hour, two years ago. Now they want another; shorter 
 days, too, damn 'em. 
 
 "By the way, I saw old Crimmins, loading in the 
 yard. The old fellow looked seedy, pretty much all 
 in. Wouldn't know him. Seemed to be drinking, 
 acted kind of hard toward me. If I dared, I'd fire 
 the man." 
 
 "So. Why not?" 
 
 "I would in a minute. Maybe he'd be more trouble 
 than he is there, but . . ." 
 
 "Mr. Gates, Mr. Gates!" 
 
 "Here, boy. What's the matter?" 
 
 "Mrs. Gates, she wants you outside." 
 
 "I suppose that settles it, Vogel. Tell Grubbs to 
 get busy and stay at it. What do we keep him for? 
 Good-night." 
 
 When Mr. Gates was notified, the party was sure to 
 be over. Mrs. Gates was a good wife, and she quaffed 
 her society to the decent limit. 
 
 XVI 
 
 A SMALL fire-cracker popped out smartly, and a large 
 red "giant" spoke sedately with a loud, bass bangl 
 from down the street in front of Barbara's. 
 
 With the first she stirred a little, restlessly, with 
 the second she awoke to drowsy consciousness that 
 it was morning, and this the Fourth in Maple- 
 ton! It was morning indeed, and young. But while 
 Father Gates emitted a sincere and favorite damn, 
 and Mrs. Gates said, "Holden! don't," Barbara stepped 
 lightly out on the floor in her bare feet and walked to 
 the window. She shielded herself behind the lacy cur- 
 tain, and looked out; while the youthful fiend who had
 
 WASTE 109 
 
 caused it all ran off with a holiday glee to fresh homes 
 and sleepers new. And as he ran, he cried with all 
 the Independence in his little active body, 
 
 "Yeh! Oh, yeh! Fourt' o' July." 
 
 Hyperion had opened up the windows of his house, 
 and from great heights sent out his children of the dawn 
 to bid the earth awake. It responded in every bird 
 and tree and blade of grass, and in the dew-moist 
 housetops and climbing, spear-topped steeples that 
 caught his rays and mirrored them, and sent them back 
 a thousand-fold. 
 
 It all looked new and fresh and very fair to Barbara, 
 as if old Father Time had slipped away another day 
 from off his reel of years, and bade it start anew. Be- 
 fore the Gates' the maples towered up in their greenness 
 and precision. A robin returned to the nest she had 
 left when the boy saluted the dawn. 
 
 "Barbara! Barbara! Come back to bed. It's four 
 o'clock!" was Hattie's patient contribution to the 
 morning. But the little girl first saw the robin safely 
 home. 
 
 She was obedient, more by far that the little, miser- 
 able God of Sleep that first had started, then sped away 
 as if not likely to return to her. The child begged 
 to be up and dressed, for if there is a single day in all 
 the year that brings to every little girl the wish to be 
 a boy, it is the Fourth. Hattie, however, carried the 
 question by reminding her that should they get up now 
 they would of course be far too tired to listen to the 
 speaking at the Court House, or to see the pin-wheels 
 and the rockets and the candles shoot off their sparks 
 at night. 
 
 So Barbara remained in bed, rather passively, to 
 hear the Court House clock across the way strike one, 
 two, three, four five. The light nosed in a little
 
 110 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 stronger 'round the corner of the shades, but she was 
 quiet, and by-and-by she slept. When they awoke 
 again to general cannonading, it was properly the 
 Fourth. 
 
 Breakfast at the Gates' was early for a holiday, as 
 Mr. Gates himself had been elected speaker of the 
 day. Prominent men were chosen, usually ministers, 
 but Mr. Gates was it this year. With business-man 
 ability he had already cogitated just what best to say. 
 
 Partaking a shade less heartily than usual, Mr. Gates 
 fared forth for the place of Gates & Vogel. He found 
 Hermann there, with imported ideas. Mr. Vogel hailed 
 from abroad, in the present generation. But he was 
 clever, business-like, educated, an excellent mixer and 
 "jiner." There was also a stenographer, whom Gates 
 had 'phoned from home. He had caught her in time, 
 which was lucky, she being already decided upon a 
 day at Paris on the Moosehead. Paris was down- 
 river. It boasted a thousand people, and as much 
 gayety as they could support. 
 
 It is unessential to follow to the flaccid ends of ora- 
 tory the efforts of the partners and the patience of 
 amanuensis. Mr. Gates dictated; it was copied; it was 
 dictated again. Having with heat torn a first draft 
 to little bits, he began with new fire, again filled a 
 basket, and with a fresh cigar between his teeth re- 
 turned to the attack. The stenographer continued, re- 
 marking mentally that it was all the same, dear me! 
 When finished, she handed it to Gates. He read it, then 
 Mr. Vogel, who checked with pencil, infused it with 
 hearty breath of alien effort and catholic patriotism, 
 and called it good. Whereupon the typewriter plunged 
 for her hat, stopped patting her front hair, felt that the 
 sights of Paris were yet young, and departed. 
 
 Delete the remainder of the day, until the hour of
 
 WASTE 111 
 
 three, to find in body assembled upon the Court House 
 green such crowds of actual and near-by Mapletonians 
 as only fairs or a revival could usually produce. The 
 Crier with the dreamy eyes of Mr. Filcher, might well 
 have looked and termed it "representative." A man 
 would have said "packed," a woman "suffocating." 
 Both would have been right, or all three. It was the 
 Fourth. The jam extended from the porches, across 
 the street by Gates', on through the street itself, un- 
 jeopardized by traffic. It flowed across the green of 
 the park, upon the benches, among the trees and some- 
 times in them, to the Bandstand hard-by the Court; 
 it ringed the stand, with its semi-circle of band along 
 the rear, to the clergymen and leading citizens up 
 front. On Decoration Day "disabled veterans and 
 ministers were driven to the graves in carriages"; 
 today each had his proper place before the Court 
 House. Among them the school principal also loomed. 
 
 But hark! what is that? That is the band, the 
 Mapleton Silver Cornet Military Band. It is playing 
 one of John Philip Sousa's. Did you know it? 
 
 The Rev. Sykes, with dedicated mien, stepped for- 
 ward with conclusion of the air. He looked determined, 
 and he held on. The packed, perspiring people gave 
 way to some minutes of introspection. He prayed, in 
 part, God's blessing upon those who had gone, those 
 who were going, those who had come this day, those 
 who had not come; this country, other countries, the 
 President, all Congressmen; and the speaker of the 
 day. Sweating farmers wiped wet faces on their hands, 
 and wondered if this last were he. Which done, the 
 shepherd rested. The people breathed. 
 
 Principal Cadwalader Kelly then followed with 
 something from Lincoln. Whatever it was, the people 
 attended. They listened to the teacher and clapped the
 
 112 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 Emancipator. When they were done, Mr. Bodeheaver, 
 set close to Mr. Turner, boldly whispered, 
 
 "By gracious! Ain't that fine? Why, but that 
 Lincoln must a been bright an' educated. What frat 
 was he at college, Mr. Turner?" 
 
 Mr. Turner was short, sarcastic and sixty. He was 
 a college man, and had some sense. The band tem- 
 pered Turner's reply. 
 
 Old Colonel Hunter rose portentously. Colonel 
 Hunter was Mapleton's traditional leader-in-public. 
 He nominated candidates, proposed toasts, led parades, 
 and introduced speakers. He lent respectability. 
 Colonel Hunter said; 
 
 "Ladies, Gentlemen, Associates upon the stand, good 
 people of Mapleton, when it again devolved upon us to 
 select a speaker for this year, one man almost im- 
 mediately I may say occurred to your Patriotic 
 Committee and myself. 
 
 "Independence Day breathes of success. It has 
 ever ; may it always. We interpret it hi various ways, 
 quietly or noisily, with the sound of music, or in the 
 fireworks and explosives dear to boys. But it is all 
 success: success of the Colonies, success of this country, 
 success of ourselves. 
 
 "To me and to the rest it seemed that on this day 
 we should select as our interpreter, our speaker, a man 
 whose ancestry wholeheartedly contributed to this, the 
 great American success; whose name today betokens 
 still, in every way, all of its earlier measure. 
 
 "Ladies, Gentlemen, with pleasure I introduce to you 
 the Honorable Holden Gates, of Mapleton, Hamlin 
 County. Mr. Gates." 
 
 At this Mr. Gates, or the Colonel, drew plaudits. 
 Mr. Gates modestly raised his hand. The applause 
 would probably have died then anyhow, but this grace-
 
 WASTE 113 
 
 fulness capped it well. Porch rockers ceased from 
 creaking, good people shifted to the other foot, the voice 
 of Gates was heard across the green. 
 
 "Ladies and Gentlemen, dear fellow-citizens of 
 Mapleton, I feel as I look down upon your eager, happy 
 faces, proud in thinking of this day as I am proud to 
 speak to you, that there is hardly need of this, of some- 
 one who shall 'interpret' Independence for you, as 
 Colonel Hunter" bowing toward him "has so 
 aptly put it." 
 
 Upon which Mr. Gates had straightway set about 
 his duty of interpretation. He did so earnestly and 
 long. His was no fear of a crowd. He held them in 
 contempt, proper conception for vigorous speaking. 
 The people liked it well, and Mr. Vogel very much. 
 
 But when at .the end Mr. Gates cried out, with the 
 proud Framers of the Nation, 
 
 " 'We, the people of the United States, in order to 
 form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure 
 domestic tranquillity, provide for the common defense, 
 promote the general welfare, and secure the Blessings 
 of Liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and 
 establish this CONSTITUTION for the United States 
 of America ' 
 
 There was genuine cheering. And as he added, 
 
 " these, then: perfect Union, balanced justice, 
 domestic tranquillity, common defense, welfare, liberty 
 but most of all justice, tranquillity, and welfare 
 are the great confession of your Faith, the Creed of all 
 our lives " there was no end to their emotion. 
 
 When he and Vogel made a way downtown through 
 crowds and warm congratulations, they found at 
 their office a messenger from Slab Fork. He brought 
 a note from the Eureka Brotherhood which read
 
 114 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "Unless you raise our wages and give us homes that 
 we can live in and a little more to live on, we shall 
 take a hand ourselves." 
 
 Much righteous surprise and honest indignation 
 burst from Mr. Gates. 
 
 "You can go back and tell your Brotherhood that 
 Gates says, 'Go to blazes!' 
 
 "You've got your steady work from me for years. 
 What about me? You go back, and tell them to go 
 slow!" 
 
 Little Barbara, strolling in, regarded with naive sur- 
 prise the poorly dressed old man who stumbled out 
 to lose himself among the celebrants. 
 
 XVII 
 
 MAPLETON had its Union Station. Trains of the 
 M. Y. & N. used it, as well as the incoming, or out- 
 going ones of the Slab Fork narrow-gauge, which last 
 backed their loaded cars close up behind the Station 
 and hauled the empties out again when cargoes had 
 been handled and put aboard the standard lines. 
 
 A Boston sleeper went through Mapleton at nine 
 P.M., which, roughly speaking, was the hour when the 
 train from the Fork returned from its Northward trip. 
 "Roughly speaking" was purposely employed in speak- 
 ing of its schedule, for this it had not, except by how 
 the saws were cutting at the mill or by the loads to be 
 shifted and hauled down to town. The train left at 
 six of a morning. When it came back it was evening. 
 It handled a vast deal of traffic, and always brought 
 home the money. 
 
 This evening, in September, there was undue interest 
 in the passing of the nine o'clock. The cause, immedi-
 
 WASTE 115 
 
 ate, was that a stateroom had been held for Boston. 
 Red would show from the board and the limited 
 probably halt, instead of dropping its mail as it 
 whistled without even a courteous pause, which it 
 usually did. 
 
 The railway yard of Mapleton, at night, looked 
 relatively big and busy, for there were many switches, 
 each indexed by its small, squat light; a string of cars 
 one side the rather long freight warehouse; a line of 
 logging empties or tightly loaded flats upon the other. 
 Far up the track, if the night were fair, you saw the 
 narrow profile of the Black Creek bridge. It was all 
 very murky and fine, and apt to be smelly of cinders. 
 
 Just as the telegrapher-ticket-agent-baggage-and-sta- 
 tion-master hand-pulled an iron brake, so that his 
 semaphore showed "Stop," a machine with blushing 
 headlights threw the dingy red-walled building into 
 very bright relief. When the door of the car was 
 opened a little girl and a lady alighted. The lady 
 said, 
 
 "Barbara, where in the world can your father be?" 
 
 The little girl said, 
 
 "I don't know, Mamma, but he said he'd come, so 
 I know he will." 
 
 While they were talking Jerry came forward with 
 a number of bags and cases; the trunks were there 
 already. 
 
 "Shall I go in and get the tickets, Mrs. Gates, and 
 check the luggage?" 
 
 "Yes, Jerry, and then return and see if you can't 
 find Mr. Gates. He may be at the office." 
 
 Barbara was quiet during this, for she had only just 
 come home from Maine. Now she was leaving again. 
 It was a highly recommended school, the finishing 
 kind, near Boston. The Gates had been told it was
 
 116 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 expensive and good; Mrs. Gates had heard from Mrs. 
 Hunter that it was fashionable. Her mother would 
 accompany her for one day at the school and a week 
 at the shops. 
 
 Jerry reappeared, gave Mrs. Gates the checks and 
 tickets, returned her change, and picked a man-made 
 servant's way back to the car. The agent too came 
 out to ask about the trunks, which seemed to be excess, 
 received the balance due, gave thanks and ambled off, 
 reporting "her" on time. 
 
 A minute or two before the hour a whistle 
 sounded somewhere in the blackness. Mrs. Gates 
 fidgeted, said, "Oh, where is your Father!" but this 
 was not their train. Five minutes later a tail-lighted 
 caboose showed up behind the Station, the lanterns 
 dim at first, then burning brighter as the logging train 
 puffed loudly and backed in. 
 
 Another blast shrilled out, an automobile's siren 
 sounded too. The train for Boston made the bend, 
 passed noisily across the iron bridge and lost its 
 speed. Mr. Gates ran up, gave Mrs. Gates a reassuring 
 bill-roll and a careless tap, received from Barbara a lov- 
 ing little hug, and bestowed a kiss. He walked along 
 the wooden platform with them. The coal-faced, white- 
 garbed porter met them with all respect, took from 
 the following Jerry his load of bags, saw everyone and 
 everything on board, and the train was gone. 
 
 Jerry cranked up and Mr. Gates entered his car. 
 The string of Pullmans roared from sight around a 
 curve, as a bent, poorly-clad man, with a stout young 
 boy as neatly and as badly garbed, stepped from the 
 smoky caboose. They walked in the direction of the 
 town, uncertainly. The boy carried their canvas 
 telescope; the man walked as though tired. The 
 Gates car passed them as they reached the street, in 
 time to take its dust.
 
 REFINEMENT 
 XVIII 
 
 IT pointed east, past a round dozen of empty lots, 
 over a grumbling bridge thick-plastered with 
 stories of stock shows and patented nostrums, 
 on by a signboard or three as well as the shop of a 
 blacksmith, till finally it reached to the heart of the 
 town, this road that led from the station and into the 
 village of Mapleton. As if its mission ended and there 
 was no further use, its dry, uneven surface left you 
 there, right at the door of Dave's. 
 
 Dave's, acknowledged solar plexus of local hospi- 
 tality, dull conviviality and easy sociability to boot, was 
 also the beginning of "downtown." The road from the 
 railroad ended, and there at its end stores and mar- 
 kets began. All things were Dave's. His letterheads, 
 as well as cryptically declaiming livery, bath, a room 
 for pool, drummers' headquarters, steam heat and bar, 
 said also, "in the business part of the town." The 
 house of David was the core. It smacked of roller 
 towels, and smelled of cabbage. Its painted sign be- 
 spoke your trade; its weight, upheld by magic, made 
 threats against your head. 
 
 Its rambling stoop and foot-scored rail delineated 
 Mekka. On mellow evenings, such as this, hard chairs 
 cracked lazily with dull itinerants who had teetered 
 on Brod Watts' boxes until that worthy snuffed the 
 coal-oil lamps and closed his general store with many 
 a backward glance of circumspection to be sure: (i) 
 that every light was out; (2) the last slug ousted; 
 
 117
 
 118 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 (3) the bolts shoved tight on small-paned windows 
 and loose-hung, swaybacked doors. That attained, the 
 living, moving part of the store hitched itself over to 
 Dave's, where they welcomed the hour of ten with 
 many a hard-sucked pipe and a quorum of well-worked 
 quid. Nothing changed, nor cheered the votaries save 
 the arrival of the "nine," and that itself but seldom 
 thrilled the transient trade enough to quit good chairs 
 and meet it. They did not even need to; Dave's bus 
 drove back and brought it to them. 
 
 To-night the train had whistled with usual vigor, 
 sighted the town, and left it again to whir on South. 
 In proper time the well-used 'bus bumped over the 
 bridge, plumbed the rut in front of the blacksmith's 
 sufficiently to test vehicular and human ribs, and 
 halted in front of the place with its burningly eager 
 stoop-full. Appeared Dave, who ran to a place by the 
 steps, cried "Back 'er back!" to the driver, and opened 
 the door himself as the latter answered his bidding. 
 Eleven holeproof rockers quit work and ceased from 
 creaking; six jaws abandoned pipes; five stopped their 
 champing for a minute-portion; while chairs and jaws 
 resumed their normal function and disappointed life 
 pressed on as one bored, well-satcheled travelling 
 man reluctantly surrendered all to Dave. He had 
 "made" their town before. 
 
 The nine and its attendant 'bus had gone. The 
 last nocturnal excitement was paling to a talk on 
 favorite sons and tax assessors when two black figures 
 showed beneath the corner light, one long and rather 
 warped, the other shortly upright, both coming on 
 toward Dave's. They failed of being natives, for they 
 entered the hotel. One or two went in behind to see 
 more what they looked like. They sauntered back to 
 say that those inside "seemed like they wan't much."
 
 REFINEMENT 119 
 
 The travelling man had dropped his bags, picked 
 up a case, and gone to make a late call on "the trade." 
 Dave sat alone, attempting to decide whether to put 
 his man in 23, "with wardrobe," or in 19, "double- 
 window." But the pent-up figure by the desk quit 
 work as the rough-tapped boots of the pair walked 
 on his floor and fell afoul his cogitations. "Sun-burnt 
 faces, big red hands, seedy clothes, cheap telescope: 
 the Fork" the hotel man, that fortune-teller, checked 
 them off. He did not trouble to get up, for Dave was a 
 veteran landlord. Not so much to look at, for he 
 was bright of hair and whisker as of nose, and his chin 
 had been a disappointment, there were some main- 
 tained that Dave was over-rated. But Ezra Bodeheaver 
 asseverated stoutly that "Dave Wilkinson could do 
 more on less sense than any man in Mapleton." Ezra 
 was modest. 
 
 When the elder of the two had reached the desk, 
 he asked whether or not there was room for the night. 
 He was a stranger, this last. You recollect Firemen's 
 Convention, ten year back? Dave's hotel had never 
 been full but once; that was it. 
 
 "Yep. One dollar. Advance," came as the prompt 
 return, and Dave produced the book. 
 
 Dave's had a register. Few names of antecedent 
 governors or living Congressmen appeared athwart its 
 year-browned sheets. He kept it for poor strangers. 
 "Book-keeping was too gosh-fired much of a nuisance," 
 he "didn't bother none." The stranger scratched upon 
 a blotty surface, "Andrew Johnson, Slab Fork," then 
 added, "and son." From a pocket frayed at the edges 
 he fumbled a bill that had also seen service, and gave 
 it to the man behind the desk. Johnson did not take it 
 from a roll nor from a pocket-book. It was a lonesome 
 dollar, for Johnson reached it out as though he hated
 
 120 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 to disturb the faintly-jingling coins and the few re- 
 maining there. He had worked six hours for the 
 departed. Formality met, the host conducted them 
 along and up a pair of crooked and reproachful stairs. 
 At the end of a third-floor hall they stopped. No need 
 to turn a key. The host held his fluttering lamp in 
 one hand while he turned the knob with the other, and 
 the three stepped into the room. 
 
 It was comfortably furnished with gloom. The 
 corners and the sides were camouflaged in dusk. Dave's 
 rooms were bearable in spring and fall; he "aimed to 
 give a dollar's worth." In the fluttery light of the lamp 
 one saw two chairs that managed very well to stand 
 alone; a piece of furniture improbably a dresser, 
 though with a pair of shallow drawers and patient, 
 spotted mirror at its back; a bed that showed two 
 brownish quilts, two thin, anemic pillows, and a hol- 
 lowed center; a low, dull-painted stand with crowded 
 standing-room for a shallow bowl and empty, nicely 
 cracked pitcher. Pine lumber carpeted the floor, and 
 an odd, exotic blossom papered the wall, while over 
 the ceiling a few flies stalked uncertainly in the light 
 of the wick below. 
 
 Since the register said Slab Fork, the cubicle was 
 large, quite cozy, all but luxury. Dave set his lamp 
 upon the dresser, where some of the light was caught 
 by the glass and faintly cast over the room. 
 
 He then left for a pitcher of water, ran downstairs 
 and up again, returned it to the washstand, yelled 
 "Goo' night," and was gone. 
 
 The lad had dropped the telescope he carried, and 
 the two sat down. The elder, rather, sank down. The 
 boy's face was tired as he turned to his father. 
 
 "Hard trip, eh, Son?" said the man, and the little 
 fellow nodded wearily. "You'll like it though, I know,
 
 REFINEMENT 121 
 
 when you've sort of got the hang," he went along, 
 to keep up his spirits as well. "Why, if I could 'a gone 
 to school, real like, 'way back when I was small, there 
 isn't anything I wouldn't gladly done to make it go. 
 But did I get it? Not much, Son, they took me out of 
 school almost afore I quit short pants. Sometimes 
 I've sort of thought if I'd gone back a lot o' things 
 would worked out different. 
 
 "But here I am, Andy, as far as I'll go. I'm old, 
 and I'm tired. I never turned the trick." 
 
 They were undressing now. They didn't wash, for 
 the pitcher was small and they would need the water 
 when they woke. Besides, they came from the Fork; 
 people did their splashing in the morning. Johnson 
 turned off the light. Then he talked again. Andy was 
 very quiet; each felt a little awkward of the other. 
 The boy was full of thoughts that come the first time 
 he quits his home; the father, disappointed, old, try- 
 ing to launch a life where his had swamped, was looking 
 forward. 
 
 His vision was very clear. He reached an arm to 
 where the lad lay in the hollow of the limp, worn bed. 
 
 "What is it?" said the boy, a little tremor in his 
 voice. He knew no father but a man of unresponsive- 
 ness. This one was different. Somehow, it was hard. 
 
 "Andy, son, I want to talk a bit before you go to 
 sleep. It won't hurt you, and '11 do me good. You're 
 young, but thinkin' back I see a whole lot plain that a 
 man who's worked his time can maybe put to a lad 
 in a few plain words, and save him a year or so, some o' 
 the heartaches too. 
 
 "I know that I ain't smart or good enough to talk, 
 but I c'n only live again in you. You've got to go 
 on where I quit, and I don't want you ever lookin' 
 back, as I am now, and say 'My daddy never bothered
 
 122 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 me with anythin' like that when I grew up, and left 
 my home.' My father was all right, but he didn't take 
 no stock in education, home or other kind. I mostly 
 learned by accident, and I remember. I learned late, 
 too late to do much good. 
 
 "If I could say a word to boys, afore they start, 
 I'd say 'Boy, fight shy of a drink. Tastes bad enough 
 at first, but there's a far worser taste that you won't 
 get till afterwards.' The popular boy in the bar- 
 room ain't near so high-up hi the mill. And he'll be 
 less so, every year! You can't afford it, Andy. It 
 don't go to prove you're a good one, taking a drink. 
 It sets you up as young, more like a fool. Brace up 
 to a man! I've played with it sometimes. If you 
 hanker to work with your hands, to sweat for your 
 life, to slave for your bread why, take it! If you 
 want your brain to wrastle, I say, 'Hold up!' Hand- 
 workers can't afford it, and others don't want to. 
 
 "There's a couple o' things I'm leavin' with you. 
 That's one; and t'other's harder. Here it is. Be care- 
 ful with the women. They'll help you, mighty much, 
 to make your gait and fix the place you'll get to. If 
 they're no good, you can't afford 'em. You've seen, 
 at the Fork. You're young, but remember gay 
 clothes, and smilin' faces; happy with happiness they 
 don't no longer feel; and nothing left to lose. 
 
 "Remember your mother, boy. / ain't very much, 
 but I always like to think of every woman like I do of 
 her. Treat 'em so. If they ain't good, leave 'em, 
 for you'll lose. But if they are, don't. ever dare to 
 make them less so. Someone'll have to pay. 
 
 "Maybe it seems it ain't so wrong to reach for 
 what is offered. It is, for you're the man. When 
 some day, most like you will, you find a woman you 
 want, look at yourself. Be sure you've got as much
 
 REFINEMENT 123 
 
 to give as her. Women forgive a sight, but get a good, 
 clean start. You can't forgive yourself. 
 
 "Such things I've wanted, though maybe missed . . . 
 the country too! It was not always mine. But now 
 it is! Whole lots o' things are new and queer to me, 
 most like to you. But never to forget the country and 
 the home. They will be watching." 
 
 The old man never talked just so before. The words 
 gained strength from his heart, significant eloquence 
 from blundered life. But at the end they failed him, 
 and his voice broke. Andy said little, and they were 
 quiet. Probably they were asleep. 
 
 XIX 
 
 SMOKE trails hung over the track, and in the rocky 
 old caboose that trailed the train of logging empties 
 Andy watched his father, going home. So faded the 
 Fork. He felt again that father's very first embrace. 
 It was all of him. 
 
 The boy did not seem hungry, nor even very tired 
 after Dave's. He did not feel so very much of any- 
 thing. The baggy telescope lay at his feet. It had not 
 been opened since they left the Fork, as neither needed 
 anything to spend a night. Their day began at Dave's 
 at five that morning. The logging train might make 
 the Fork in time for work. His father took it. 
 
 He raised the bag, and started back toward town. 
 A jolting milk-wagon spilled a little of its foamy load 
 his way, and a passing buggy coated him with dust. 
 The telescope was heavy; they all passed by. A 
 clattering again loomed up behind. Once more he 
 shrank to the side of the road, but the horse's feet and
 
 124 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 the wheels slowed down till a voice rang out, crisp 
 and fresh as the day. 
 
 "Hi, son, where be you goin'!" 
 
 The boy looked up. His head just overtopped the 
 nearest wheel, and over it he saw a shaggy head and 
 bearded, red-cheeked face set on some splendid 
 shoulders. He was big and looked safe. 
 
 "Goin' far, son?" 
 
 "No, just school." 
 
 "Well, hop in, an' ride along," countered the man, 
 moving a part of his bulk a bit toward the side of the 
 seat, "and reach me up that telescope. I ain't goin' 
 far myself, but I might's well as not give ye a little 
 lift. In fact, I'd ruther. 
 
 "You look a fairish sort, I'd say," giving a sort of 
 smile, "ever been here before?" 
 
 "Nope, never been here before." 
 
 "Well, seems like you ain't much stuck on it, 
 neither," he went along, as the buggy rattled over the 
 bridge to stop by a little shop. "Never mind, though, 
 son, you'll like it, I jest know you will. Look like you 
 was that sort. 
 
 "Sorry I can't go no farther, but this's my shop and 
 I'm late a'ready. Blacksmithin' don't wait for no one, 
 least of all the smithy. Now up towards Dave's, a 
 little to the left, then on along State and to the right 
 you go. Can't miss it. The school? she's by the Court 
 House, back amongst the trees. So long, and come 
 see 'Hub' Sanders so be you ever git lonesome with 
 yer books." 
 
 "Good-by," gravely replied the lad, taking the tel- 
 escope, "and and thank you, Hub!" The big 
 man grinned, waved him a huge, dark hand, and opened 
 up his shop. 
 
 Morning brightened Andy's spirits. It was early
 
 REFINEMENT 125 
 
 day. Occasional curls of smoke wound out the 
 chimneys he could see from Main Street. Here and 
 there a frowsy grocer boy undid his doors and windows, 
 and hauled out sprawling board-made benches on which 
 he shortly piled the best of Hamlin County produce. 
 Some factory hands were getting on to work, and a 
 country girl in a blue-checked dress snapped her whip 
 out loud as an old horse plodded by with a load of 
 squash and turnips, and rattling, shiny cans. Dawn 
 was come, as up among the hills black stacks were 
 soiling the warming sky, and men in dark, coarse shirts 
 and long-patched overalls were handling logs and 
 boards and boxes the while they sang, or talked, or 
 cursed each other, cursed, talked, or sang the hours 
 and months and years away. 
 
 But while his mind dragged on with them, his feet 
 had got him from Main Street to State. Small, waking 
 stores gave way to larger, calmly sleeping houses. The 
 early air had in it the breath of frosty nights and 
 pungent days, of fields in harvest, large, brown pump- 
 kins, and the shocked-up corn in rows. The houses 
 passed and scrutinized were easily the largest he had 
 seen in all his life, and he was brushing sixteen now. 
 Some had three stories, with a little one on top. They 
 must be rich. He would like a house with a garret; if 
 he had he wouldn't sleep there, either. Garrets weren't 
 much. 
 
 He shortly saw a great old building, with a clock. 
 But on the other side, well back inside a grove, there 
 stood a second edifice of brick. Its roof was packed in 
 moss. Above the door there was carving, "The Free 
 Academy of Mapleton," and the letters, in-grown with 
 lichens and colored with rain, looked almost as large 
 as the building. Maybe they stood for something. A 
 flag walk entered the yard. He followed it inside.
 
 126 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 Early-risen heads poked out of many windows, and a 
 comradely voice exclaimed, "Hey! there! Where'd you 
 get that hat?" Puckered-up lips piped a country tune. 
 The sport increased as he approached. The friendly 
 door was far away; and he might never reach it! His 
 sagging bag was torture. However, in less than a 
 minute he had mustered a doubtful knock. The noise 
 above apprising him, if not the knock, the door was 
 quickly opened by one of pedagogic leanings. He was 
 round, horn-spectacled, a man of near-feminine nice- 
 ness. He seemed a proper person, though not the hairy 
 sort. 
 
 "Come in, child, come in. I think you are the little 
 boy we expected last night," he added rather kindly, 
 opening the door enough to let in Andy and the bag. 
 
 "Your name is Andrew Johnson, isn't it?" he asked 
 when they were both inside. 
 
 "Yes'm," said Andy, shifting feet. 
 
 "Well, we are just sitting down to breakfast," said 
 his host, whose name was Mr. James. "Have you 
 eaten?" 
 
 "No, sir, I haven't," and he might as well have added, 
 "not since I left the Fork." That, though, was not 
 Andy. He was rather silent in his own house; else- 
 where, he was dumb. 
 
 "Come right upstairs, then. We can take your bag 
 along and put it in your room before we breakfast." 
 He left it to the boy, changed his mind, took it himself, 
 and led the way. Up a winding staircase it went, at 
 top to another, down a dim hall, past many doors, by 
 hordes of boys. They eventually stopped. 
 
 Mr. James did not knock, and they surprised a long, 
 lean fellow who was trying to arrange a round, brushy 
 cowlick to the best advantage of a yellow head. 
 
 "Ah, Moore, I fear you will be late. The second
 
 REFINEMENT 127 
 
 bell has rung. You must not let the little things of 
 life detract from more serious aspects. Dress more 
 quickly, or plan to rise earlier." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And, Moore, this is Andrew Johnson. He has come 
 to room with you. Try to make him at home. I 
 shall leave your bag here, Johnson. Come below, both 
 of you, as soon as you are ready." 
 
 Mr. James left. 
 
 Andy looked at the room. All rented lodgings are 
 bad, these were almost free. He inspected the other 
 boy. 
 
 "What's your name?" 
 
 "Crampton." 
 
 " 'Cramp?' Cramp-what?" 
 
 "Heh! don't try to be funny, or I'll bump your 
 head. Drop your bag and quit starin'. Let's go to 
 breakfast." 
 
 Andy's intentions having been pacific, even amiable, 
 they started off. The other's temper was equally so, 
 for he took no part in the fun-making which met them 
 at the dining-room. The place was large. It was also 
 full full of boys and girls, noisy, eating. All stopped 
 to see. The styles of the Fork were local, a matter of 
 something to wear. Girls giggled. The boys' re- 
 ception was not so refined, as four or five shied re- 
 marks or slanted food fragments to welcome the 
 rare little figure. But saggy coat and calico shirt, large 
 feet in stubbed-out shoes, brief sleeves that early lose 
 their arms and reddened hands, tan stockings patched 
 in black, and pants not free of reenforcement are 
 a joy. 
 
 Their stroll was long. The morning had been full 
 of gauntlets. If Andy were aware of what progressed, 
 he gave no sign at the table. The master at the head
 
 128 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 promptly filled up a plate, the pupil worked in an effi- 
 cient silence. 
 
 A bell cut short the meal. Conducted by his room- 
 mate, Andy passed from dining-room to study-hall, 
 where fresher troubles met with novel pleasures. 
 
 He was sampled in several classes, and proved to 
 doubting masters that Slab Fork had a share of "r's." 
 Tried again at recess, he determined for the pupils that 
 certain of the woodsbred knew other things than 
 boards. A clever lad, Cramp said his name was Vogel, 
 pointed a joke at Andy's foreign look and funny ways. 
 Obligingly, Andy seized the boy about his neck and 
 urged him down. Intentions went still further, but the 
 bell rang. 
 
 With night there followed weak, stray thoughts. It 
 came to Andy that though the Fork was bare, poor, 
 cold, the logger's hut still had a store of homely 
 qualities. Andy resolved to write a letter, which 
 showed how much his depths were moved, for Andy was 
 fifteen and very normal. 
 
 Crampton's books preempted the small pine stand 
 that served in many things, by night for research. 
 Andy was new, without too much of lodging house re- 
 sourcefulness. His eye roved for a bit. The dresser 
 was high, the wash-stand low and full and rather 
 splashy. The chairs were two, as also the boys. In a 
 corner, packed as when it left Slab Fork, squatted the 
 serviceable form of Andy's telescope. Lifting it not 
 without effort to a knee, he then sat down again, 
 thinking perhaps to unpack it. The telescope was 
 full and plump, if lumpy. Suppose he write his letter 
 on it. 
 
 "Heh, Cramp, through with the ink?" 
 
 "Yeah, just a minute, what'chu want it for?" 
 
 "Write a letter. Got some paper?"
 
 REFINEMENT 129 
 
 "Sure, here y'are, ink too. Take the table." 
 "No, you aren't hardly through with it. I c'n use 
 this all right," added the boy, keeping the wrinkled, 
 seamy bag upon his knee. 
 
 A pen and blotter hurtled by air-line, and ink came 
 thence by two long arms that reached and met. He 
 started work. And doubt not that it was work. Have 
 you ever been fifteen? His head for some moments 
 received a share of the scratching that soon was audible 
 as the blunted schoolboy pen began to crawl across 
 the paper. It did not scratch there long, nor fast, and 
 where a canvas rib came through the telescope appeared 
 occasional bumps and splashes. The ink was of the 
 thickish mellow type obtaining in the boarding-house 
 and country school, the paper of the sort the best 
 ancestors used. The youth bore heavily and conscien- 
 tiously upon the paper, and over half a page he made 
 his mark. Errors and blots illuminated it. His mother 
 kept it. 
 
 "Dear Mother: 
 
 Father brought me down to here the other 
 night. He was with me that night, and then 
 he went home in the morning. That was this 
 morning. We stayed at a hotel all night, 
 and did not get up till the train went out at 
 five or six o'clock. It has been a long day. 
 I am getting tired. 
 
 This morning a man named 'Hub' gave me 
 a ride. He is a blacksmith, and he has a 
 shop where he shoes horses. 
 
 I have a room-mate. I call him 'Cramp.' 
 I miss you very much, so I will close. 
 
 Love, from Andy."
 
 130 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 Laughter from Cramp broke in on letter-making. 
 
 "Ha! This is good, Andy. I couldn't get the answer 
 to a problem in this book, so I found it in the back and 
 worked the darn thing hindwards." 
 
 Andy was mildly interested. Up at the Fork they 
 didn't have such books, an Algebra. They didn't have 
 answers in the back, either; in fact, according to Miss 
 Myra, most of her charges lacked answers about the 
 back of their heads. Andy saw the light by Crampton's 
 aid. The latter, undeniably elated by his late afflatus, 
 proposed a trip below. 
 
 "We can go to the library, Andy. You're supposed to 
 study, but there's other books too. Sometimes, when 
 I'm all through studying for an evening, I go down and 
 read." 
 
 "Read what, Cramp?" 
 
 "Oh, lots of things. 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' once, and 
 then I got hold of 'Arabian Nights,' too, but they put 
 that away. Too exciting, they told me. Come on." 
 
 They went, and while Crampton prospected for ex- 
 citing covers, Andy for the first time in his life browsed 
 about a few shelves-full of books. It was wonderful. 
 There surely were a hundred, anyway. They looked 
 like a lot. He turned the pages of a few that must have 
 caught the eye of several schoolboy generations, for 
 their corners were slanting away and they had much- 
 torn leaves and weak backs. Next he saw some of the 
 others, carelessly at first. Curious, these interested 
 him. Many of die leaves were still as fresh, uncut, as 
 when some master's hand had placed the volumes 
 there long years ago. The boyish touch had passed 
 them by. Poems at the Fork were neither current nor 
 believed. He stole a look at one what was it, now? 
 "When the green gits back on the trees," and he was 
 back among the trees himself, a fish-pole in his hand,
 
 REFINEMENT 131 
 
 some bait beside his feet, a bluish cloud-flecked sky 
 above, when Crampton's voice cut in, 
 
 "Aw, let's go, Andy. Getting late." 
 
 The fish-pole dropped from his hands, the greening 
 trees faded away, and he answered, 
 
 "Yes, we'll go." 
 
 But he marked that place with a fragment of paper. 
 
 Again they were upstairs, beside the telescope which 
 Crampton's curiosity and kindness, mixed, helped to 
 persuade the other should be opened for disposal of 
 his "things." 
 
 "And I'll give you the bottom drawer of the dresser, 
 Andy, with one side of the wash-stand." 
 
 The sack was opened. Its filler was a motley mess of 
 clean red handkerchiefs, a piece of soap, a good-sized, 
 red-edged towel and brace of hose; the bulk a pair 
 of real gum boots, in the stamp of his father's size. 
 The rest, what there was, he wore. There was not even 
 a fall tonic. But as they were having a little boy-like 
 talk before undressing, they heard a laugh out in 
 the hall. Mr. James knocked, and opened their door. 
 
 He said, "There's a man here to see you, Andrew." 
 Mr. James suggested "what a man," though Andy 
 hardly noticed. "It's after hours, of course, but he 
 said that it was important and that he was leaving in 
 the morning, so I had him come right up." 
 
 The laugh rang again. Andy rose and looked out. 
 He saw why. Boys' heads were out of doors and a 
 rough, clumsy fellow stood there. He wouldn't have 
 looked that way at the Fork, but Andy had been from 
 there a day. He couldn't have laughed, yet he saw why 
 the others had. The yeast of education was at work. 
 
 "Bill Boddfish!" cried the lad, as the big fellow 
 reached in and seized his hand with a painfully sincere 
 clasp.
 
 132 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "Remember, Andrew, it is very late," put in the 
 master. Right there Bill, flushing from the laughter 
 and the teacher's words, came in and came to a point 
 as he had never done back home. 
 
 "It's just this, Andy," said the man, "the boys in 
 Eureky, back home, had a meetin' last night. They 
 thought as mebbe, they thought as how you might, 
 well they got to thinkin' mebbe you would need a little 
 somethin' down here, and though we ain't none of us 
 anyways rich, nor the Lodge neither, and- most like 
 can't afford it, they sent me down tonight to give you 
 this. And to say 'Good luck, boy, we hope you'll win! ' 
 If there's anythin', any time, as old Bill Boddfish or any 
 others of the boys can do for ye, just let us know, and 
 I tell ye, we'll be there!" 
 
 Andy had no time to reply when the rough-clad man, 
 gripping his fingers again, was out of the room. 
 Laughter denoted his progress. 
 
 Andy had a look at the dirty-wrapped parcel thrust 
 in his hand. There was a little bunch, and a paper. 
 Inside the lump, so Crampton said, for he had never 
 seen the sort before, were three ten-dollar pieces, gold. 
 The paper held a grimy note, just "From the boys at 
 home. Don't never forget them. They won't you." 
 
 Bill Boddfish had another call to make that night. 
 It was not far off, and he did not tarry. 
 
 Holden Gates' was across the street. As surround- 
 ings and hospitality varied, so was there distinction 
 in the greetings of Eureka. Again he brought and left 
 a note. It also had effects, immediate. Boddfish re- 
 turned scowling to the autumn witchery of that night. 
 Gates went thoughtful to a whiskey-soda and a fine 
 grate fire. "At it again," he mused, and felt the sharp 
 prod of the note. 
 
 Smiling, he made a paper spiral of it. It caught from
 
 REFINEMENT 133 
 
 the blaze. After all you might only call it a warning. 
 He moved the spoon easily in the glass, and lit a fresh 
 cigar. 
 
 XX 
 
 WE knew a boy, we find a man. Graduation and 
 commencement were nearby. Five years of Mapleton's 
 Academy drew to a close, five years of work, of study, 
 of struggle of struggle to bring to a common end 
 the threads of many things that more than once had 
 almost ravelled out. There were self-sacrifice and hard- 
 ship, at the Fork. There was adversity at Mapleton. 
 Together they goaded the boy. Eureka sometimes 
 came to the fore, and looked up. He never sent 
 to them. 
 
 It was five years of managing.. He saw little of 
 his fellows and their homes; that would have taken 
 clothes. He did not recreate; that would have needed 
 time. He did not dissipate; that would have eaten 
 money. He spent a portion of the day in studying, the 
 rest in working to continue. He accepted sacrifice, 
 and returned courage. Holidays and Sabbaths were an 
 opportunity, for extra effort. Days were for labor, 
 nights for bad dreams. He had his feet hard on the 
 ground. It was his way, and also kept the holes from 
 showing in the soles. 
 
 If you are fortunate, and think of life in terms of 
 bills and notes and metal dollars, be well enough 
 content. If you are not, then wait for today and hope 
 for tomorrow. The Arabs have it that "When fortune 
 bringeth thee affliction, console thyself by remembering 
 that one day thou must see prosperity, and another 
 day, difficulty. . . ." Only this was all difficulty.
 
 134 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 If Andrew had had less resource he probably would 
 not have made it; if he had done less he could not. 
 The Fork gave away an old little boy. The town of 
 Mapleton took him as he was, worked him, drove him, 
 hurt him, buffeted, outraged, shaped and inspired him, 
 and made of him an old young man. He 
 took five years where teachings came in books, and 
 in that school where learning came from life. He 
 browsed haphazardly on many things, and landed 
 hard on one or two, among these elocution. His school 
 was study, his parties were work. His marks were 
 passing, his work was vital. He liked cake, but he grew 
 up on bread. 
 
 Short vacation periods he spent in Mapleton. There 
 was a factory where he earned a little. In winter, 
 through a man up at the Fork who knew the foreman, 
 he also got a job in town at taking stock. The plant 
 was shut down, and they let him work at night scaling 
 lumber, because he knew his subject fairly well. It did 
 not take long, but it helped him to spend his time when 
 there was nothing to do but study. He did that when he 
 went home. Odd times like Saturdays he filled in at 
 this plant, working at piece rates that usually tobog- 
 ganed down as your production rose. It was a touch 
 of home. 
 
 Andrew's birthright had not been pride. If pride 
 had been born at the Fork, it would have died 
 in Mapleton, so it was better. He understood 
 the shoveling of snow. Odd times he had a chance 
 as waiter for affairs of large proportion. He washed 
 his own clothes, and others' dishes. Most generally he 
 had his pay, such as there was, in cash. Sometimes it 
 had been clothes, twice it was pipe lead no longer used 
 for water. The first he sold, five pounds of it, at T. E. 
 Brodribb Watts', five cents the pound. That after-
 
 REFINEMENT 135 
 
 noon more work and better wages for the same old lady 
 had netted some ten pounds in twisted coils. The 
 bottom dropped out of the market. The hardware 
 husband of the social matron said the price had fallen 
 since that morning. Things never fell that way in 
 Mapleton. He got three cents, with an insight into 
 Mr. Watts' success. 
 
 Starting the long warm spell of summer he rode the 
 caboose to the Fork, where he reverted to the life of 
 yesterday. He lived in the home of the Johnsons, and 
 all things were as he had left them. Nothing had 
 altered, save that his father looked much older, his 
 mother far more tired if such could be. His little 
 brother had followed the way, short months of child- 
 hood and school, and then the years of the mill. When 
 he was able, George should also have a chance. At 
 present Andrew was the only luxury they could afford. 
 He knew this, and he did not like it, but it was the 
 only path that led away. His father still worked, 
 though perhaps not so hard. The Company did not 
 pay him more, but on the other hand they had not 
 "cut" his wages. 
 
 Too old for the place and boxes of his breaking- 
 in, Andrew spent his summers in the sawmill, often in 
 the place that Hans had filled. He was paid not less 
 and neither was he paid a cent more than men who 
 had brought young lives to the Fork, who offered them 
 unsparingly; and decades later had them given back, 
 poorer, weak and frayed, and very badly twisted. And 
 though it was a thing he knew, and understood, 
 he hated it. He hated it but not as the rest of 
 the Fork. From endurance and submission, then final 
 conquest, their hate was passive, cold. It was not 
 the wholesome hate of hope, but the all-damned aban- 
 don of despair.
 
 136 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 One day, it was a Sunday, Andrew climbed far up 
 a thinly timbered hill that topped the morbid place be- 
 low. He needed fresher air. Up there, he stopped 
 to rest; then gained his feet again, and rising shook 
 a knotted fist at what he saw. "And I will smash you 
 yet," he cried. But just then clouds of smoke rose up, 
 hid all, and seemed to taunt him. 
 
 In leaving the Fork and reaching Mapleton each fall, 
 he merely parted with work, and love, for work and 
 places that did not know him, had not troubled to 
 understand him, and always largely ignored him. Which 
 allowed him to hold a lead in school, and carry out his 
 purpose. As a boy he was not unsocial, and he un- 
 doubtedly did not enjoy life entirely shut in by school- 
 room, teachers and pupils. However, it was all he 
 could afford. Wait just a little; he would snatch a 
 taste of life less bitter than the acrid draught he knew. 
 
 Andrew's friends along the close were largely those 
 he made at first. To Crampton he was warmly 
 attached, and the sentiments that he himself inspired 
 varied from the fist-compelled respect of Karl Vogel 
 to a very real and patent liking owned by 
 nearly all the rest. His excellent preceptors 
 looked for him to go far, and Mr. James had often 
 said, "A lovely child." Which he was not, being 
 largely the shape and size of a man. Yet he was not bad 
 to look at, for his eyes were warmly blue and frankly 
 honest, his hair had slowly turned from very light to 
 a brown like ripened cornsilk, and his frame was stout 
 and straight. His hands showed work, his voice held 
 a very slight ring of experience, and there was nothing 
 hesitant about him. 
 
 At the commencement of his course Andrew was 
 mostly innocent of funds; at his leave-taking he was 
 still more free of debt. Between the two there lay
 
 REFINEMENT 137 
 
 a highly taut financial era, but the final balance was a 
 credit. 
 
 The mill that made him produced a man. They used 
 to say he had 'most everything but clothes; he might 
 have been a gentleman. Men liked him, boys admired 
 him, old ladies trusted him, and no young women knew 
 him. 
 
 Commencement time had come to Mapleton. It was 
 a siege of inventories. Taking stock two days before, 
 Andrew found in his and Crampton's room a stack of 
 books. He was not looking for books. He was looking 
 for a shirt and hat fit to appear at Mapleton's Grand 
 Opera House the second night succeeding, when the 
 graduates, among them these boys, were slated to be 
 seated on the stage, examined by an audience, in turn 
 examining, hearing their middle names read out in full 
 by Mr. Turner, and in all good time receiving their 
 diplomas, with ribbon. 
 
 A distant future held forth no disquietude. It could 
 only with great pains outstrip the past. Immediately, 
 though, there was that shirt and hat. Johnson had 
 known for some time that in the realm of shirts there 
 is judicious virtue in a pair of scissors, likewise, in 
 terms of hats, in close employment of the brush. 
 Andy's had been virtuous for very long, and there 
 are limits. 
 
 Crampton was out. For that matter, Crampton 
 usually was. He was not poor, for his people were well- 
 to-do folk at the other end of the county, that part 
 of Hamlin which is lowland, rich-soiled, prosperous. 
 His days were partway spent in study, his evenings 
 socially, for he was popular and clever. Odd times 
 he reported for the Crier, and had nourished aspira- 
 tions of a better press. The two shared much, but 
 there are things which nearly everyone would keep,
 
 138 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 alone. His poverty was one of Andrew's. It was 
 apparent enough, but Crampton did not see it. 
 
 Johnson fondled his books. Rapidly he sized them 
 up. Once they held knowledge, and now perhaps some 
 other good might be squeezed out of them. The 
 method was not new to him. It is a question if many 
 money-gaining chances were, though as he often told 
 himself, it was remarkable how seldom any of them 
 "took." Appraising carefully, he was not long in mak- 
 ing up his choice. 
 
 There was a place the buying public knew as "Maple- 
 ton's Cheap Store." Said public took the title's 
 "cheap" to mean that that was how and what they 
 bought the firm. The public was on one occasion 
 right, for everyone had opportunity to pay as much for 
 what was sold as any place in town. The firm was 
 Filcher & Schwab. Yes, it was he, of the Crier. The 
 Store was close to the Crier. Mr. Schwab owned all 
 of the Crier and part of the store. It was the widest 
 advertised emporium in town; he had to fill up the 
 paper with something. Their bargains were known so 
 far as the Crier was heard in the hills, about three 
 miles out. 
 
 Monopoly may thrive in cities. It often shows the 
 great good taste to choose a country place, and Filcher 
 & Schwab confessed and easily assumed a growing 
 trade, for they alone sold schoolbooks. Mild 
 education was really taking "holt" round Mapleton, so 
 that each partner had his buggy, with a horse to draw 
 him of a Sunday. They did a nice business; their 
 wives went out. 
 
 Andrew repaired to this exclusive place. Mr. Filcher 
 was in, behind the counter where fountain pens were ly- 
 ing in their dust. As he saw the pile of second-handed 
 books, the partner's smile paled visibly, as he had
 
 REFINEMENT 139 
 
 looked for sales. This was not quite so good. Mr. 
 Filcher, you will remember, was "afflicted." Yet his 
 blue eyes saw life bravely, searchingly, as if looking 
 for something he could not find. This, however, meant 
 no inability to sense, commercially. 
 
 Andrew deposited six books. The man of business 
 picked them up. He laid down the six, and selected 
 one. He focussed on it, and bent to look it through 
 and through as fingers spun the pages. His nose sped 
 up and down between the leaves and seemed to smell 
 the ink and run down all the turned-in corners. 
 
 "H-m-m, pencil marks. Ah! a blot. Cover 
 spoiled. Corners of this one bad. H-m-m." He 
 found no good in any of the six, and Johnson longed 
 for more and better books. He tasted the worst. It 
 came. 
 
 "A dollar and twenty-six, young man. Aren't really 
 worth it, but if you'll leave them all I guess we can 
 allow you that. Of course you don't care for the 
 money, do you? just want to take it out in trade? You 
 do? Here, always want to help you out in any way we 
 can. Good-bye, come again." 
 
 Their generosity had indigestion, Andrew mused, as 
 he took the change and left. Reflecting on the deal, 
 he offered gratitude that old Filcher's eyesight was no 
 better. With this addition to his buying power, he had 
 in due time in his room a graduation shirt and hat, 
 slightly worn. 
 
 That night the logging train brought down a little 
 box. He got it in the Post Office and went on home. 
 He usually did, and to-night his graduation theme was 
 not complete. It was very light, this package, and 
 small, and the address was in his mother's dear, stiff, 
 hand. There was a card inside. That, too, was in her 
 writing, as was also a crumpled note. The latter said
 
 140 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "Congratulations to my dear. We think of you and 
 wish it was a hundred more." 
 
 The card again came to his notice, "From Father." 
 What could it be? 
 
 "Open it, and you'll find out," suggested the prac- 
 tical Crampton, just leaving for the evening. 
 
 He cut the cord, and tore a little piece of yellow 
 paper. A small, flat object met his touch, an edge 
 exposed to view and there was something he well knew. 
 Cramp glimpsed a gold piece, and went out. 
 
 Andrew saw more, and something in him gave way. 
 Thin, the brand of America rusted by time, he knew it; 
 "1860" said the faint-raised figures near the edge; un- 
 folding, he saw another day. 
 
 There is a man, young, strong, in flush of life. He is 
 in uniform, and has a gun. There are other men. 
 Together all jump from a shallow bit of ditch; shots, 
 a part of them advance; they run, shouting, firing, 
 loading. Half left, a third, but these go on. They gain 
 the top. Andrew is a boy again. He is sitting by his 
 father's side. The boy is at the Fork, but the soldier 
 gains the hill. 
 
 Sometime an army pay-day comes. The first war- 
 envelope contains the bit of gold. There was probably 
 never a later day when the man could not have used it; 
 there were times when it needed to go. The old man 
 had given much. 
 
 The next night was the last before his graduation. 
 There were exercises at the Hall, an entertainment for 
 the Seniors by the Juniors. Andrew was ready to leave 
 the School when a man swung up the old, long walk. 
 He hurried. It was the conductor of the Slab Fork 
 train, just now come in. John Williams was a Maple- 
 tonian, but knew the folk of the Fork.
 
 REFINEMENT 141 
 
 "Andy, son, I've got bad news for you," he blurted 
 out. John had sympathy instead of tact. 
 
 "Why, what is it, John?" asked the lad. "None of 
 the people are . . . ?" 
 
 "Well, the fact is, your father . . ." 
 
 "Come, quick! What is it?" 
 
 "Well, your father, he was pretty sick today, sud- 
 den-like, and . . ." 
 
 "Yes, yes, go on." 
 
 "Your mother wanted me to send for you, because to- 
 night, tonight he died." He could add nothing 
 more, rested his arm for a moment about the bowed 
 shoulders of the boy, and left. 
 
 Soon after daylight, on the morning of his graduation, 
 Andy climbed aboard the dirty red caboose of Williams' 
 logging train. The ride was full of bitterness, and 
 memories, and slipping confidence. The sun shone, 
 and the birds cried out as always from the burnished 
 foliage; but the forest of trees looked black, the sing- 
 ing pierced his heart. Clouds of smoke eddied and 
 swirled from the squat dark stack of the "logger," 
 and it choked his voice and filled his eyes, and 
 turned his clothing black. The ride was long, 
 the caboose rocketing back and forth with twist- 
 ings of the rails. The train crawled away from 
 the fertile country, into a fringe of timber, out 
 of it then to brush land. Not for miles 
 could Andrew catch a hint of what the early land was 
 like before man came to rip His handiwork away. 
 Clouds gradually edged up across the sky, and it was 
 raining at the Fork. 
 
 Pete was there with his democrat, and Charlie Wall 
 to help in lowering a shook-built box from one of the 
 forward cars. All shook his hand, and Charlie 
 whispered "We must be submissive." In driving to
 
 142 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 the store, Pete spoke to one who shared their wagon- 
 top against the rain, "The cemetery sure is filling up," 
 and the companion answered him, "Yeh, it ain't a very 
 nice day for a funeral." 
 
 During the service it rained. Water trickled down 
 the walls of the closed little room where they sat, and 
 the roads to the hill were mud. 
 
 The next day the sun shone again, and Andy walked 
 with his mother to the newest mound, now gone per- 
 haps, that morning bare and sloping, sprinkled with 
 little stones and sunk with the marks of stamping 
 feet. As they had passed the Company's store on their 
 way, a flag in the window caught his mother's eye. 
 
 "Your father, how he loved the flag," she thought, 
 and said as much. Andrew darted in, and bought it. 
 It was not a large flag, and it was not silk, but it was 
 the only one the Company had. Somehow, the Fork 
 did not seem to run so very much to things like that. 
 Yet this had been expensive, for its ransom was the 
 old gold-piece. 
 
 For many weeks the symbol played above the man 
 who thought it good. The rains fell on it. They 
 streaked the field of blue with white and ran the red 
 with blue, but the suns of June and July and the early 
 autumn caressed it, warmed it, and the cotton dried. 
 
 Long before Andrew had gone back to Mapleton. 
 He had had his Commencement. 
 
 XXI 
 
 A PIECE of fortune, good fortune, developed on 
 Johnson's return. Crampton met him as the logging 
 train wheezed in that night, Crampton now "of the 
 Crier." 
 
 The two walked over-town together. En route the
 
 REFINEMENT 143 
 
 latter said, "Say, Andy, remember telling me you'd 
 like to study law some time? Well, I was talking 
 with Mr. Gates today, just interviewing him about a 
 little matter, understand, and he said, 'Moore, where's 
 that young chap Johnson I used to see around with 
 you?' I told him how you'd had to leave here for 
 awhile, and he added, 'Seems to me he used to think 
 he'd like to study law. Isn't that right?' I said I 
 thought it was. So he wants to see you about it. 
 Probably he's in his office now." 
 
 He was. Yes, Gates & Vogel needed a boy. He'd 
 have a chance to study law. They really wanted a 
 chap for the inkwells and waste baskets, so one had 
 suggested a student, as it reversed the obligation, and 
 saved a bit on wages. 
 
 Some time before his graduation Johnson had settled 
 on the law as the readiest means to an end. A con- 
 nection with Holden Gates would hardly, ordinarily, 
 have struck the proper chord. Yet why not? Gates, 
 did you trace it back, had almost brought him here. 
 Carry it a little further: let him provide the education. 
 It was not the firm he would select, given a larger 
 field, but since no Blackstone offered, here was Gates. 
 He already knew the firm somewhat from having done 
 small jobs in after-hours. These jobs had attracted, 
 he believed, some amiable notice; and not much money. 
 Hermann Vogel and Holden Gates were two success- 
 ful, modern men. There was also Mr. Busby, but he 
 needs treatment by himself. 
 
 The evening's interview was straightly business-like. 
 If the elder knew Johnson to be of the Fork, he did 
 not say so. Neither did Johnson, and if the former 
 were even aware it must have recommended Johnson, 
 for there was one thing Gates was sure he under- 
 stood the Fork.
 
 144 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 Plenty of dusty books, small wages and a lodging 
 were provided. Questions of his work were not ignored. 
 They came to terms, and by another day Johnson's still 
 movable and somewhat meagre goods were all trans- 
 ferred to a room above the office. It was a little place, 
 close by the school where he had earned five years. 
 He could study through the day and at night this 
 was Mr. Gates' idea the office would be safer. Folks 
 did say there'd only been one robbery for near twenty 
 years, and that was in the bakery. Nevertheless it 
 pleased the lawyer, and was free. Just down around 
 the corner there was Dave's. 
 
 This lawyers' place was of a squatty sort, chucked 
 down inside the Court House square. It was in a 
 corner, near the lawn that bore too many trees for 
 growing grass. The little office was "story-and-a-half " 
 and its wall were clapboards, with a roof which was of 
 shingles that dripped moss. It looked old and had 
 stood much. 
 
 The first night, going to his quarters, Johnson found 
 a nickel and a penny on the downstairs floor. The 
 next day he returned them. Some nights later arrived 
 two dimes, carelessly by the door. These also he picked 
 up and laid on tlie desk of one of the firm. Johnson 
 dwelt in his upstairs room a long, long time; later he 
 found that good Mr. Busby made plans for testing 
 lodgers. There had been two or three boys before who 
 were trustworthy on pennies, but they succumbed 
 to dimes. 
 
 It was after the first breakfast at Dave's that John- 
 son decided to go there for dinner and supper. Two 
 meals at Dave's were better than three. His break- 
 fasts afterward were simple continental that he 
 prepared and ate himself. Not that Dave's breakfasts 
 were poor or insufficient, either. His cooking was a
 
 REFINEMENT 145 
 
 feature, Dave admitted it, and as for hours, you ate his 
 morning meal at any time you liked from six to seven. 
 Dave's table was "dependable" in that you always knew 
 what to expect, precisely. Diet differed from meal to 
 meal, if not from day to day, because in the dinners of 
 every week occurred two porks, three hams, one beef, 
 and a chicken. Suppers dove-tailed, but were cold. 
 
 Dave had a waitress with a single thought. She 
 could get exactly one thing for one person, and at one 
 time. Had you but asked her what cereals they had in 
 brew, she would undoubtedly have answered, "Ham 
 and eggs." But that first morning she hovered over 
 Johnson with "Pork chop and fried tomatoes." She 
 gave it as a command, and he said, "Yes." 
 
 When she had gone B. Fred Parker, who basked and 
 was happy as the official time-destroyer of the place, 
 volunteered she was often like that. Said she asked 
 him once whether he'd have beefsteak or coffee and 
 when he ordered both, blamed if he got either. If you 
 stayed there, B. Fred said, your appetite was always 
 good. It never caught up with the meals. The woolly 
 tablecloths, fresh weekly, wore service decorations; the 
 napkins, as you got them, suggested other plates and 
 faces; the dishes were not always there in strength or 
 pristine freshness; and the place in many ways de- 
 served what B. Fred said, that it was "cosmopilan." 
 Dave's eatin' room was tapestried in brown, abetted 
 by two chromos, one fruit, the other fowl. 
 
 Johnson had returned on Friday. That night and 
 most of the next he worked at packing, unpacking, and 
 settling, though Crampton helped him some. Saturday 
 night he took dinner, sat on Dave's steps as long as he 
 could, then got to his room. There was a window in 
 the front, the window, and there he sat down with a 
 pipe in his hand.
 
 146 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 Buggies and carry-alls, infrequent automobiles and 
 many passengers afoot were passing. Spavined wagons 
 paused by the square, where horses were tied while 
 then- owners entered the store with produce hard- 
 won from the hills; then went on by with many a gay, 
 loud laugh and happy song, for it was Saturday night 
 and "town." That was enough for the red-faced rustic 
 and vigorous maid who shouted out from passing rigs, 
 or ambled arm-in-arm and cheek-to-jowl about the 
 square. As they circulated, youth helped lass by the 
 tip of her muscled elbow across the wheel-tracks of 
 the road and up the kerb upon the other side, urged 
 on the wench that back home could take a couple 
 furrows at a bound and never notice. Varied are uses 
 of business and pleasure. She was the breed that holds 
 her young man's hat when they are out together, but 
 they were happy, certainly. 
 
 "And what have they?" thought the man from his 
 window. "They have each other, at least," he might 
 have answered himself, "and what have I?" "You 
 are having experience," his voice replied, and sounded 
 harsh. "Experience " yes, that was it. Great stuff, 
 too, grand old thing you speak of satisfiedly, some time. 
 
 He thought of the woods and the country, with now 
 this little town all small and alone, as he and 
 muttered to himself, "If I ever grow rich, and old, I 
 shall live in a place where they don't have loneliness." 
 
 Somewhere, off across the square by Gates', there 
 came the silver sound of music. He did not think who 
 brushed the keys, nor as to where the music swelled, 
 now fell, then stopped, or started on. 
 
 From his window he reached to hear the poem of 
 the keys. Emotions which had moved him since a 
 little child, unhappily so much, were changing now. 
 Like the lighthouse by the sea they shifted, high, low,
 
 REFINEMENT 147 
 
 now seen by flashes, yet steady-burning always. The 
 stars which were pale, and the moon, which had been 
 sharp and cold, were brighter and grew warm. 
 
 He followed it along: it carried him across the land, 
 it led him by a battle, showed him victory; it spoke 
 of far-off cities, life, their pathos, and their joys; he 
 walked in a fair country, and birds sang from the trees 
 that stood along the stream; and when across a world 
 he'd gone it brought him back, and tears stood in his 
 eyes, back to the little house, his home. 
 
 But there it spoke of other things, till comradeship 
 seemed rare, and friendship very wonderful but dim; 
 and love, the greatest, seemed as though it would not 
 come. Yet all were in the Heavens. The world was 
 new, and Someone breathed upon it. There was Life. 
 Life spoke and laughed, and wept, when out of the 
 voices and laughter and tears friendship and hope 
 were born. And they gave Love. Love cradled ten- 
 derness of girl for man and man for girl, nothing 
 apart, together all; the smooth and the rough, the vine 
 and the tree. 
 
 He thinks to touch that hand which stirs dreams into 
 life ... a fierce, re-echoing chord, a softer, fainting 
 sound, and it is gone. 
 
 The Court House clock strikes out; one evening 
 spent, alone. 
 
 XXII 
 
 His day came early. Having prepared and eaten a 
 pick-up Sunday breakfast, Johnson selected from his 
 wardrobe some of the least worn, went down the stairs 
 of his office-home and to the street outside. 
 
 Summer sang in the air. The quietness of the
 
 148 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 village Sabbath was punctured by the drone of the 
 bees and sharp staccato of the locusts, shrilling from 
 the trees and grass about the square. Birds un- 
 numbered trilled and sang from roofs and lawns and 
 streets, and in the air above. Occasionally a passing 
 buggy-wheel or hoof dropped on a stone and that 
 was all. Few were about, and he proceeded toward the 
 river. 
 
 Down where the smoking stacks of factories lifted 
 dusky fingers toward a fairer sky, he let chance lead. 
 State Street ended and Mill began. Ended also the 
 country mansions with pressed-brick fronts and cut- 
 stone steps, the shaded lawns and homes where all 
 were still asleep, to be replaced by homes without a 
 lawn or trees, or steps of stone or fronts of brick. 
 But in them they were up, awake. He pressed on 
 where the Sweeneys, and the Foleys, and the 
 Mickeluskis lived. 
 
 On little porches the lord of the manse sat out in 
 flannel shirt and "galluses," and old house slippers 
 chafed at the heel, drawing contentedly on the stub 
 of a pipe as he tried to be at his fullest ease in the one 
 grand day of seven. Usually he failed, for he shifted 
 his kitchen chair and shook the juice from his pipe 
 impatiently, moving his feet in and out, to and 
 fro, in the faded old foot-gear that covered them. Some- 
 times he stood up pettishly at behest of a slatternly 
 woman, who occasionally herself appeared to complain 
 of one of the numerous progeny who were up and about, 
 inside and out, pretty much everywhere. The master, 
 biting an oath, thereupon strode awkwardly within. 
 Shortly a cry of a different key announced that he 
 had reached there, with another lesson taught in the 
 practical ways of the plain. 
 
 Dirty, smoke-creased curtain-rags flew out of win-
 
 REFINEMENT 149 
 
 dows or were sucked away as the eddying heat of the 
 factory hollow blew in and through the dense little 
 shacks with hot and filthy breath. It was fresh air. 
 Clothing hung on the rails of the porches, fresh-washed 
 by hand that Sunday morning, already as it dried be- 
 coming dusky, grimed again. Here and there a plant, 
 poor starveling thing, showed half-apologetically atop 
 some window-ledge, fighting to live in its small tin 
 can on which the packer's label still persisted. Other 
 cans littered house-backs and fronts, and an uncertain- 
 looking dog or gaunt-framed cat squirmed through the 
 fence of broken, rotting boards that sometimes marked 
 a line from one man's hovel to another. 
 
 In one den they ate late, wolfing their food and 
 enjoying it hugely. Queer-looking, unkempt heads 
 were stuck from upper windows and half-clad, rag- 
 bag children were at play among the stones and cans. 
 Johnson heard a dismal-looking harridan say to a man 
 more at his ease upon her steps, "I do despise to do this 
 work a-Sunday" as she faithfully and thoroughly dis- 
 charged a leaking hose upon a little group of innocent 
 children numbering some boys from eight to twelve, 
 also a pair of girls. One escaped, but he was "drug" 
 back kicking by his father. None bothered as to 
 covering, but the common parent sheeted all with water, 
 once at least. Johnson thought back to the Fork 
 the even simpler sanitation of the "jacks." They had 
 no hose up there. Soap and hot water indeed were 
 worse, far worse, than little soap and some cold water; 
 just look at the poor, and the rich. 
 
 There was his own father, come Saturday night, 
 patiently plodding from home to mill, there to run 
 steam into pails of cold water, carrying back his 
 brimming, vapory load before it had a chance to chill. 
 There had been five in his family, and he had made
 
 150 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 his pilgrimage that many things. For the Johnsons 
 were high-up among the Romans. 
 
 Was that life, or this? Labor had always been his 
 heritage, his "side-kick." Sometimes in going to Fork 
 from school he was wearied of one and despising 
 the other. Such partnerships had little glamour, cer- 
 tainly. They were drab monotonous repellent 
 dirty. Yes this was modern life, if stripped. He had 
 had a long journey with Labor; where would this 
 fellow take him? 
 
 He turned at the bank of the river, where the road 
 skirts the stream for a bit before it swerves abruptly 
 to go hi a long, wood-sided bridge. He went to the 
 right and up a lane, a sort of offshoot of the street 
 that he had followed down. This alley, he knew, was 
 "Shakespeare Street." He climbed the rutty, rain- 
 scarred hill, by other homes and always of the poor. 
 Ten o'clock struck from the Court House. He walked 
 a little faster. 
 
 On the left he passed a shack, meaner even that the 
 rest. A woman sat inside who looked up at his step 
 and showed a pair of dulling eyes. She stitched upon 
 an old, flowered-cambric gown. The road was narrow, 
 and Andy quite close, for she was sitting near her open 
 door. He noticed she was putting in a patch, and also 
 that there had been patches earlier, as there would 
 doubtless after. This one did not match, but neither 
 did the thread. Perhaps her eyes saw no difference. 
 
 She was at least very neat, the kind of futile neat- 
 ness that sets some hearts to aching. A little spool of 
 thread slipped from her lap and rolled his way as he 
 went by. He stooped for it and gave it back. Her 
 face looked sweet, a sort of young-old, ripened sweet- 
 ness, when she took it, and she thanked him in a thin 
 but pleasant voice. His eyes appraised the contents
 
 REFINEMENT 151 
 
 of the room, and there was little, that little worn and 
 old. He passed by. If he felt the cheer that greater 
 misfortunes bring to ourselves, his heart was tired. 
 He had lived so much. 
 
 He hurried along, not stopping again till he came to 
 lower State Street. People were quitting their homes, 
 well-breakfasted, fat-bellied, thankful. A Sabbath 
 peace hung over them. It was the day of the Lord, and 
 it was summer, fine warm glorious, and they were 
 going to give praise to Him for all they had, and hoped 
 to have and wished for. The early bells had rung, 
 the lesser laity had even gone. Now chimes in every 
 church were tolled, for the hour was nearing the half, 
 and from the homes of Carpenter and Gates and Turner 
 came well-upholstered folk, some to step out them- 
 selves, but more to go by motor to their worship, a 
 square or so away. 
 
 Johnson joined the crowds along the walks and since 
 he had no special Sunday preferences turned in with 
 many others at the broadly gaping door of First 
 Church. The ushers were busy with friends who rented 
 pews and he was free to choose his seat. A beldame 
 glared, but he sat down. He watched the parade as it 
 entered and descried a few he knew, though chiefly 
 "in a business way." The Bodeheavers ambled to 
 their customary place well forward. Then there were 
 the Filchers, as also Mr. Busby, with whom he now 
 felt some acquaintance. The Hunters soon marched 
 in and others followed. There were the Gates. He 
 walked with righteous strides. Someone whom he felt 
 was Mrs. Gates came next in their procession, which he 
 observed distinctly from beside a pillar of the choir- 
 loft. At least she walked as though she might be 
 Mrs. Gates. He had never known her at the Fork, but 
 he had known of her for years. And then there came a
 
 152 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 strange young woman, rather girl, and mincing just 
 beside her Crampton Moore, room-mate. 
 
 This was interesting, indeed; and so was she! She 
 did not look as he had always heard and thought of 
 Holden Gates. Yet that was Barbara, of whom his 
 chum had rambled much in Free Academy days. He 
 had also written, Andy recollected, and had got with 
 joy occasional oblong envelopes addressed in an agree- 
 able though round and unformed hand. She was 
 attractive this morning, a worthy product of the Bos- 
 ton school. Yes, more than that, he thought, re- 
 flecting on the high-voiced, robust dames of Slab Fork, 
 large of feet, knobbily red of hand, unkempt of hair 
 and dress, yet no doubt reasonable. The boys he knew 
 back there had grown up, married, and apparently 
 lived satisfactorily with the only kind they knew. 
 
 This other girl he could see just the ends of two 
 rose-colored ribbons that depended from a small, light- 
 straw poke bonnet that appeared by Crampton's head. 
 When standing for hymns he glimpsed a little more, 
 a fair, round neck below the edges of the hat. He 
 almost overlooked the singing that strangers often 
 spoke of, when at home. And when the Reverend 
 Sykes had monotoned through many of the greater 
 sins, and kept his congregation very dry of throat and 
 moist, Andrew foretasted the close. 
 
 When it was over he spoke to Crampton, and Cramp- 
 ton very kindly introduced them. And though a prod- 
 uct of the Fork, she greeted him most sweetly, since 
 her mother was not there to warn her, having gone 
 ahead. The girl's face, and the girl, now equalled if 
 indeed they did not much eclipse the ends of the small 
 poke bonnet and the throat that had shown beneath. 
 Her casual greeting as she and Crampton spoke and 
 went along left him well-nigh as dumb and parched as
 
 REFINEMENT 153 
 
 Mr. Sykes. He knew he had been a dub. He had 
 heard of such girls. 
 
 He crossed to Dave's to eat. Dave greeted him ebul- 
 liently, and B. Fred paused to pass the time of day, 
 per custom. It was high meal-time, and the scent of 
 good cabbage was rife in the house. Andrew entered 
 the dining-room, and Fred went toward the publican's 
 desk to fill his fountain pen. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 "Goi any more potatoes, Ma?" 
 
 "Yes, George, pass up your plate, there's a little 
 left." 
 
 "Don't give me all, Ma! I ain't so very hungry, 
 after all," said the boy, turning on her a pair of eyes 
 that testified much longing nevertheless. 
 
 "Oh, I've had plenty, son you take the rest. And 
 here's a little piece of meat to go along." 
 
 "All right, Ma, if you're sure," taking time to 
 answer before he set to work. 
 
 George had grown. He was manlier, outwardly al- 
 tered from the little lad that once had clung to an 
 elder brother's hand and whimpered from the cold. 
 
 He was larger and Mrs. Johnson older, far, than 
 even one year before. The boy's face was thin, unusual. 
 It looked weary. The mother's was a little more so. 
 Her hair was greyed. 
 
 "I was goin' to get some things up to the store to- 
 day, son, but then I thought I'd try and hang on till 
 the end of the week." 
 
 'Sure, we can wait, Ma. I've got ten or eleven dollars 
 coming then, and we'll be right, all right. Course,
 
 154 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 there's a few things they'll take out this month, a 
 dollar and a half for Doc, and the insurance, and then 
 I guess there was a little mite left over from the meat 
 bill at the Store last month. We ought to make out 
 somehow. I know we can, don't you?" His voice at 
 the last rang a challenge. His mother heard it. 
 
 "Yes, Georgie, I know we will, you and me. That 
 ain't what's worryin' me most, I'm thinkin' of our boy 
 down there to Mapleton. He ain't havin' it easy, by a 
 long ways, though we don't ever hear tell. Andy is a 
 man, and he always was, George. 
 
 "Do you remember, son, the time you was both in 
 the box factory and he was workin' then, though he 
 wasn't ten, and when you come along one day you put 
 out your finger to feel of the cut-off saw and he reached 
 out, quick-like, and grabbed your hand away? And 
 then he sent you home, and when he come along that 
 night we saw as how his hand was kind of tore up 
 'round the wrist. He wouldn't let on how he got it. 
 Remember?" 
 
 "I should say," said the boy, as his eyes filled. 
 "Seems lonely in there now, with Andy gone. I get 
 tired, too, feedin' in strips all day long, never any 
 change, first one strip, then another to follow and one 
 after that, and sometimes I think like I won't ever get 
 to the last. Sometimes at night I'm feeding in strips in 
 my sleep, and wake up. It plagues me a lot." 
 
 "I know it, and I'm sorry. I wish I could do it for 
 you. I recollect how Andy'd get home from the mill 
 at night, and set right down here, 'side the fire, tellin' 
 you stories about what-all he did down there that 
 day. He'd try to make it gay-like, and say, 'Oh, it 
 ain't hard. I don't mind it, much,' and even while he 
 was a-tellin' you he'd fall asleep. 
 
 "How I wish you didn't have to work and work like
 
 REFINEMENT 155 
 
 that. Seems like I ain't much good, or else you 
 wouldn't have to. Your father used to tell me, that 
 was long before we married, how he could do most 
 anything, with me. And then things dragged along, 
 year's end to the next, one job after another, till one 
 year, 'twas in the spring, we landed here." Her voice 
 broke. "We couldn't ever get away." 
 
 A knock at the shaky pine door and George cried 
 out, "Who's there, you, Jimmy?" 
 
 "Sure, George, come ahead out. Ain't you goin' to 
 the Lodge tonight?" 
 
 George got to his feet. The table was empty, and he 
 had finished. His mother's eyes were moist, he 
 stopped. "Guess I won't go, Mother. What's the use? 
 'Twon't matter if I miss, this once." 
 
 "No, you go, too. I'm all right now. Come in, 
 Jimmy," she called, going to unlatch the door. 
 
 Jimmy came in. He was typical. Down near his 
 nose he had a derby hat and this he tardily removed 
 as he slouched near their kerosene lamp. Long rope- 
 like hair fell over his face and a red, shaved neck rose 
 from the low-collared flannel shirt. His cotton hose 
 were red where they appeared between his shoe-tops 
 and his pants, which bagged. 
 
 George was ready, Jimmy shifted to both feet, and 
 they started. The door slammed after, and their heavy- 
 nailed shoes sang out on the pine boards before they 
 reached the sawdust road. Mrs. Johnson started stack- 
 ing-up. She did not carry things to any kitchen. They 
 were already there. 
 
 It was a warm, fine evening after a muggy day and 
 though stars showed above the blackness of the stacks 
 and mill, there was a hint of rain, and thunder, in the 
 air. The ground and all the brush around were dry, 
 so that the Company kept extra watch about the yards
 
 156 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 at night. At times like this a little spark, a breath of 
 air and that was all. Their lumber, though, was 
 fairly well protected for it cost much. 
 
 As George and Jimmy passed they met with others. 
 
 "Hi, Bill! Fine night tonight. How's the boy?" 
 
 "Feeling good, eh?" 
 
 "There's Jack! oh, boy! Old woman let you off, 
 eh?" 
 
 "How's everything in your corner of the yard?" 
 
 "Fine night, ain't it?" 
 
 "Looks a lot like rain," and they were at the slab 
 yard, where individuals joined groups, groups merged, 
 and all converged to the Hall of Eureka. 
 
 Most of the older members had arrived, and many 
 younger. There was no limit as to age. If boy did 
 man's work, he was one. Old Rogers, George noticed, 
 sat in a corner, hat tipped across his face. He was by 
 no means asleep, as he had only been drinking. 
 
 Dispensing with opening forms and ceremonies, the 
 meeting promised more than usual. 
 
 The mill had always worked twelve hours. The 
 woods was independent. "It" only worked from "sun to 
 sun." In the winter that averaged ten. In summer 
 it wasn't "straight- time." When it was it meant four- 
 teen, but that wasn't much; "chuck" was good hi the 
 Old Man's camps. 
 
 Latterly the Fork had heard of factories down in 
 other towns, like Mapleton, where women, men, and 
 children had now but ten hours, straight. In one, 
 some said, it had been cut to nine. The Fork rumbled. 
 Men worked their twelve hours straight 'way back be- 
 fore the Fork had heard of Gates, and later on he 
 "didn't want to get away from any local custom." 
 Gates had cares of his own. 
 
 They'd talked about it, pro and con, and off and
 
 REFINEMENT 157 
 
 on, until the boys had thought they'd have a try and see 
 what they could do. They got in touch with Witzke, 
 who had moved to Mapleton long since for richer fields 
 and troubles green. He returned to them that morning, 
 with another. 
 
 At that time there was no such thing as unions in 
 the woods : men came and went, worked as they should, 
 took what they got by way of pay, drank daily and 
 got drunk monthly, had two full holidays a year, and 
 didn't get paid for either. They worked till they were 
 sick from work or cold; then stayed in bed (they had 
 a doctor's fee deducted anyway.) They left their 
 families memories, or debts; and soon were followed 
 by another, quite like the perpetual bull chain that 
 stuffed the stomach of the mill with logs. One day 
 a man got up in meeting it was early in Eureka's his- 
 tory and said it wasn't right. Maybe that was 
 "Cosmo" Thorn. Well, come to think of it, "It ain't. 
 Why not do something?" But what to do? 
 
 Witzke's partner brought the answer. Cosmo 
 introduced him as an "organizer." His name doesn't 
 matter. The man rose. He was not ill-looking, stoutly 
 built, neatly dressed, more of a thinker than worker. 
 His eyes were deep-placed, shrewd, his mouth was 
 clean and strong. George looked at him and liked 
 him. His voice was very pleasant. 
 
 "Friends and brothers, let's get down to business. 
 What do we want? What does Labor want? Labor 
 with a big "L," for it is large, the Labor that lives and 
 breathes and works and drives the wheels of nations 
 and in turn gets driven. I asked a big man this not 
 long ago. He was a laborer once, like all of us. But 
 he had an idea. He worked hard and never let go of 
 that idea. 
 
 "What was his idea, you say? Well, this idea was
 
 158 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 that a thousand men working together can get farther 
 and get more for those thousand when they keep to- 
 gether than when they keep apart. So he collected a 
 few of those fellows who lived and worked with him. 
 They talked it over. They hadn't asked anything and 
 they wouldn't ask anything but their rights. While 
 they were talking someone squealed to a boss. 
 
 "He was an ordinary boss, so he didn't bother to 
 ask questions or look farther than just that. Our 
 man got fired. But he kept on thinking, and he 
 worked. You don't know how he worked! Today 
 he heads the union labor of this State. Up here you 
 may not hear of him, but he's in every town down there 
 below, and mothers tell their sons about him, and 
 what their fathers did with him and through his aid. 
 
 "The other day I thought I'd ask him just what 
 Labor wants. And he said, 'I'll tell you, and I'll tell 
 you pretty quick. "What does Labor want?" It 
 wants the earth and the fullness thereof. There is 
 nothing too precious; there is nothing too beautiful, 
 too lofty, too ennobling, unless it is within the scope 
 and comprehension of Labor's wants and Labor's as- 
 pirations. It wants, we want, more schoolhouses and 
 less jails; more books and less sweat-shops; more 
 learning and less vice; more justice and less spite; 
 more, in fact, of all the opportunities to cultivate men's 
 better natures, to make manhood more noble, woman- 
 hood more beautiful, and childhood more happy and 
 bright. What Labor wants is more, more, more!' 
 
 "My friends, what have you got? What would you 
 have? I can see you would have much But if you 
 would gain much, so must you do much. Are you 
 ready to make your trial, are you willing to test our 
 strength? The time has never been so fair. We 
 believe that union of hand, of heart, of mind, of
 
 REFINEMENT 159 
 
 work is the religion of humanity. It was conceived 
 in hope, begotten in charity and born of honor. It 
 was nourished in the milk of strength; swathed in the 
 robes of justice; rocked in the cradle of equality; 
 lighted and warmed by the eternal torch of Liberty. 
 It is the creed of the just mind, the prayer of the gener- 
 ous heart, the commandment of the kindly soul. It is 
 love and love is God. It is fulfilling of his Law." 
 
 Great shouts of "Yes! Yes! We are ready! Give 
 us the word!" reached up to the speaker. 
 
 In due time the meeting adjourned. Men had taken 
 on a new look and the Lodge was gone, forever. In its 
 place was "United Workers of the Woods and Mill, 
 Eureka No. i." They framed a greeting to Holden 
 Gates. It was very polite; Thorn saw to that. It 
 was keenly insistent; Witzke did that. It asked a 
 working-day just ten hours long; it did not mention 
 change of pay. They named a messenger and started 
 it away. As their man left the hall the sky was very 
 dark. But a jagged crest of lightning, sharp and red, 
 cut rapidly across the sky and left a sullen after-clap 
 of thunder. 
 
 A storm was brewing. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 A LITTLE group of men had gathered in a back 
 room of the offices of Gates & Vogel, attorneys at the 
 Law. They sat in an atmosphere politico-legal. It was 
 fresh without, so there was little air within, with many 
 reeking stubs and live cigars. One man sat with his 
 feet on a desk, another had his black slouch hat far 
 back upon his head while a long, dead-brown cigar 
 strained but did not stop his speech. 
 
 "Gates, I think you're going it all wrong," old
 
 160 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 Colonel Hunter interrupted. He was the single one 
 among them who would or could have said it. "If you 
 can't get at their viewpoint and cannot see your way 
 clear to giving in an inch don't, don't at all events give 
 them so flat-footed a refusal." 
 
 "Well, but, but, d damn the fellows, anyway. 
 What do they mean by coming at me like this? I'll 
 show them, I'll knock their confounded torn-foolishness 
 and their 'Union' and . . ." 
 
 "Easy, easy, Holden," soothed old Tom Sloane, who 
 sat beside him. "Tell me, in so many words, just what 
 they want." 
 
 "I can tell you, quick enough. I'd hardly got down 
 to the offices this morning when one of their chaps 
 Bill Boddfish, too, a fellow I've hired up there, and his 
 father, for years came in and said, 'Here's some- 
 thing from the boys, Mr. Gates.' 'Well, what is it, 
 Bill?' I said. 'Can't tell ye,' he lied, 'they just said as 
 how I was to hand it in, so here she is.' 
 
 "So I took it and opened it, plain envelope 
 and dirty paper, and there inside, big as life and as 
 presumptuous, damn it ... Here, I guess I've got 
 it with me." 
 
 "Excuse me, Gates," said the Colonel, "but how did 
 you address the bearer of this, ah, message after you 
 had received it?" 
 
 "Oh, I took it and after I'd read it maybe half-way 
 through I got sort of hot and started to say something, 
 but this fellow just remarked, cool as you please, 'See 
 it all the way through, please, Mr. Gates,' and without 
 meaning to do as he said I expect I did. Then I told 
 him to get out! And take that for an answer, and if 
 he came down on another errand he needn't go back 
 to work for me. He had a reply to that, too, just as 
 if somebody had put him up to it: 'I wouldn't say "No"
 
 REFINEMENT 161 
 
 right off, Mr. Gates. Better think it over good. Week 
 or so'll be time enough.' Confound his damnable 
 impudence." 
 
 "Give us your letter, Holden," cut in one whose 
 name was Carpenter and who also kept more than a 
 passing interest in the Fork. "Go ahead, let's hear it." 
 
 "This is it, then, as briefly as you want, 'We, the 
 undersigned representatives of the mill and woods 
 workers of Slab Fork, of the company known as the 
 Holden Gates Lumber Co., being herein assembled 
 and organized as "United Workers of the Woods and 
 Mill, Eureka No. i, Branch of the Confederated 
 Board of Labor," do hereby respectfully but earnestly 
 ask consideration of the following, to wit: That the 
 working-day at present obtaining at the Fork be 
 shortened from twelve hours to ten, pay to be kept the 
 same, believing in light of present conditions that more 
 may be done in the shorter day and that any longer 
 day should not with justice be continued now. Signed 
 by .' 
 
 "And then, and then! comes the worst impertinence 
 of all, names of men I've had with me for years, and 
 
 even employed before by , er, that I've had with 
 
 me for years. Spent a little fortune on 'em Ander- 
 son, Hanson, and that fool Thorn, that old fellow 
 Rogers Rogers ! of all, and Joe Mickeluski, why he 
 could hardly sign his name, and yet there you have it 
 with the rest, tailing a typewritten proposition and 
 all. I tell you, it gets right under my skin." 
 
 The room was quiet. "I can't understand who 
 started it, anyway. I haven't heard any of this before, 
 didn't dream they'd even thought about it. Why, 
 they've worked twelve hours for twenty years and more 
 before that. What's getting into things, I'd like to 
 know?"
 
 162 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "Just this, Gates," said the Colonel, nicely dusting 
 his cigar with a long forefinger, and resting the fingers 
 of the other hand upon his short, white beard. 
 
 "Just this: no man, no one man is behind it, and no 
 new thing, no one thing, is the cause of it. Time in 
 its roll around upsets the balance of many of our old 
 and habit-honored theories and practices. Men who 
 worked yesterday think today, and you have just been 
 sent a sign. Work, they come to reason, may be the 
 way to livelihood which every man must have, but it 
 should not and shall no longer be the sole accompani- 
 ment of living. It is a part of life, undoubtedly, but 
 they are growing to perceive it as only a part and a 
 means to a larger life, rather than its end, its be- 
 ginning, and the summa summarum of it all. Their 
 work is their passport to living. They deserve it, they 
 must have it! but more of its rewards must fill their 
 life. They have not even homes, they say, though 
 that is as much to them as it is to you and me," he 
 added, looking perhaps to his square old manse at the 
 head of the tree-lined drive. 
 
 "In fact, Gates, it may be more. Home roofs that 
 first democracy, the family. And home is all they have. 
 Yet even when they have one, what can they do, they 
 say, but eat and sleep in it, and neither well? They 
 wake and go to work, and when they are at home the 
 time has only come for them to think of work again and 
 to prepare for it. They cannot even hold themselves 
 in cleanliness and health and decency. 
 
 "Do not take umbrage, Gates. I only share my 
 observations. I have lived a long time, but recollec- 
 tions of the past have by no means obscured the present 
 and future. No, I think it is clearer, and I begin to 
 see, as you, Gates, will see, as everyone must see, which 
 way the wind is veering. Observations are not always
 
 REFINEMENT 163 
 
 views, but those I offer you are facts. You will do 
 well to pay attention." 
 
 "To Hell with labor, then," said Gates, "if they 
 think they've got to have these things to get along. Are 
 they better than their fathers, Colonel?" 
 
 "Not better, but wiser. They would be better. You 
 cannot grow a peasantry in an enlightened land. The 
 European immigrant today, sir, is our American citi- 
 zen tomorrow or should be. He has used his oppor- 
 tunity. We should see ours," his voice was strong, 
 and his words came clear "and whether or not we 
 should, then time will show we must. And it will 
 indicate as well that long delays, and disregarding signs, 
 will do no good. It is time hi my judgement that Busi- 
 ness laid both ears to the ground. 
 
 "Tell me, Sloane, and you, Turner, and Gage, can 
 you see what I mean, do you agree with me?" 
 
 Y-e-s, to some degree they could. Gates remained 
 skeptical throughout. He saw those fellows wanted 
 just as much for ten hours as for twelve, and as for 
 their performing just as much or more Pshaw! 
 That was impossibility. What they were thinking had 
 little to do with their work; so far as he was con- 
 cerned, he didn't care whether they thought or not, 
 probably do better if they didn't. How long they 
 worked, there was the thing that counted. In his own 
 long-worn ideals efficiency was of machines, and jobs, 
 and hours ; nothing human about it. Men were shuttles 
 and pawns. You took them, moved them; they stayed 
 put, and they obeyed. Mind and spirit were not of the 
 working-body. He couldn't sense it. His heart was 
 hard but his head was harder. Why should he meet 
 with labor? 
 
 The meeting adjourned. It had been a hurried 
 get-together of directors, though Gates of course was
 
 164 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 more concerned than any other. The Colonel saw that 
 his words had been mildly effective, but he did not press 
 an advantage. Gates was digesting. All urged modera- 
 tion on Gates, as president. Perhaps eleven hours 
 would do as well as ten. It was only a few minutes' 
 difference. He could pare the fruit as thin as it would 
 stand. At that, if they didn't like it, what could 
 they do, he wondered? He didn't take stock in their 
 "Union." Sometimes it might work in cities, but it was 
 new in his woods and mills. Of course it would fail. 
 
 Leaving, they all passed Andrew. He sat beside 
 the open door but had not dared to leave his work. 
 He tried to concentrate, and saw instead the people 
 of the Fork: so many parts of old and overwrought 
 machines. He had not yet forgotten his own. Inde- 
 pendently and quite unknown to him, it was not meant 
 he should. 
 
 He need not have worried as to what effect his 
 being there might have, since no one noticed him save 
 Colonel Hunter, who had met him once, and bowed and 
 smiled at Johnson now as though the latter were a 
 gentleman of his acquaintance. Gates stepped to the 
 door as the rest went out. 
 
 Barbara just then passed and seeing her father, 
 stopped. Another joined them. He was hunchbacked 
 and old, though his dark grey eye still held a fleck of 
 fire and boldness when he looked your way. The en- 
 semble did not impress one comfortably. He looked 
 dirty, and mean, hideous, and soured on men, and 
 Andrew knew that it was Maugan Grubbs. Grubbs 
 spoke to Gates. Without knowing, Johnson shuddered 
 to see Quasimodo remove his soiled felt hat and bow 
 profoundly to the sweet, pure-looking girl. 
 
 She did not seem too pleasantly impressed, but her 
 father smiled as if he wished it and she acknowledged
 
 REFINEMENT 165 
 
 Grubbs' attention. All were now some steps away, 
 but Andrew judged she begged her father to ex- 
 cuse her. She then went on and past the square 
 toward home. Andrew saw her until she disappeared 
 beyond the trees, and when his eyes came back he 
 found the men had gone. 
 
 Having had supper, Andy on returning to his room 
 experienced restlessness, though not all of this uneasy 
 feeling could probably be laid at David's door to- 
 night. From the conversation of the afternoon and 
 all the long, pent-up emotions left too responsive in 
 the boy, there gnawed a sense of unfitness, an inability 
 to understand these men and probe their minds, an 
 utter helplessness to aid those others back at home who 
 stood in great need, assuredly. Perhaps the view that 
 labor took shot past the mark, extravagant, extreme. 
 
 Why should it not? Had any one, unasked, come in 
 the past to help them find the middle road? The 
 present had at last grown cramped, unspeakable. From 
 the height of its Temple the face of age-old privilege 
 leered down. 
 
 Below-stairs another struggle of the age and hour 
 was being worried out. Busby, chief clerk, was work- 
 ing over-time. He had come in an hour or so ago. 
 One told by the way the door slammed. He banged 
 away in his swivel chair for a little and then had been 
 forgotten by the boy. A voice reached in an open 
 window, 
 
 "Hi! Busby, workin'?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, can't you see I am?" came genially. 
 
 Lemuel spoke as though he meant it, and some who 
 knew him said he always did. He boasted he "hadn't 
 took a vacation in more'n twenty years"; his wife 
 encouraged him to have one. 
 
 "Well, you won't be long, will ye?" in a loud and
 
 166 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 undiscouraged voice. "If ye won't, I don't mind 
 waitin', and we can go 'long to the Postal Office to- 
 gether." The speaker was evidently Clem Hodges, an 
 old and patient friend of Busby. Clem was not always 
 an opportunist, being "allus ready to swap the time o' 
 day." 
 
 No answer. Busby's pen was scratching. Andrew 
 could almost see his puckery face, wondering whether 
 that darned old client, the widow Hicks, had paid up 
 what she owed and as to how the Deacon Swilletts 
 matter stood. 
 
 Clem continued. " 'Tain't late yet. Coin' to the 
 Chautauqua, ain't ye?" 
 
 A quick, sharp grunt. "No, I ain't goin', if you want 
 to know, Clem Hodges. It's too darn pergressive for 
 me." 
 
 Silence. Clem passed on. 
 
 Andy decided to go down. Busby appeared not to 
 notice him. He was plunged in his desk, head-first. A 
 rather mussy collar showed above a hunched-up back, 
 and he was toiling furiously. His desk, from casters to 
 top, was littered in awful, busy disarray; its center 
 was indescribable. He stated pridefully that he could 
 put his hand on anything inside in fifteen seconds, in 
 the which there was no rival. Papers in front, heaped 
 up above him, sticking from pigeon holes, dropped on 
 the floor that was "Busy" Busby. There he was 
 and there he had been for a score of years, a little 
 rumpled sparrow of a man. He seemed to be among 
 them, his assistants said, fuming, fretting, grumbling, 
 grunting, even when away. The office-girls both said 
 no one had ever loved him and certainly he had the 
 look of one who lives beyond his mirror. He had never 
 picked a collar just to please one girl, the collar being 
 "sensible" of mode and somewhat dusky; his ties
 
 REFINEMENT 167 
 
 were black, and black; his shirts were puffy 
 of bosom, but smeary and raggly of cuff. He 
 shaved every other day, and Sunday. Malice said 
 he wore stove-blacking on his blunt-toed boots, but 
 there is no use to repeat it. Separate hairs of his head, 
 though few, were upright. His hands always looked 
 "used," though certainly he laved them. The cuticle 
 that curved above his opaque nails no longer worried 
 him, no more the truck that underlay their edges. He 
 was interesting, and rather harmless when reduced to 
 paper. 
 
 He had heard Andrew descend. When he felt the 
 other had stopped, Busby turned around. He always 
 had a surprised look, not always pleased. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Busby." 
 
 "U-m-m, h-u-m-p, evening! Come to use the 
 'phone?" The office telephone was paid for monthly, 
 by the call. That was five cents. Mr. Busby was in 
 charge. 
 
 "Thanks, Mr. Busby, I don't care to use the 'phone. 
 I am going out." 
 
 "Well, fine night. Goo' night." 
 
 To linger seemed beside the point. Andy went out. 
 Night-life in Mapleton was gay. The arc-lights 
 flickered brighter from the corners, and there were 
 people in the streets. The town's first annual 
 Chautauqua was well under way. The Crier welcomed 
 it, a social event of the season. 
 
 Passing hardy spirits who were going, Andrew 
 turned a way that always fascinated him. It looked 
 big. It was the stacks and factory-piles of Mapleton. 
 Mapleton just now was industrially busy. It was for 
 the first time. A favorite candidate had been elected 
 by the people and confidence whatever that may be 
 ran rampant. Full dinner-pails were just ahead;
 
 168 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 and so-called vested capital worked hard to turn ab- 
 normal times to their account. New factories and old 
 created all day; they ran full-swing by night. 
 
 Andrew came to one. Dense clouds of smoke were 
 bellying from it; sparks joined them and were lost to 
 sight; a roar went up inside, and broke away so that 
 he heard the rasp of saw and drill and all the piercing 
 voices of the mill. It ran like mad. The chug of its 
 engines, the cries of its men great human emmets 
 in its iron-crusted bowels; the black fumes of its 
 stacks; the tang of its breath upon the face; its prod- 
 ucts rushing from the yards; the prints of its work 
 upon the earth and all the sooty, coal-grimed land 
 around cried wildly to the tranquil sky above in all 
 its screeching littleness. It seemed to call out 
 "Money! Men! And Money! Give us more!" 
 
 The first mill was planted in an echoing, smoke- 
 choked hollow which was stifling-full of rising heat 
 hi summer. About the first one there stood others. 
 If they stopped, you heard the engines draw their 
 breath, champing, panting, gaining steam and strength 
 to try again. Men came and went, in morning or at 
 night, six days in every week. Some came seven. 
 
 As Johnson neared the last a quiet came. Some- 
 thing in the iron vitals of the mill had given way and 
 work was stopped. Men left their benches, put down 
 their noisily insistent drills and dropped their hammers 
 for a spell. Firemen laid down their shovels on the con- 
 crete floors and left their furnace-maws. The doors and 
 windows filled. Their dirty-colored clothes and crowd- 
 ing bodies showed dull-black before the swinging in- 
 candescent lamps inside. One or two among them 
 lighted stumpy pipes or fished out half-smoked stubs 
 from overalls and jumpers. Hard laughter and coarser 
 words came over the sudden stillness; some stepped 
 outside and lay upon the ground.
 
 REFINEMENT 169 
 
 A puff or two, a little rest, and then a short, shrill 
 whistle blew. Back, back they thronged again. The 
 noise began as if it never stopped and never would, 
 darker smoke-masses shot up and out the chimneys, and 
 all was life and action. The hands were at their 
 lathes and drills and tables, thinking much of midnight 
 and a lunch. Minds worked with hands. One day 
 some would speed up, thought Johnson, as he left 
 the valley of industry and climbed to the hill-top of 
 quiet. 
 
 XXV 
 
 IN the dusk of a cool November afternoon, Andrew 
 sat in his corner of the little office, half home, half 
 working-place. The days had been full, but this 
 was drawing to a close. He relaxed. He sat 
 as near at ease as one approached inside an office 
 planned exclusively with work in mind. 
 
 The town was giving signs of consciousness. It was 
 not yet awake, yet something stirred. Ask a passer- 
 by, he could not tell you when it started; inquire of 
 the workman and he was at a loss; seek out the man of 
 business, possibly to hear that things were "sort of 
 restless." The bank could add that money was flow- 
 ing freely. Restlessness, perhaps that was it. To 
 Andrew it occurred at times that Mapleton had just 
 turned over; awake, still drowsy, reclining on an 
 elbow with filmy opening eye, it meditated whether to 
 rise or fall asleep again. Johnson took the better view, 
 and called it good. 
 
 Yes, there was life, life even from the small-paned 
 window where he sat. An old woman, a handkerchief 
 across her faded hair, an empty basket on her arm,
 
 170 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 went shuffling past; the Rev. Sykes came from an 
 opposite direction, frock-coated, stalking erect in the 
 way of the Lord; children free of school went romping 
 past, a lame news-seller had the Crier, out today; a 
 democrat jolted over the stones, shook with the ruts, 
 and stopped close by to hitch the lean-flanked mare 
 beside the park; occasionally a business man or idle 
 woman strolled along; a heavy limousine, compact, 
 voluptuous, rolled by; and a wandering beggar from the 
 hills asked alms of the few who came and generally 
 passed. Within the hour a creaking ox-cart, wooden- 
 wheeled, lurched heavily along the road, a well-heeled 
 farmer cantered by upon a small bay mule. 
 
 Something brought him back. The something was 
 old Busby's letting fall a paper-weight upon the floor. 
 Old Busby, then, was dropped as someone passed the 
 window. In the dull smokiness of the autumn day 
 Andrew saw that it was Barbara. "Miss Gates," he 
 would have said. He thought of her as he chose. More 
 than a hundred feet of road, two sidewalks and some 
 rows of trees and lawn and shrubbery had kept them 
 separated; she lived on "the other side of the street." 
 He did not meet her often and talked to her much 
 less, occasionally at church and sometimes on the 
 street. She always spoke, and it puzzled him, since 
 many others in the town had never seen him since 
 their introduction. He was a nobody and none had 
 even noticed that. 
 
 He'd been a little hurt at first. Back there, up in 
 his woods and hills, if you once knew a man or woman 
 then you knew him, no mistake. You might be Bill 
 the sawyer, Jake the cut-off man or Sandy Hanson's 
 boy, it didn't count. He was not born some banker's 
 son nor yet a close-clipped dancing man. His father 
 had not worn a linen collar.
 
 REFINEMENT 171 
 
 And yet with Barbara it never seemed so, queer that 
 it should not. They were about as far apart as a 
 free-trader and a good old-time protectionist who had 
 inherited his views. It was a far cry indeed from old 
 man Johnson's pine-board cottage to the brick-front 
 dwelling of the sharp-shod business man. 
 
 Andrew chose to fancy to himself that, half a chance, 
 it might be different. So now in passing when Barbara, 
 just by some happy chance, looked in the small, dark 
 office window she nodded quickly and went by. 
 Andrew wondered if she saw him answer, as she 
 hurried on along the park, turned at the crossing toward 
 her home and was at last lost to him in the dusk of the 
 evening and the shade of her father's trees. If she 
 hadn't, though, much difference it would make. 
 
 Faugh! this poverty, and constant work, with little 
 irritations and the petty smallness of it all it sick- 
 ened him. How could he ring in a change, walking when 
 he would ride, plodding where one should fly, and so 
 slowly. Hard work and its handmaiden poverty 
 why did they always go together? The night when he 
 stood by the mill, the day when he walked near the 
 homes of the poor, the years when he lived in the 
 shack still poorer, what had he felt toward them? 
 Pity, at first self-pity perhaps, then sympathy too, and 
 a longing, strong, latent, fierce, to help them up. 
 
 A sight of Barbara; their misery and long- 
 emaciated happiness give way to nearly all disgust. 
 He had seen too much of that other. He had been in 
 it, of it, it had always been himself. To get away, to 
 forget, to lose those sights and sounds and morbidness, 
 forever! 
 
 How many times it happened. 
 
 A letter from his mother it all comes back, the 
 feelings of a moment gone, clean-swept away, and he is
 
 172 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 of them: relief for all their humble suffering; some 
 happiness displacing misery; a clearer gaze for ignor- 
 ance; a living for existence; a nobleness for degrada- 
 tion; brave independence for servility; the greater 
 love for personal greed; fulness for starvation; rest for 
 the weary and strength for the weak; honest manhood 
 for the man; ripe womanhood for her; a childhood for 
 the child. 
 
 It was so far, from the low-built tortuous trail to 
 the wide highway at the top. Where was the middle 
 ground the trail marked "Justice"?
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 
 XXVI 
 
 A FEW years spun off on the road of Millennium, 
 and though the goal rests so much nearer, the 
 end of the journey still lies more than the 
 space of a day's journey beyond. Mapleton and the 
 Fork draw nearer, though much rough road yet runs 
 between. The bridge of Understanding is under way 
 but hardly more than its superstructure is laid. Be- 
 tween lie many openings; and the ends of the frame- 
 work, shot out from each side, are resting on air; for 
 they are not yet joined. 
 
 When Holden Gates had ended his directors' meet- 
 ing on that day he was not empty-hearted, though his 
 emotions or the better self that dwells in every man 
 were not too violently disturbed. We should not know 
 Gates and say that. 
 
 Gates was Business, the Small Business of yester- 
 day running the Big Business of today; still, however, 
 Business. It was Business to keep the men on hand; 
 keep the crop of the mill full; its paunch packed; the 
 hands and belly working. He had no problem of 
 mental anemia or any sort of psychological mal-treat- 
 ment. Oh, no; it seemed an aggravated form of in- 
 dustrial indisposition, or indigestion possibly. Time 
 perhaps might prescribe. For the present the only 
 remedy seemed a graceless giving-in to some of their 
 demands. Actually they had required but the shorter 
 day. Potentially there were other threats and rumors 
 
 173
 
 174 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 of threats. Of course he had not gone up to the Fork. 
 The men asked ten; he said twelve. He yielded up 
 eleven hours. They took their wages. Another time 
 and he would be more fortunate. 
 
 Poor Gates! The next few years played merry 
 havoc with his theories and heavy-headed notions. 
 Johnson, though Gates did not notice, made progress 
 with his law. So did Gates' daughter with her cost- 
 plus schools. The girl was almost through her last 
 successful coat of finishing. It was on, and drying. 
 The problem now was college years or coming-out? 
 Gates talked of one, his wife espoused the other. 
 Barbara, strangely, favored neither, but had not said 
 so yet. 
 
 Regarding Johnson, he had chosen coming-out. Col- 
 lege was too expensive to be interesting. A few good 
 lawyers and a drove of poor ones had got along with- 
 out it. He elected law at once. He was mature enough 
 and showed that when he took his bar examinations, 
 early-winter of the third year. He even passed. Hav- 
 ing studied Gates' methods meantime, he saw no reason 
 why he should not try a hand at practice with him. In- 
 vited, he stayed. 
 
 One time, it happened on a Christmas, a miracle 
 struck Andrew. It followed an experiment. A plain 
 got-up young man had visited Gates' house. He did 
 not enter behind a card. He did however ask for 
 Barbara, and oddly was admitted. Despite her mother 
 Barbara had very nearly whom she chose. Gates was 
 independent, notoriously so. His wife was not subor- 
 dinate. Barbara borrowed of both. Her parents 
 offered him an armed acceptance, though no very warm 
 one. 
 
 However, they were well established within the 
 inner sanctum. They might afford, you know, to have
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 175 
 
 occasionally a plain young man around the house. This 
 one was that, indeed. His clothes were not the type 
 for which you read the magazines. He was young, 
 yet of the hills, where the young are old and the old 
 die young; and no one is ever much older than that. 
 His manner was plain as his origin. Barbara confided 
 once to Becky Young, her chum at school, that he 
 was not so plain, at all. Sometimes to her he fairly 
 shone; she considered him a man. The confidence 
 was given soon after that first Christmas, and she had 
 since had ample opportunity to change her predilec- 
 tions as she wished. A new note found the heart of 
 Barbara, and stayed to fascinate. 
 
 She loved the Christmas in the country. She never 
 gave it up. Her mother always talked of Boston or 
 pictured Broadway in its splendid spenders' glow. Her 
 father added nothing. "Christmas!" what was it? 
 He still had his work. It meant a small turkey to each 
 man-jack and householder mock the term ! who 
 dwelt within the Fork, a Christmas turkey more by 
 way of compensation for a past than promise for a 
 future. It brought a fur set to his wife, perhaps 
 another car, a badly needed necklace; just the pur- 
 chase of real gifts for an immaterial "I thank you." 
 Surely if Christmas owned a different meaning once it 
 must have been because it was the first-made anni- 
 versary of spending, of wasting on a single day the 
 pelf you worked so hard to gain on many others. 
 "Christmas?" bah! 
 
 So he had his Christmas Spirit, too, the only kind 
 he had ever known since his own mother upon a far- 
 back day had tucked some nuts, red apples, perhaps a 
 scarce, new quarter, into the stocking of a boy. The 
 boy had smiled and kissed her. The day, it had been 
 wonderful.
 
 176 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 Yet when the time had come for Barbara to go away 
 he looked ahead to see her coming back. Cynical, 
 rough-made, giver of hard knocks, taker of few, glori- 
 fying his own desires while he discounted others', he, 
 this and more, turned with relief to his daughter, 
 turned as a close-fisted and unrighteous man slips off 
 the habit of a week-day to don with sure relief a mantle, 
 good and generous, for Sunday. His lack made her 
 more precious; and he knew it. 
 
 Wherein Gates rose above his wife. His wife had 
 once liked him, and she bore a great love for herself, 
 but she only petted her daughter. She was a dear 
 child, but when children are born you must nurse them; 
 and when they grow you must care for them; and you 
 must educate them, to see that they thread life well- 
 dressed, ornate of body and as well made-up as possible 
 of mind, but not too well; they must be properly 
 brought out; finally, well-married! and you brave 
 wife are free. 
 
 But do not judge her crossly, just a modern woman- 
 type, coarse goods but tailor-made. She did not see 
 his love of the girl that had been come forth to rest 
 again on the girl she had borne him. She lived very 
 well without him, poor old dear. She rarely envied 
 her daughter and fancied in the mouths of everyone, 
 "Lovely girl! But there how like her mother." 
 Barbara saw only a mother. She did not, like a 
 suitor, anticipate the day that they would be as one. 
 It was no certainty indeed, though the mold of Emma 
 Gates was cast before the day of Rome. Barbara 
 also respected her father as the just and righteous 
 donor of all good and useful gifts. She regarded him 
 peculiarly. She was the one in a world that loved him, 
 for she lived nearest and she knew him least. If 
 mother submitted to father in terms of a glorified
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 177 
 
 check-book, the pity due must vary with your heart. 
 She only felt toward Holden Gates what Gates showed 
 toward the world, his world. It was made for him, and 
 he would suck the measure dry. 
 
 Which leads a far way from Christmas, and Barbara. 
 The girl had loved the day, more than ever since it was 
 her coming home. It brought white trees and glass- 
 flecked lawns, ice-bridged, beautiful streams, and 
 strong, chill gusts from the frosty old Man of the 
 North, blasts that chucked you under the chin and 
 watered your eyes, colored your cheek and poured a 
 rich, good sauce upon your appetite. It pleased the 
 palate and made an active, virile body where there was 
 rich, good food to tickle one and a plenty of warm- 
 fashioned things to trick the other. 
 
 Barbara was home. Andrew's body and soul were 
 nearer to meeting than they had ever been before, his 
 mother and George were not much closer the harder 
 things if they were not farther from easy. His years 
 of study by good right of perseverance and thin liv- 
 ing drew near their close and he no longer worried, 
 much. She had come for Christmas. The cutters that 
 followed fresh, eager horses over the white-packed 
 streets of the town trailed bells that were never nearer 
 to silver; hale, stout-made farmers and their families 
 came, bought and took away; the denizens of a growing 
 place of industries worked hard and made merry as the 
 time drew near and passed. He was to see her often. 
 The rich shopped hard by day. The poor owned little 
 stores by night and spent their cents like dollars. The 
 church of the Reverend Sykes had a tree with poor 
 candy for poorer children; and small, pert snow- 
 birds cried their way about the white-laid streets, find- 
 ing a few grains here and a morsel there, chirping aloud 
 in happiness, lauding the god of Waste. He wondered
 
 178 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 what she thought of him. Respecting the Christmas 
 of Johnson, Gates gave to each one at his office a 
 present cash in honor of Gates' New Year. Four 
 ample seasons had passed. His enterprises did well. 
 His mill was at capacity. Prices had soared at his 
 store. Sometime he would find out. 
 
 Their third Christmas season had come. The first 
 when he had made that call was very pleasant. She 
 gave him an amber-stemmed briar on the second, as 
 also "happy returns," which he liked. This year he 
 had a gift for her, that lyric "Dream Life." It was 
 sweet and he fancied the suggestion. 
 
 Fair friends, they seldom met outside her home. He 
 rarely had time for parties, and often needed clothes 
 and invitations. It is so awkward lacking either. 
 
 That made no noticeable difference. He saw her 
 often, and now she knew she was glad when he came. 
 He met the evening train on this return, and had a 
 minute's chat before her mother whisked her away 
 by motor. 
 
 The night before Christmas belonged to him by right 
 of might and their preference. Hattie had gone, and 
 was forgotten by two-thirds of that family. Quite 
 opportunely pleasure called the elder Gates away and 
 they had answered. By every token and creed their 
 daughter's place was with them. Conversely, she sat 
 with Andrew in the rosy glow of a fire of cannel coal. 
 
 He had brought his book of dreams and she of 
 course had opened it. She liked it and he was good 
 enough to indicate some favorite passages. Their heads 
 got close together, with their minds and hearts. There 
 is an equality in fire-light. Man's hand goes out to 
 man, and it is good. Dollar-piles shrink and imagery 
 is favorable and fair. She was only a daughter of men, 
 and he a strong man among them.
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 179 
 
 "Tell me," he said, "why are your letters always 
 exactly alike? You might have them mimeographed. 
 They would certainly do as well for Karl Vogel as for 
 me, and I am sure the Reverend Sykes would find them 
 strictly proper." 
 
 "How about your own, then? I'm sure I've often 
 thought of sharing them with lots of girls at school." 
 
 "Ah, that's hardly fair, is it, Barbara? You 
 know " 
 
 "I know very little indeed about you, young man." 
 
 "Possibly, and that is just as well. I am a very com- 
 mon sort of animal, as anyone can see, and you should 
 be well satisfied indeed at being spared the telling of my 
 beads. I have any amount of cardinal sins, and the 
 greatest of these is ambition." 
 
 "Oh, that's too bad," sighed Barbara, "I don't think 
 I believe in that, much. Just think of what it's done 
 to lots of splendid people. I wouldn't want to mention 
 father, he's such a dear, you know. But look at Mr. 
 Busby. I'm sure he's very ambitious." 
 
 "Yes, after the way of moles perhaps. I am very 
 much afraid, though, he sees ambition and progress 
 as a never-ending array of perfectly balancing ledgers, 
 self-shining shoes, or likely some Eldorado where pen- 
 cil-points break not and typewriters never run down." 
 
 "I should say that's rather mean of you. He's very 
 faithful." 
 
 "And I suppose that I am faithless. Were I less so 
 I probably should be feeding some machine tonight, 
 up at the Fork, earning my dozen cents per hour 
 and thinking of my piece of bread-and-cheese 
 at twelve. I should have stuck to my last." 
 
 "Oh, I never think that!" cried the girl with real 
 contrition. "Please, oh, please, do not speak of that 
 Fork again. I never realized what it meant to so
 
 180 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 many, and I am afraid I never want to. It seems so 
 horrible, like some Gargantua that never gets enough." 
 
 "Well, isn't it?" 
 
 "I don't know. I never used to think so. I re- 
 member I just loved to go there when I was a very little 
 girl. It looked so big, and fine, and busy." 
 
 "Yes, it is busy," he replied. 
 
 "Sometimes father would drive up and let us go 
 along. I was always wild to, but mamma seldom liked 
 it. Said it made her have bad dreams." 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder," Andrew offered. "Do you 
 know, it sometimes makes me feel that way, really?" 
 
 "I'm afraid that you are adding irony to other learn- 
 ing. One Fourth, though, I do remember. Father 
 promised to take us up to the Lake the day before. 
 You know, that pretty lake just north of Slab Fork? 
 'The roads were terrible, of course, but we made mamma 
 go, and Hattie, and actually had an awfully good time. 
 "We spent the night up there. There was a dance at 
 one of the cottages, but I was too little to appreciate 
 it. After lunch the next day we started back, and 
 stopped for half an hour at the Fork so father could 
 see a foreman about something he said was terribly im- 
 portant. I don't suppose it was, but while he was 
 talking with this man, mamma and Hattie and I 
 stepped out of the car for a little stroll. The walking 
 was horribly bad, and I remember I got my nice new 
 little slippers quite full of sawdust. Your roads are 
 very poor," she smiled. "But don't interrupt, I haven't 
 finished. 
 
 "The rest all wanted to climb back in the car, but I 
 was as stubborn and mean as I am now, and they were 
 afraid to let me go ahead alone. I remember there 
 was ever so much noise around the mill, and men shout- 
 ing, but we hardly saw anyone there. Oh, yes, we
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 181 
 
 had one visitor, a little boy who came and stared. He 
 was so queer! I'm sure I'd never seen anything like 
 him. I wanted to speak to him, to see if he could talk, 
 but mother called to me to mend my pace. Now why 
 are you smiling?" 
 
 "That was your first real admirer, Barbara. The 
 queer little boy was I." 
 
 She blushed very rosily and prettily. 
 
 He went on. "That was the very first time I saw 
 you, or anyone like you. You were as strange to me. 
 I thought I had seen an angel. And I've never been 
 sure that I didn't." 
 
 There was lunch, but nobody ate it. 
 
 "Have you known all the time that it was I?" 
 
 He nodded, "Yes, I have never forgotten. You made 
 a great impression on that day. The boy remembered 
 for the man. It was the first time I ever saw you. 
 When was the second, can you tell?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed," she said, "it was that morning at the 
 church, so very long ago. And I remember, too, how 
 sorry I really felt for you when Crampton told me you 
 had to dine at Mr. Dave's." 
 
 "I think I merited your sympathy, certainly, and I 
 am glad to have it, even late. I never mentioned our 
 first meeting to you, even after I knew. I'm not sure 
 that I have ever had so good a chance before tonight. 
 And then again I wanted to bury my past. I thought 
 that possibly you might in time learn to associate me 
 with Mapleton, and lawyers' offices and well-bred 
 poverty." 
 
 "I don't think that's very kind, Andrew. You ought 
 to know that I think more of you for what you've done, 
 and what you are going to do. To you, probably, I am 
 only a silly, very young girl, just from school with 
 everything to learn though you certainly ought to
 
 182 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 know better. Probably I have not had many oppor- 
 tunities to really live and know. I have learned, 
 though, a very great deal from you and I intend to 
 learn more for myself. Do you think I can. Am I so 
 absolutely hopeless, after all?" 
 
 Andrew for the most part had been smoking, and 
 thinking, but he could not resist this appeal. He 
 thought to pass it off jokingly. 
 
 "It would never do for me to tell you what I think. 
 / am the hopeless one, I fancy. I often do think, 
 though, how everything might have been changed if it 
 had all been different, my home, my education, my 
 life, my hopes and prospects but mostly I myself." 
 
 She regarded him seriously. "Surely, Andy, you 
 don't think that it could make a difference? Why " 
 and she stopped. 
 
 The man's face flushed, for the back-wash of those 
 starving years was strong. 
 
 He started to speak paused and got no farther. 
 The girl leaned impulsively toward him, a perfect offer- 
 ing. There were sympathy and understanding in her 
 eyes, and more, as they met his. 
 
 He saw far back in them, and was unafraid. 
 
 Later, very late, they realized that the elder Gates 
 must come some time. These would not care to find 
 anyone sampling their hospitality at that hour. 
 Andrew shook himself, and said that he would go. 
 
 He did not resist another word. 
 
 "Just think, dear Barbara, you are so wonderful, 
 everything, with everything. It seems so strange; for 
 I am nothing." 
 
 "Hush, you must not say that to me," whispered 
 the girl, drawing nearer. "If I am satisfied can't 
 you be too?" 
 
 Barbara drew his head down, pressed it close against
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 183 
 
 her breast. She placed a little hand that was velvet- 
 soft and very sweet across his lips. 
 
 Christmas morning Andrew left for Slab Fork. 
 
 He never spent the day in Mapleton, even this, his 
 day-of-days. The few who had been left him beside 
 the River's fork up there called silently. He always 
 went, took what he could, and returned with their love. 
 It was his mother's day. 
 
 It was the day all Slab Fork was itself: some men 
 and women. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 Ax the beginning of that year Barbara declared 
 firmly but quite nicely to her father that after the 
 close of the next spring's term she was not going 
 back. Having talked the matter over with the young 
 woman's mother, it was allowed to lapse. She added 
 nothing as to plans; they had agreed it was not best 
 to, yet. 
 
 At the end of the last school year Barbara came 
 home. She stayed there quietly perhaps a week. One 
 day it was Thursday she appeared at breakfast 
 announcing she thought it would be nice to run up to 
 the Fork that day or the next. It being breakfast her 
 father was about to rush to the attack at once, but on 
 looking at his daughter decided to postpone it, which 
 spoke quite highly for his daughter. In common with 
 good men his early hours were worst, as if sour dreams 
 had given him some shaking-up by night. 
 
 At breakfast without reason he thought "No! " 
 and was as anxious to cry aloud and say it; at lunch he 
 would consider; at dinner he calmly announced an
 
 184 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 acceptance, quite as though he had intended all along 
 to give his orders to the logging train conductor, one 
 John Williams, to have the long-unused frame dwelling 
 of the owner put in proper order by that Saturday. 
 Barbara wisely decided to wait, since her plans at first 
 were sketchy in that she had not made up her mind 
 just what to do with herself once at the Fork, in the 
 event she had gone alone. The whole of it was Andrew 
 rather more than sociology, although she was coming 
 to think. 
 
 So early Friday morning old Mother Minsky, follow- 
 ing arrival of the train, had picked her a broom and a 
 pan, stirred up the heavy time-thrown dirt of the 
 cottage with one and partially carried it off with the 
 other. 
 
 On Saturday the Gates had risen at a frightful hour 
 and made their train with something of a retinue. No 
 machine could hold them. The women were even a 
 little late since poor old Williams would never dare to 
 leave without them. 
 
 By eight o'clock they were driven from the Station 
 to the Store, thence to the local summer home, in Pete's 
 honest, well-intentioned democrat. Barbara thought it 
 was pretty good sport to be cavorting across the ruts 
 and into the pools of sawdust, first on one wheel, then 
 on another, and Mrs. Gates vouchsafed a mild though 
 still sincere "Impossible!" Arriving at the cottage 
 Mrs. Gates sank down upon a chair, Mr. Gates strode 
 over to the mill immediately, and Barbara was glad to 
 look upon the town. The Mapleton house staff mean- 
 time followed Mother Minsky inside, looking for a 
 clean spot as their nucleus for preparation. 
 
 The town was new to Barbara, and she to it. She 
 had heard enough to bias her quite well about it, cer- 
 tainly. In limine of the rarest and ripest of feminine
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 185 
 
 jewels, a logically reasoning mind, she was nothing of 
 the kind and her childhood impressions were merely 
 piqued through knowing Johnson. When he had come, 
 there was interest. Her trip, so suddenly announced, 
 had followed up an entertaining conversation they had 
 had some evenings previous. He told her of the Fork. 
 
 The next day being Sunday in the world outside, at 
 the Fork the day in seven where most work ceased 
 and whistles did not blow, Barbara came to know 
 better the folk of her man's first being. She thought 
 maturely, though how and why from her poor ex- 
 pensive opportunities only the Great Giver of Blessings 
 himself could ever have told you. 
 
 While she peered at them through the searching glass 
 of sympathy and the wistfulness of not quite under- 
 standing, Johnson sat at the window which looked 
 upon the Court House square from the drab, uncarpeted 
 abode of the fortunate lawyer-clerk. 
 
 He had heard from her, a letter sent him on the day 
 she left and postmarked "Mapleton." She omitted to 
 tell him where she had gone, but it was very sweet 
 and at the end "yours most sincerely." He wasn't 
 satisfied. 
 
 He was asking himself what she might see in them 
 his people. But when he wrote it was not of this, 
 for love has no business with questions. 
 
 His letter grew; it sounds very foolish now. 
 
 "A week ago . . . and you and I sat side- 
 by-side in church. You were attending to the 
 service, probably; and I was listening, per- 
 haps. 
 
 "At the same time I could not help but feel 
 the myriad pulses of my heart, many voices 
 with one song; nor keep from stealing now
 
 186 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 and then a glance at you, my love, so close 
 with Miss Convention in between. 
 
 "I wonder if another week will bring us 
 back again as we were then? I miss you. I 
 miss you more than you can know, I think. 
 My heart cries out for you. I am alone. 
 
 "I have a love of pictures. One of my 
 very best is you, a week ago. We were to- 
 gether then, in body, spirit, but now we live 
 uncounted miles, a thousand years, apart. 
 And very many days. What failures letters 
 are! 
 
 "You know I love you, dearest, dearest 
 girl. I starve for want of you. I love you 
 far away but better here." 
 
 Johnson re-read the letter and laid it away in his 
 dresser. 
 
 A few mornings later Barbara rose with the song- 
 birds that came and laughed about the window where 
 she slept. She looked from the window: the river, 
 where the long day's smoke did not yet rest, was very 
 fair; the flowers looked at the sun and trees bent to 
 the wind. Sweet air enwrapped her with fragrance of 
 days that are new. 
 
 She left their house, and glimpsed from a hill the 
 smoke of the train from the town below. As she stood 
 there, watching, a step sounded by her side; and when 
 she turned, it was Johnson. 
 
 Together they walked a little way, and knew that 
 they were glad. 
 
 "I could not help it, Barbara. I had to come! And 
 your letter . . . There was so little of it, dear. You 
 are not displeased? I needed to get away, somehow. 
 Of course I've taken no vacation. Put my day's trip 
 down to that if it would please you more."
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 187 
 
 "Oh, Andrew, I ... Why! Let's walk over there, 
 along that little path. Wouldn't you like to? And 
 we can talk." 
 
 They started where a grassy footpath led crookedly 
 away and through a tiny meadow. The trail lay 
 smooth and brown, and all about it was the field 
 decked out with ripe blue-bottle flowers; it turned and 
 twisted, crossed a little stream of noisy voice and peb- 
 bled bed, went up and past a green-topped hill and to 
 the remnant of a forest. Where spice and smoke-bush 
 met in a green-leaved tangle, and the little clubbed arms 
 of the crow's-foot reached out at the base of the trees, 
 they found a seat close by a crumbling, cast-down pine. 
 
 "And to find you here! Barbara, it seems impossible. 
 What could have made you come? The place seems 
 such an odd, poor setting for you; here where my own 
 people live, and sweat, and starve; here where 
 yours " 
 
 "Don't, Andy, I can't bear it. Did you ask me why 
 I came? I came because I wanted to know, wanted to 
 hear, wanted to see with my sight myself just a 
 few of the things you have told." 
 
 "And you have, Barbara?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, a hundred times as much as I needed 
 to know that all you said of it was true. I didn't be- 
 lieve, I couldn't, that my world had held a place like 
 this so many years. 
 
 "The afternoon, that day I came, was very rainy. 
 It was wet and cold, for summer. Even the people 
 seemed to drip and droop as they went about their 
 work in a sort of sad, half-hearted fashion as if they 
 only followed the way of their fathers and could 
 not help it for themselves. 
 
 "Andy, boy, it reminded me of a home I once saw 
 when I was a little girl. It was very beautiful; in it
 
 188 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 lived the blind. Next it stood one for lovely old ladies, 
 and men; it was hideous. Flowers crowded the doors 
 of the sightless, and where the old ones lived paint 
 peeled from walls, the lawns were bare with dying 
 grass and rotting leaves. 
 
 "The woods here are as lovely, and empty, as the 
 poor little town below is horrible, and maybe empty 
 too. And the people, Andy . . . If I had been that 
 same little girl, I should have stopped one of them as 
 he was walking by and said, 'Can you be real?' 
 
 "No one knew me at first, I think, and but are 
 you listening? It doesn't tire you?" she asked, with 
 wistful eyes. The bloom of the girl was at its full, and 
 Johnson loved her. 
 
 "Dear child, how could it? My people are I, and 
 I am they. Tell me more of myself." 
 
 "Well, then, no one knew who I was, at first, for I 
 hadn't been here since I was small, oh, very small. So 
 I stopped some of them and made them talk to me." 
 
 "Which wasn't very difficult, I think," added the 
 other. 
 
 "You musn't interrupt. I stopped a few of them, 
 children, and some poor old women too. And I said, 
 'Why do you live here?' and 'Are you happy?' They 
 didn't know! though one or two of the children said 
 in their queer little voices, 'I dunno, it's 'cause my 
 folks is here and most like always has been.' Even the 
 older ones couldn't say much more. But one old lady 
 told me, when I asked her if she were really happy, 
 or what, said 'Gawd, Miss, I ain't got feelin's. I'm only 
 a poor old woman who thinks as how she's lucky with 
 wood in her stove-box and a little cold chuck on her 
 table.' She was terrible, too, with a wart on her chin. 
 I didn't have the heart to ask so very many more. 
 
 "But there was one old gentleman I met, and he
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 189 
 
 talked with me. He was different from the others, for 
 he stopped me. He took off his hat with the oddest 
 old grace you ever saw, and said 'Excuse me, Miss, but 
 I haven't seen your like for so long I couldn't help 
 speakin'. You ain't offended?' 
 
 "Of course I said no, so we visited a little while. I 
 asked him some about himself and then I spoke of 
 Daddy as 'Mr. Gates/ and do you know, the old man 
 swore, most dreadfully. It seemed to be about my 
 Father, too, my Father! Why do you suppose he 
 did that, Andy?" 
 
 "Why, why, I suppose it was because" the man 
 fumbled "why, I suppose the reason was, he may 
 have lost his job or something through him." 
 
 "I don't think so, for he said he was working, and 
 had been, for years, and he added 'Probably I'll keep 
 on working, nothing else, till that old cuss, or else 
 me, dies. Workin' for nothing, too, when once I could 
 a bought him for a song.' 
 
 "Of course I asked him what he meant, but he 
 wouldn't say anything more, except, 'Perhaps you 
 might be kin of Mr. Gates?' I tried to avoid that, 
 and pretty soon he went along, after taking his hat off 
 in the same way again. He did look so forlorn, as if his 
 wife were dead or something and he lived alone. His 
 face was very rough and beardy. Just think, perhaps 
 he hadn't even a razor." 
 
 "Yes, and think, too," said the boy, "of Karl Vogel, 
 the razor without a beard. Which is tragedy?" 
 
 "Please don't joke. He looked so sad. Who could 
 it have been?" 
 
 "Indeed I don't joke, dear, except to keep up spirits. 
 I'm serious enough inside. It was probably the 'Ad- 
 mirable.' Queer old duck, nice to me too when I was 
 a boy, one of my earliest teachers.
 
 190 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "His name the 'Admirable?' I believe it is rather 
 much mooted whether he was sometime dubbed so more 
 for the character still left him, or the weaving, sailor- 
 like gait you may have noticed. Etymology is loose up 
 here. 
 
 "The old man has a history, but very few can know it 
 and they don't seem to tell. Perhaps it's just as well." 
 
 "Perhaps," responded the girl, without knowing. 
 
 "But ah, Barbara, it cuts me to the bone sometimes, 
 this . . . this life, this Fork! It's part of me, my 
 mother and my father, blood of my heart, flesh of my 
 body and I can't even rip it out if I would. And it 
 is very sore. I wonder, 'Who's to blame for all this 
 misery and smallness, and this little, narrow-rutted 
 life?' Often I think, 'They could help themselves if 
 they would.' They never have, but they could indeed 
 and by Heaven, I think some day they will ! " 
 
 His voice rang out so strongly, then choked away, 
 that the girl turned eager eyes to see. His eyes were 
 moist 
 
 "How incomplete it all is here men always to 
 work, and slave, and keep on serving; and maybe even 
 try to love. The woman's part, I take it, is to give of 
 her life and meantime utter thanks for what she gets 
 down there." He looked toward the hive below. 
 
 "I wonder sometimes when their hire is due." 
 
 Her mood was pleased to change. She rallied him 
 upon his ebbing spirits, at first without success. 
 
 "What chance have I," he said, "of this place, from 
 this place, to really get away? Where can it lead? 
 To live life, to want all things and get them! to grow up 
 fast and big enough to reach your . . ." 
 
 "Andy do you believe in fairy stories?" 
 
 "Sometimes, or I used to. But no good fairy ever 
 led me to the Land of Enchantment over the Highway
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 191 
 
 of Happy Endings. Till I knew you I lost my confi- 
 dence in them." 
 
 "Well, this 'fairy' then will tell you a story. My old 
 Hattie, when I was a really small girl, used to tell them 
 to me. She told me one of a Poor Young Man. I want 
 to tell you that sometime. But this is one of my 
 very own. You take my hand, the way old Hattie 
 used to do. And don't be cross if I forget or have to 
 stop. 
 
 "Now this is The Story of the Vine That Never Quite 
 Reached to the Top. 
 
 "One day, oh, thousands of years ago, there was a 
 small, weak seed. It was so small no one had ever 
 noticed it. It was so weak it couldn't even get away 
 from home, alone. So it moped in a corner where it 
 fell from the lap of the Mother Vine, and said 'It's 
 just my luck. Here I fall from a nice high place up 
 where my mother lived down to this small, damp hole, 
 and no one is ever going to help me get away or 
 to disport myself the way I'd like to.' 
 
 "But just as he spoke a lucky wind came blowing its 
 way along, and even before the little seed-chap could 
 make up his mind whether it was really good or ill, 
 whether to go or whether to stay, or whether it might 
 even be his chance, it picked him up in spite of himself 
 and carried him off, far from the damp, low hole, all 
 over the land and sea to an old brick tower that rose 
 from a hill in a glorious foreign land. 
 
 "It set him down there quite as quickly as it had 
 swept him from the old-home spot, and whistled away 
 no doubt to look for another small chap. He was still 
 dissatisfied. He looked this way and he peered that, 
 and he listened, till he didn't see and he couldn't hear 
 the faintest sign of another good-luck breeze. He 
 didn't have a thing to help him, so by-and-by, he
 
 192 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 was so disgruntled and unhappy, he thought he'd see 
 if he couldn't do a little something all by himself. 
 
 "He stuck two tiny, rooty feet 'way down in the 
 earth where he lay and raising his neck high-up in the 
 air, he stretched. Real hard, he had to stretch, but he 
 found that after he had done his best he could just 
 reach up to the first low brick of the tower. 'Here,' he 
 said, 'is a place to stand, to get my start.' 
 
 "The first few bricks after all were not so hard as 
 they looked. He tried one, then another. Up a few 
 inches, then a few feet, he rose by degrees in the air. 
 He passed low vines and the small, short grasses, wav- 
 ing and laughing and jeering at them as he went along 
 toward the top. 
 
 "But as he went he found the easy going got a 
 little harder. He kept looking down to the ground and 
 thought how hard he would drop; the wind was edging 
 around him, trying to make him fall; other vines, still 
 higher, were trying some of them to choke him off. 
 For though there was room for him as well, they wanted 
 it all themselves and nobody craved a crowd. He 
 started to whimper, and even got ready to fall. 
 
 "When the sun came out and gave a warm, en- 
 couraging look his way, it seemed to say, 'Be up and 
 doing, son. Forget the feet below. Get right along to 
 the top.' So he called back, 'All right'; and started 
 once more. Most of the others he passed, the long 
 hard climb seemed now a little way. A new view 
 appeared as he rose; the few hard places below were 
 lost to sight and soon forgotten. He sang as he worked 
 and stretched and grew. His world below and all 
 about was getting very fair. 
 
 "Just then a cloud came up. It wasn't a big cloud, 
 either, but from where he rested beside the tower, 
 within his own small place, it looked so big and dark
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 193 
 
 he suddenly lost courage. He glanced for a moment 
 above. There was room at the top, indeed. It had not 
 been far when the hours were bright, but in the lonely 
 darkness and the cold it seemed hard days away. 
 
 " 'With a little sunshine I might have made it,' 
 he cried, as he looked far down, saw the far way that 
 he would have to drop, and let his fingers slip. 
 
 "And when he was all crumpled at the bottom; bent 
 as he fell, the long months' framework smashed to little 
 pieces, the sun came out. It was warm and very bright. 
 The long rays, glancing downward, spoke, 'Only a 
 little farther, we could have said to you. But you were 
 weak, and could not grow alone.' 'Yes, I was weak/ 
 he answered ; and the little vine, down once more where 
 it started, fell back where it lay, and died." 
 
 " 'Only a little farther/ dear . . ." 
 
 That evening, just before the logging train slid down- 
 hill to the town, she left her hands in his for just the 
 moment that she said, 
 
 "Andy, / believe in you." 
 
 He returned to his fight. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 IT was very early. Andrew clumped down the 
 twisting little staircase of the office, and emerging at 
 the foot came close to felling Mr. Busby, who had 
 just at that moment entered and was dumping hat and 
 coat upon a hook behind the door. 
 
 "Good-morning, Mr. Busby." 
 
 "Grumph!" 
 
 When Andrew had been a student his activities were 
 somewhat under the wing of Busby, who was part
 
 194 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 clerk and the remainder man. Busby no longer in- 
 terfered so very strongly with him, having a newer 
 apprentice and two girl stenographers or "lady 
 secretaries." 
 
 "Been havin' a vacation, huh?" 
 
 "I have, for a day." 
 
 "You couldn't 'a' been back sooner? We're powerful 
 busy now, and the partners got a mighty sight to do. 
 Here's some memorandums they handed me to give 
 you yesterday." 
 
 Andrew followed Busby to his desk. 
 
 "Umph! Smoke, don't you?" 
 
 ""Yes, sometimes." 
 
 "Umph! So do I." Mr. Busby took one thin, black 
 stogie from his desk, put it between his rather mossy 
 teeth, then lighted it. Tobacco stench blended with 
 breath and Andrew turned away. Mr. Busby opened 
 some other drawers, closed one or two of them and 
 let the others go. He fumbled around. 
 
 He was one of the good old type which, thanks to 
 Heaven, will follow the bison and passenger pigeon. 
 Modern efficiency kills them off, these men-clogs. 
 Busby was as he was. Chautauquas failed to move him. 
 He was hopeless. 
 
 Having got confusion out of chaos, Mr. Busby's long 
 dark finger presently alighted on the papers, entombed 
 in the stogie drawer. He had written them himself: 
 the first words were finely printed; a line of less 
 neat writing; then the rest in dots and dashes scrambled 
 up with periods and comma-marks. Both active 
 partners were absent. A case, a very minor one, had 
 come while Johnson was away. A woodsman had been 
 "taken in" on Sunday night, in town. They said he 
 was drunk. He claimed he had been freezing, coming 
 down from the camps, and had taken a nip for warmth.
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 19S 
 
 It was not an important case. The fellow was poor, 
 the fee wouldn't be much. Meantime he was snug in 
 jail. 
 
 "Let Johnson practice on him," said Gates the day 
 before. As Busby finished, the secretaries burst in. 
 They were sisters and local products. 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Busby," they caroled. 
 
 "Late, eh?" He censored tardiness and never 
 noticed overtime. 
 
 Having rushed to a mirror and sauntered to a desk, 
 the elder took her place beside the mail-tray while 
 her sister started filing. Mr. Busby left his own debris 
 to delve into the mail, began a letter, then remembered 
 something. He left one sister for the other, looked at 
 the work she was filing and mumbled, 
 
 "Haven't you finished that yet? Here, here's some- 
 thing else I want you to do," gave her some pencils 
 to sharpen and a will to copy, and rushed back, where 
 he picked up another letter. The telephone ringing, 
 the secretary stopped her work to reach for the instru- 
 ment, which graced a pile of notebooks, pads and 
 office riffraff. Mr. Busby's pose was critical as Miss 
 Meander said, "Call for Mr. Johnson, from the Fork." 
 
 Mr. Johnson left his desk, there being only one 
 connection. 
 
 "Hello. Hello. What! 
 
 "You are? 
 
 "Why, that is wonderful. 
 
 "What? Nothing's the matter. I'm talking from 
 the office. 
 
 "Yes. I don't know whether I can. You want me to? 
 You do? I know I shouldn't. Well, that will make me 
 then. Yes, I will. You may count on it. Tomorrow 
 night. Thank you. Good-by." 
 
 All had been said within hearing and sight of our
 
 196 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 small, appreciative group, including the boy, one Cal- 
 vin. Mr. Busby was perhaps more impatient as he tried 
 to dictate and catch the drift, while his dictated-to 
 did her best under conditions so provoking. 
 
 "Oh, excuse me, Mr. Busby, just a minute. That 
 reminds me, Mr. Johnson, someone called you up from 
 
 there day before yesterday. Miss , let's see, 
 
 what was her name, or was it a Mr. Somebody? They 
 called you up about five, no, I guess it was after, to 
 say . . . Well! I've forgotten just what they said. 
 They called up, anyway. I told them you weren't 
 in."" 
 
 "Thank you, Miss Lucy." 
 
 "Miss Meander, if you're positive you're ready, just 
 take this . . ." 
 
 The stenographer stiffened perceptibly, patting her 
 hair where it rose in front. Correspondence at last 
 being done to a turn and to as much apparent satis- 
 faction as Mr. Busby ever evinced, he looked a little 
 farther in the basket, hurriedly picked out a small 
 white form with the name of a bank at the top and 
 an over-draft toward the bottom, muttered, but loudly 
 enough for Miss Lucy to hear, 
 
 "Huh, that doggone account run out a'ready? Put 
 in something just last week." Mr. Busby was a family 
 man. 
 
 The young lady felt in a desk drawer, groped 
 among a handkerchief, a handbag, a scrap of sew- 
 ing and some miscellany, and opened her mouth again. 
 
 "Mr. Busby, if you go down town, we need some 
 new supplies." 
 
 "How's that? What's that? What's your list for 
 this time?" 
 
 "Well, we're out of ink for the stamp-pads and I 
 need a new typewriter ribbon, and "
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 197 
 
 "I should think, Miss Lucy, you c'd boil the old 
 typewriter ribbon to get the ink. Lots of good stuff 
 left in it. Read the other day of something of the 
 kind. Thought 'twas pretty good. Better try it. Got 
 to have more efficiency, or something. 
 
 "What else is there? No stamps again, eh? Well! 
 what's become of 'em? Used 'em, eh? I'll have to 
 start some checkin' up, I guess. 'Spose I c'n get 'em 
 if I have to." 
 
 He gripped his hat, swept up some papers from his 
 desk and rushed headlong out of the door. He got in 
 a small, black car outside, the legal conveyance which 
 everyone used and nobody cared for. Calvin cranked, 
 and returning to the office found breathing easier. 
 Johnson was endeavoring to pick some moldy prece- 
 dents from books and a modicum of information from 
 Busby's impossible notes. The ladies worked so hard, 
 they often stated, that when no one but they were there 
 that is, neither the firm nor "that old Busby," "Mr. 
 Johnson only worked there," like themselves, they 
 had to stop ! They must rest. They did. 
 
 "Helene, where in the world is that brief of old 
 Mr. Bennett's?" It was Lucy speaking. 
 
 "Oh, sister! I don't know. Don't bother me, any- 
 way; I was just thinking of that Mr. Pichet we met 
 last night over at the Jones'. Wasn't that horribly 
 homely girl with him his sister? I sh'd think so. He's 
 an 'it,' but how he waltzes. And his eyes, believe 
 me . . ." 
 
 "I don't want to hear about his eyes. I just hate 
 men this morning. And I'm simply burning up in this 
 stuffy old office. I think I have a fever. Go see how 
 warm it is." 
 
 Helene obligingly catapulted her letters into the 
 file, and dropping Mr. Pichet consulted the ther-
 
 198 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 mometer. Coming back she picked up everything again, 
 averring as she did so that "the thermometer says 
 only 68." 
 
 "Well, I don't care if it does. Oh, my dear, there's 
 something wrong with me. I'm hot. I can't work, 
 I'm tired. I always am, when I have to take that old, 
 nasty Busby's dictation. Ugh!" 
 
 "There now, you poor child. Don't try to do any 
 more till he gets back. You're all tired out. I don't 
 see how you can stand it." 
 
 "What, the dancing?" 
 
 "No, you dear stupid, all this work. You ought 
 not to have to do it." 
 
 "No, we shouldn't. Both of us should have at 
 least a month's vacation, too. I'd just go to bed and 
 stay there, except maybe evenings. Most stenographers 
 can probably stand it, but you know, sister . . ." 
 
 "Are you going over to Madeleine Scrubbs' party to- 
 night? They have the sweetest new Victrola. It looks 
 as if I were going to have a very busy week. 
 I saw Madeleine's sister this morning; you know, the 
 one that didn't marry. My dear, you couldn't count 
 the wrinkles in her face. Well . . ." 
 
 "Walter asked me. I think he's sweet, don't you, 
 Helene? He has a flat nose, but lots of money. I do 
 wish though he'd cut off that horrid little black 
 moustache. It's well, you know . . ." 
 
 "Here, try some of this gum I just got. It's a new 
 flavor, 'spruce-mint.' One of the boys had some at 
 the Post Office this morning. I kept mine. Smell? 
 Umm! it's good. Are you going to have that crepe- 
 de-chine this fall?" 
 
 "I'm going to have that, or a new muslin with 
 scalloped edging and two- thirds sleeves. I'm tired of 
 these dull old things. I'm going to bead mine and make
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 199 
 
 it look like one of those fifteen-dollar waists. Aren't 
 they wearin' 'em full this fall?" 
 
 "I guess so. Do you want that brief now? I suppose 
 dear old Busby's about due back." 
 
 "Never mind, sister, I guess we won't need it till 
 tomorrow anyway. Let's get a drink of water." 
 
 "Can you see what time it is?" looking toward 
 the Court House. "I feel as if I'd been here days 
 already." 
 
 "Only ten o'clock?" 
 
 "Oh, dear. I don't see how the time can drag when 
 we're so busy. My, I'm anxious to get through this 
 noon. Mother '11 scream when she sees that yellow 
 ribbon on the waist Carrie sent me this morning. It 
 certainly is chick." 
 
 "Sister, do stop drumming on your teeth with your 
 pencil. You're such a cut-up." 
 
 The new lawyer hung on, and tried to do some catch- 
 as-catch-can thinking. As Mr. Bodeheaver once said, 
 "They were right chatty." Johnson envied Calvin. 
 Just now the boy was buried in a bursting romance of 
 the early West, a nobly hell-fire place where good 
 stenographers were barred . . . where Mapleton was 
 not ... he harked to Faro Nell. 
 
 Further intercourse was ended by the returning 
 Busby, who left his car with a leap and re-entered the 
 place on the bound. He tendered to Miss Lucy a full 
 half-dozen pen-points, all assorted, three pads of vary- 
 ing size but one pale yellow color, an "All-Wear" type- 
 writer ribbon, part of a bargain in pencils, and a bottle 
 "of cheap but standard ink" as he himself assured her. 
 
 "Here's all of the work, Mr. Busby." 
 
 "Umph, a' right." 
 
 One "umph!" for thank you, two "umphs!" at good- 
 night; rarely an "umph!" for good-morning.
 
 200 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 He was of them that are never born young. Yet 
 Andrew was sometimes glad to see the little, futile 
 man, and now with undinned ears he bent again in a 
 noise of hammered typewriter keys and freshly slam- 
 ming files to proving to a visionary magistrate just 
 what a chilly man might take and still retain his 
 dignity. 
 
 By evening he had dug out several precedents. He 
 supped at Dave's and came directly back. It was one 
 of his earliest cases and quite as unimportant from an 
 able lawyer's angle. Things were always meagre 
 enough, assignments of "poor cases" from the Judge, a 
 pick-up here, a hard knot there. If there were work 
 to do, why not the sort that carried credit? 
 
 Come, this was plain enough and he would drive his 
 own stakes well. He closed a volume of Common Law 
 and lowered the top of his desk. Even Busby had left. 
 He switched off the light. He felt like bed; and some- 
 times when he got up there and before he dropped to 
 sleep, he allowed himself to think that all would be as 
 well if he did not wake up. He was weak tonight, and 
 empty. Dave's meal had long since been assimilated. 
 
 He left the office and crossed to a little grocery. It 
 was late for Mapleton, but in the corner store a shaded 
 kerosene lamp beamed appetizingly on canned pre- 
 serves and colorful boxes of crackers. A little old 
 lady in black popped suddenly out of a corner where 
 she had been knitting and dozing. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Johnson! What's your pleasure 
 tonight? And how are you these pleasant days, for they 
 are pleasant, aren't they, and I said to Jonathan only 
 yesterday, 'My! Jonathan, how the time flies, and how 
 my days get happier just all the time.' Sometimes 
 I get to wishing it wouldn't go so fast but then I 
 think that that ain't right. We're all here for some
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 201 
 
 good purpose, but when our time's run out, why we'll 
 just have to go along and leave our niche for someone 
 else who'll be better and happier maybe. Least that's 
 what I tell Jonathan, and he thinks just as I do, too. 
 It makes me glad. 
 
 "But how are you tonight, sir? Seems like you're 
 kind of quiet." 
 
 "Just a little fagged-out, Mrs. Sumner. Things 
 never seem to break too well, and now and then I 
 find myself a trifle lonely in my little 'world'." 
 
 "Poor boy, I'd think you would. But it won't last. 
 I used to tell Jonathan when our boy Joe was sick 
 and the store wasn't starting to pay, and I not so very 
 strong, either, not least as I am now, 'Keep sweet, 
 Jonathan, and let's be as happy as we can. Surely 
 this won't last forever. I know the Sun is there, though 
 it may be hid for awhile. Things are bound to take a 
 better turn you see!' and somehow, they always 
 did. 
 
 "Here, take some of these fresh little crackers that 
 just came in today. Don't they look brown and nice? 
 Just as if the baker'd only had 'em in his oven not a 
 quarter of an hour ago. This cheese is good. My! 
 Just like cream." 
 
 So ran on Mrs. Sumner, with no right to be so 
 happy. Andrew went home. He had confidence in 
 tomorrow. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 SUNLIGHT streamed in the office-room. Johnson 
 sprang from bed as the little clock warned him of morn- 
 ing. It was his day. 
 
 He splashed himself with water fresh and chilled 
 from the September hills, and shaved and partially clad
 
 202 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 leaned head and shoulders from the open window. The 
 sun's rays fell across his face, and a rising breeze with 
 woods and autumn in it waved the fading leaves out- 
 side. Between the bending trees and twisted branches 
 of the little park he saw the Court House, could even 
 read the faint, time-blurred inscription, "Hamlin 
 County, 1859," so deeply cut above its door. Dew 
 stood upon the balcony in front, where sunlight fell. 
 
 "Right there, my boy," he thought, "you get today 
 another try. Pick out a strangle-hold, and hang on 
 hard!" 
 
 He ducked his head from the window, eager to 
 dress and be gone. Hurrying out of the office Johnson 
 turned toward Dave's and breakfast, for he had pros- 
 pered to the point where he no longed served his own. 
 He did not notice now how poor Dave's was. 
 
 Breakfast was ready, unchanged. He bolted from 
 here to the office, found a letter indicating that Bar- 
 bara must have come home the night before, sat down 
 and studied once more. Shortly before ten he picked 
 up his books and papers, walked through the trees 
 to the Court House and entered the great front door. 
 It was early; the benches in the park were scarcely 
 filled. 
 
 Threading the dark corridor and going up the wind- 
 ing stairs that led to the "chambers," he had his client 
 pointed out by an attendant. The prisoner was of the 
 woodsman genus, unclean and shaggy from habit or 
 force, extra-unkempt from jail. He had just been 
 brought up for the lawyer. The man was not at 
 ease, and did not look around till Johnson laid a 
 hand upon his shoulder. At the friendly touch he 
 started, then turned a shamefaced countenance. The 
 liquor's red was somewhat yellowed by two bad nights 
 in jail.
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 203 
 
 Johnson took a good look, and placed him as a 
 workman of the Fork, Pete Swanson. He had been a 
 sober chap, a man of some family and perforce a 
 steady worker in the mill. Pete looked sick but 
 gradually perked up. 
 
 His story was easily told. He had come to Maple- 
 ton two nights before, "the wife bane sick." Their 
 "doctor" was off in the woods. A horse was bad and he 
 was needed. Pete was an ignorant fellow, but even 
 to him his partner seemed ill. Larrabie finally allowed 
 him to forfeit work and pay for a night and go to 
 Mapleton for drugs. "Be back tomorrow, though!" he 
 warned, and that was two mornings ago. 
 
 The air from the woods was cold and damp as the 
 logger slid down to town, and a wandering "jack" 
 from the hills had fished out a flask from his hip. 
 After a comfortable drain he proffered the remnants to 
 Pete. Woods invitations to the cup are not delivered 
 to be declined. Pete, chilled and worried much, gave 
 in. The bottle was of noble size. As glow succeeded 
 chill, so cold soon followed liquor. More fuel was 
 fed to their engines. Pete was in poor training. He 
 hardly knew when they got to town; much less was 
 he aware of any doctor's habitat. In a bad moment 
 he inquired, but of a local officer who hung about to 
 see the trains come in. Stray drunks quite often 
 arrived by that route and constables were paid per 
 piece. So Pete paid toll. 
 
 Judge Flexner came in. Several visitors had also 
 entered in the meantime, though Andrew failed to 
 notice them particularly. Pete's case was called and 
 witnesses appeared. He had been bad. The officer 
 made it clear. Swanson was sworn and haltingly con- 
 firmed it. It looked as though his wife might not need 
 medicine were it to come by him.
 
 204 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 Johnson faced the Judge. His knees trembled well 
 with his voice, which lacked assurance at the first. 
 Certain of something to say, he shortly made easier 
 progress. 
 
 "Your Honor, I should like to add a little before 
 you pass upon this case. 
 
 "The man was drunk. There is no doubt of that. 
 To argue it would be beside the point, as I am very 
 ready to admit. But there is some extenuation. I 
 know him, and I know why he fell down. 
 
 "He is not used to it. More, I do not think that he 
 has ever used it when at home. Unaccustomed, he 
 was a very easy mark, I do not doubt. 
 
 "That he has kept without it in the woods is pointed 
 evidence. I was born there. It is a place of hard 
 work and strong liquor, and the men if ever such 
 a thing were justified are certainly entitled to any- 
 thing that will lighten, even so little, their load of 
 abominable living. I do not advocate it, though I can 
 myself excuse it to a great extent. Its use no doubt 
 may aggravate conditions, but indeed it seems to help 
 sometimes. Drink in the morning and drink at night 
 may be a cause, or a result. I myself can witness that, 
 confronted by conditions wholly foreign to most, this 
 man has nevertheless lived right and according to 
 plainer lights than his. 
 
 "He left a wife up there, weak, sick, suffering. He 
 left her with small children. The only doctor was gone, 
 perhaps for days. Futile no doubt as it was, this man 
 came down here to get help. Whether the need for it 
 may still exist I do not know. Neither does the 
 husband of the woman nor the father of her children." 
 
 Pete followed all in part, the last he fully understood. 
 He bent his tired face, his clumsy shoulders shook. 
 
 "If he returns, your Honor, now, he may get back his
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 205 
 
 job. Should he be kept it will not help a lesson I 
 promise you that Pete has learned already. He may 
 arrive in time to help his wife. He was mistaken, 
 certainly, but at a time of physical discomfort and a 
 little-understood anxiety. I should also like to be his 
 surety that he will not come back. I move he be 
 discharged." 
 
 Pete gazed up at the Magistrate with his awkward, 
 miserable face. The Judge looked back, yawned, blew 
 his nose, and grunted, "Case dismissed! The next!" 
 
 , Johnson sat down beside the late prisoner. He wrote 
 him a note to Larrabie, found him reduced in money 
 and gave him something from a purse so unpretending 
 that he noticed there was not enough for even this 
 week's reckoning with Dave. Pete would have re- 
 fused and his face reddened again, but Johnson rose, 
 told him the way to the doctor's, bade him good luck 
 and walked part way to the door with him. Some 
 people were crowded about the entrance, where the 
 two stopped. 
 
 Pete mumbled out that he would not forget, saw that 
 the money was still in his pocket, seized Andrew's hand, 
 and hurriedly left amid laughter. No one doubted his 
 going home. 
 
 Johnson looked about. He saw several factory hands 
 he knew, probably now on the night shift. There 
 was one whom Johnson recognized as a local organizer, 
 a leader and honest friend of the people. This chap, 
 Hal Jenkins, came up and shook his hand, introduced 
 him to the others and chatted for a moment. There was 
 quite a little crowd, and all congratulated him. 
 
 "Well done, boy," said Jenkins. "You got him off 
 fine, but you won't never get rich off'n fellows like him 
 or us, will ye?" 
 
 Another said, "How'll you spend your fee?" while a
 
 206 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 third added, "Don't mind 'em, son, you ain't no poorer. 
 Like as not you may be better off some day. Plenty 
 as takes poor cases as if they has to. You take 
 a-hold as if you wanted to." 
 
 "Yes," cut in Jenkins, "that's about how things stack 
 up with me, too, Johnson. Wait a bit and you'll land 
 yet. So long, boys, I gotta be goin'." 
 
 "So long, Hal," they called to him, and gradually 
 their crowd passed out. 
 
 They had formed a little ring, and Andrew had had 
 his eye on Jenkins. But now he heard a slight cough 
 to one side. It was Barbara. 
 
 "You!" he started to say, and noticed Karl Vogel. 
 Karl turned a pair of easy-going eyes and a little trig 
 moustache upon him with, "Ah, coming up in the 
 world, old man?" 
 
 He went a little way along, as if to hurry Barbara. 
 She stopped by Johnson for a moment. 
 
 "Andrew, you're going with me tonight, aren't you? 
 You must?" 
 
 And when he had accepted, but not as if he must 
 "Indeed, that was a very splendid thing you did 
 just now. I heard what the man said afterward, too, 
 'Just wait a bit, and you'll land yet.' You will, you 
 will, I know it! 
 
 "That poor man, too. One of Papa's, wasn't he? 
 So awful and discouraged, he made my heart ache. 
 He told me of the Fork, all through." 
 
 "That is the Fork," said Andrew, as they left the 
 Court House. 
 
 XXX 
 
 A BLARE of drum and bell, the swish of skirts, the 
 busy emptiness of talk it is a dance.
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 207 
 
 Hereby be it known to all to whom these greetings 
 may come that Mapleton was in possession of a 
 Country Club. It was really a Club and it was 
 actually in the country. Mapleton a few years since 
 had writ herself down a partial-progressive. The spirit 
 was sweeping on East from the West, and a little live 
 spark had caught. First it had added a factory or two, 
 then raised itself a fresh-air club. 
 
 It was the regular "Saturday night." 
 
 The Club from its piece of hill flashed winking eyes 
 about the country. Its grounds sparkled with the 
 lamps of the nouveau riche in motor, and those less 
 brilliant of the vieux pauvre, in carriage. The Club 
 had a large membership and what goes with it. 
 
 One motor larger than the rest purred up the drive 
 to its crest, and let the occupants descend. They were 
 two, and they were Barbara and Johnson. Together 
 they mounted the steps of the Club, she in the dull 
 expectant glow of many evenings, he walking to his 
 first and in attire far ways from second-nature. She 
 was animated, very, and he looked flushed and happy. 
 The music burst upon them as they topped the steps; 
 he thought that it was good. 
 
 "Excuse me just a moment, will you, dear?" said 
 Barbara, and she was off to where a little company 
 was streaming in and issuing out, wrap-laden or not 
 much clad. He followed the men to a corner and bar- 
 tered his coat and hat for an oblong of numbered brass. 
 He looked at his hair, if you will know, and also 
 straightened his tie. He must not be late, and when he 
 had returned his partner did not come for several 
 minutes. There were people he knew, but few knew 
 him. 
 
 Then she stood by him, young, lovely, rich with life. 
 There was a hand on his arm and a voice at his side,
 
 208 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 and she had come back before he knew. He looked 
 and caught his breath. She was a revelation, according 
 to the fashions. 
 
 When she said, "Do you like it my gown?" he 
 looked at her and saw a glorious neck, white, rounding 
 arms, soft hair like ravelled silk and framed by it a 
 most bewitching face rose-flushed with joy. So he 
 said, "Of course I do, dear child." 
 
 She looked up pleased; she was only a girl. 
 
 " 'Child,' indeed," she answered. "Come," as a waltz 
 was wafted in, "we can't waste any of this." 
 
 So they went in and through it all he wished that his 
 accomplishments were not so usejtd. Her dancing was 
 a song, and his was new. Others came up to break 
 his dances, and there were different girls, so cordial 
 now since he had come with her "their queen" he 
 sentimentalized as now and then he glimpsed her on the 
 floor. He wondered if he liked it all as she spun by 
 in others' arms, held tightly usually. 
 
 Since he was now all right he danced with several 
 girls she introduced, and all frisked well and most 
 of them were interesting, tonight. It was an early taste. 
 After a time he tired. He walked through one of the 
 tall French windows, to a gallery that circled the hall. 
 It presented down below a multitude of dimming lights. 
 It captured the voices of woods and the river, with up 
 above the stars and a thin wedge of moon high-mounted 
 in the heaven. 
 
 He turned, and looked at dancers. What a company, 
 indeed. He, even, saw that. Figures and faces were 
 finely limned by the lights above and behind. The 
 girls, how attractive, as flimsily overpowering as fashion 
 and good mothers might achieve. He saw a woman 
 who did not seem jealous; she was looking at her 
 daughter. A person skipped into view. He was
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 209 
 
 small, his face indulged a light, stiff- waxed moustache, 
 and on his wrist was strapped a little band of gold. 
 It was so delicate and held a pretty watch. He was 
 a splendid dancer, and most popular. "Bah," thought 
 Johnson, " 'not even food for the saw.' " Johnson 
 wished that he were not a man; but only for a moment. 
 He was finding a perspective. He glanced at certain 
 girls again Bernadette Dennis, Hermione Iris Smith, 
 and even Carribel Chubb. Their people had grabbed 
 money within this generation. They had been to school, 
 poor dears, but they had never graduated. They had 
 a kind of wonderful clothes and were comfortably 
 covered with jewels. Their partners were either too 
 young or too old but all had a good time. Andrew 
 judged them by Barbara. The Dennises and Smiths, 
 perhaps, were hardly wealthy enough. He thought of 
 his stiff old-fashioned ideals: of man in the market- 
 place of the world and a woman in his home. Why, 
 that was just where they must never be! He mused 
 of Barbara's ideal man, so often painted for him. He 
 laughed. He used to fancy it was he! 
 
 Andrew had not seen her now for several dances. 
 Under the gallery was a terrace that ran the length 
 of the Club and near the terrace were tables. He had 
 thought he caught her voice in a lull between the 
 dances, so he re-entered the room and went on down 
 to the garden. There seemed to be some drinking 
 here and many had refreshments of their choice. It 
 was dark, but now and then he recognized a face as 
 he made toward the end. Out, safely off from the 
 crowd and the dancers, he stumbled past a table where 
 Mr. Bodeheaver supped with a friend. Mr. Bode- 
 heaver was slightly tippled, but asseverated stoutly 
 that "in the spirit of Nathan Yale, 'I would rather be 
 tight than be President.' A little more bermuth, 
 waiter!"
 
 210 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 He kept along and heard a voice, coarse, loud, pro- 
 ceeding from around a clump of shrubbery. A chap 
 was saying, "And I tell you, too, the man is so far 
 behind the woman of today except for cigars 
 that when he takes her hand she is already tasting 
 their first kiss. 
 
 "But 7 don't care, I'm sure, I don't care at all. 
 Women aren't worrying me. Maybe you lose one now 
 and again. 'Take heart,' say I, 'the Lord will quickly 
 provide.' There's always too many more." 
 
 There followed a muffled "Oh!" another voice. 
 Andrew cleared the hedge. A man, he saw it was 
 Karl Vogel, had wrapped an arm about a girl who sat 
 quite near. On the table were glasses, one empty, one 
 partly filled. Andrew noticed as he came. 
 
 "Come on, take it, take it," Vogel went on, " '11 
 do you good." He shoved the glass at the girl, then 
 ventured further intimacy. 
 
 Johnson did not talk. This was a girl, he was a 
 man and here a chap who was no longer one. He 
 rushed in, caught Vogel by the shoulders and dropped 
 him on the ground. His chair fell. The half-full glass 
 balanced uncertainly, then spilled on the man beneath. 
 Andrew stepped to the girl, who had covered her face 
 with her hands. It happened to be Barbara. 
 
 Vogel was still on the ground. Johnson clenched 
 a fist, but the girl raised her head, saw him, and 
 caught his hand in both of hers. 
 
 "Take me home, Andrew, please take me home. 
 I've had enough." Her voice trembled, and Andrew 
 took her arm. He smelled the faint aroma of the 
 liquor that had been before them. His heart throbbed 
 and his brain worked angrily, but he did not advise. 
 Few young persons care to learn by proxy. He noted 
 with relief that no others were about. Probably,
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 211 
 
 though, it would not have mattered. He ached all 
 over and did not feel like talking. He had little 
 cultivation, so excuse him. 
 
 Barbara felt of her hair, and they went into the 
 Club. The music had stopped. It was twelve. Some 
 yawning men and more polite women were all that 
 was left of the dance. They got into their wraps. The 
 door man called for her motor. It was the same 
 summer loveliness as when they came. 
 
 At the Gates' Andrew spoke awkwardly to thank 
 her for his evening. She waited a moment, looked close 
 in his face. "Good-night," and she was gone. 
 
 He went to his little room on the other side of the 
 street. Dreams, when they came, were made of Bar- 
 bara and Vogel, of Mr. Bodeheaver, and of a dainty 
 watch worn at the wrist. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Now once upon a time in the sweet old fashion of 
 things that weren't or things that ought never to be 
 came a new country. Because that also was new and 
 made pleasant sounds in the ear, they called it 
 "America." From small it grew great; and from new, 
 old, till it seemed its out-croppings and off-shootings 
 would never cease. 
 
 So to keep affairs at anchor and see that all did not 
 shoot up too great or suddenly, the ancestors devised 
 a plan for choking tendencies. They made a Congress. 
 The head of this body they termed a Senate "of 
 venerable, distinguished men." As for the feet, one 
 called them Representatives, the latter meant, oddly 
 enough, to represent a people. It was their very own 
 play-ground of legislative reference. If ever old
 
 212 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 populi's sons grew too excessively playful the Senate 
 was there, like any good Queen, to promptly "off with 
 their heads." And for a while it worked, and many lost 
 their heads. 
 
 In more than one community there was an over-store 
 of politicians. All right, then, send the Boys to Con- 
 gress. I need a better landing back of my summer- 
 house, you have just skads of poor, abandoned land 
 the very thing for cantonments. I shall allow the 
 Government to dredge my little creek, and you of 
 course won't mind one mite in case good Uncle Sam 
 longs for the hummocks of your fields to pitch his 
 soldiers' tents or feed the good thick weeds to army 
 horses. It's a cinch! Off with all coats and vests, 
 and get your favorite son along to Congress. 
 
 We pack 'em off to Washington, and then they do 
 the rest. In time I find a harbor by my home; you see 
 your pasture-field go white with tents a month a 
 summer (and just as fat for cows at other times). If 
 you are good you may with reason count on turnip-seed 
 in packs; if you are very good, perhaps some plum. 
 
 Sometimes a Boy got home. He came cheek-full of 
 tales, with a prolonged cigar or maybe whiskers done 
 in plaits, and usually he'd saved enough to live the 
 ripened measure of his days with reminiscing. It 
 was a fulsome life, and none who'd played the game 
 could see himself why proletariat should not tip hats 
 and cheer. 
 
 Yet gradually came discontent anent the Head and 
 Feet of Congress. Some didn't get all they ought; the 
 back-yard creeks gave out; or squash-seed didn't last. 
 One couldn't do much to the head, though, it being 
 over-high for everyman to reach. They started to 
 stamp at the feet. Youngsters, or dodderers with clay- 
 stems in their mouths, threw seeds in fires and said,
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 213 
 
 "Oh, Hell! Why don't those fools do something for 
 the country? By gosh, let's send a man!" Once in an 
 age they did, but little House of Representatives' face 
 could not be doused all clean at once. 
 
 A new clean race was starting to be born. Real 
 changes nevertheless come slow where all men have 
 their say, and so it was reasonable that even in Septem- 
 ber of the good year nineteen sixteen Holden Gates 
 should be the alleged chosen of Mapleton's electorate 
 for the lower House of Congress. 
 
 The last man had died on the job. It being in- 
 cumbent to pick out a new one they hit upon Gates in 
 informal convention. He had not worked for it, no 
 indeed, Vogel gave them to understand that. In fact, 
 it was required of the latter to sound his partner out, 
 to see if he would even take the nomination. It seems 
 he would, so hastily they offered and slowly and reluc- 
 tantly but very firmly he accepted it. It was 
 the blood offering of the Old Watch to a man they 
 knew would carry on their spirit to the letter, not 
 ruining a home-town or a district for some old country's 
 sake. The delegates had been congratulated heartily 
 by Vogel. All of which the Crier duly chronicled, "a 
 splendid,, unexpected tribute to our able fellow-towns- 
 man." Of course, the bare fact was that Gates himself 
 had labored toward this very thing more weeks than 
 there are months in the year. 
 
 The Congressional district enclosing Mapleton 
 joined up three loosely-settled counties. Hamlin, 
 smallest, was the key. Since the others rarely agreed 
 themselves and always failed to patch a peace, fruits 
 of the fight most often rested with the least of them. 
 So it was this time. Gates' party held the first con- 
 ference, and after customary deadlock he was the out- 
 come. At the last he was preferred unanimously, being
 
 214 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 nominated with loud acclaim and much triumphant 
 burning of the Hon. Holden's own cigars, distributed 
 one to a man. 
 
 Gates was a splendid figure in those days, puff- 
 cheeked, and prosperous and proud. To those of worth 
 he was a fine antithesis of rabblerout and mussy mobs. 
 His hands were clean, his soul was whitewashed. His 
 nomination was accepted comfortably by others like 
 himself; was swallowed patiently by those of the 
 middle-class who long since ceased to ripple in the 
 pond of politics; and kicked up quite a furore in ye 
 populace, so that the last were quite as solid as the 
 first. 
 
 The former uttered, "Well, this only shows that the 
 country will be safe. You take no chances with good 
 men like Holden Gates. You know just what to expect. 
 Now if such-and-such a 'fire-brand' had been 
 chosen . . ."; 
 
 The in-betweens, "As good as the next most like. 
 We needn't expect anything anyway"; 
 
 But the last, "We'll be hanged if we see another one 
 like that go in. Look at Gates! Look at the Fork! 
 Ain't they enough for you?" 
 
 They should really have been ashamed of them- 
 selves. Mr. Bodeheaver said so himself when he had 
 heard them talking on the corner. Nevertheless they 
 did not seem to be, but confidently jangled their dinner- 
 buckets on the streets and talked quite freely as they 
 met. Labor had much on its mind. It looked as if 
 it had the bit well in its teeth at last, and was plunging 
 ahead to what? 
 
 Shortly a second get-together came, the other party. 
 It encouraged slight interest and no concern to that 
 of Gates, for the latter's nomination was election. Al- 
 ready people spoke to Mrs. "Holden" of the perfervid
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 215 
 
 life of the Capital, as fathers retailed to her husband 
 of likely sons they owned, with clerical ability. Gates 
 selected a larger cigar, delivery November first, and 
 they agreed that Barbara should not return to school. 
 Mrs. Gates ordered hats. 
 
 There was opposed to Gates a very different type. 
 He was good, in letters of gold, one W. Makepeace 
 Jenny, a favorite of Mannheim County. As Gates' 
 constituents felt safe in keeping company with poli- 
 ticians, so had these others trusted to a pacifist. It 
 was a new, unnecessary word. Bodeheaver reckoned 
 it came from the West. The candidate cleared up their 
 doubts and brought a long interpretation with him. 
 The dictionary had made of him an "advocate of 
 peace," but no one looked to him to fight for it. Old 
 Gates' adherents laughed. 
 
 There wasn't much variety so far in platforms. 
 Gates embodied the Grand Old Tissues; Makepeace 
 had fetched some others, furbished up to look like new. 
 Well-to-do hugged stomachs ecstatically, men frowned 
 and thinkers shuddered. 
 
 Then at the darkest hour over the skyline of the 
 American politician rose a flare. It shot a spot-light on 
 the face of thread-bare, subsidized issue; it showed 
 the new, not the old; it had life. 
 
 Nobody says who touched this spark to light, but in 
 a second-breath it flashed in speaking characters a 
 quick, tense message: "No man's labor is commodity. 
 It is a free-born part of life, his life." Some closed 
 their eyes from choice and breathed, "Impossible." 
 
 But others sobbed "Thank God!" and looked again. 
 They saw men living, no longer but by bread alone, yet 
 filling out good days more as the Maker might have 
 fashioned. Soul-smashing toil was not the end, nor 
 means, nor only termination of their road, for in-be-
 
 216 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 tween were happiness and homes and little children. 
 Nor did the working day take all, with at its close, 
 "Prepare thou now again! For the morrow is already 
 at hand." 
 
 Here was The Chance. Strong gates of great, dark 
 shops were burst apart and from the dust and foulness 
 there trooped forth a flock of puny figures, drooping 
 as they left the heat or cold, pale as they came to meet 
 their sun. Where, like flowers, they warmed to life. 
 
 The hour of the sunrise was due. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 WITHOUT two things you would not notice Maugan 
 Grubbs: his back wore a hump; his nose set off a mole, 
 large, ugly. Both had been there a long time. His dis- 
 position, which you could not plumb but guessed, was 
 badly warped, yes, cankered. Deformed, he did not 
 relish comeliness. Broken-backed, he got more than 
 attention. He attracted votes, which was well, as that 
 was precisely what they kept him for. He worked 
 on the poor, for the rich. He certainly hated the rich, 
 but the poor had nothing to give. Votes were the wares 
 of his trade. 
 
 He was a strange old fellow, and cutting as a knife. 
 Like all good hunchbacks he owned a single passion. 
 Vogel and Gates knew. Ask, and they would tell you 
 it was Vogel and Gates, oh, yes, and politics. Quiz him, 
 and he would tender you a squint-eyed look that served 
 you well for all your trouble. Also, he would not tell 
 you but would leave you all a-shiver from his queer, 
 quick glance. Though strange and repulsive enough, 
 you say, he often jounced a baby when the father held 
 a vote.
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 217 
 
 This was Grubbs' day, and with the passing of Sep- 
 tember work began. He went at things with relish 
 born of some success and much experience. He circu- 
 lated everywhere among the poor, fomenting grudges 
 here, healing another there; narrating for the next a 
 chance to grab a dollar; reminding chaps of cash long 
 overdue to powers both knew; cheap cigars, ranker 
 arguments, a beer or two, a bit of money slipped to 
 cautious hands by one yet more so. It was old- 
 womanish, but why shelve it while it worked? 
 
 And for a while your voter paid the compliment of 
 showing them this valuation was all right. He lighted 
 their stogies and rode to the polls. Generally he 
 walked back. He always forgot, however, when the 
 carriage came again. 
 
 Two old parties and one old method: same result. 
 Grubbs' mind was keen. With his peculiar cripple- 
 energies and they were not a few he centered on 
 his new campaign. His eye, however, had grown dim. 
 
 Often he worked through the women. There were 
 stories, and men Grubbs avoided, but mothers didn't 
 vote. As Vogel and Gates often said, he got results. 
 "Confound it, that's what you're for!" they used to 
 tell him. "We don't care how you do it. Don't draw 
 us in, that's all." They gave him what he said he 
 needed, didn't ask a very strict account, saw that his 
 work was good and took fair care of him. 
 
 It was a tough triumvirate. Vogel was the people; 
 he always nominated Holden Gates. Mr. Gates repre- 
 sented his firm; and Grubbs delivered the popular 
 vote. To date it had never failed. Gates was promi- 
 nent, Vogel was prosperous, and Grubbs, the uni- 
 versally despised, still worked. 
 
 This year Grubbs set his mind to try a coup. That 
 Jenny fellow, with his peaceful propaganda, was dis-
 
 218 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 turbing votes a bit. Why not ring in the Fork? That 
 was Gates', wasn't it? Gates was dubious. Whatever 
 else, he was a business man and partly knew his Fork. 
 Vogel was enthusiastic. He added his word to Grubbs', 
 and the latter went up there. He was gone a day and 
 a night, came back and said it would "go, big!" They 
 were dead, didn't care how they voted, bring them in. 
 Of course the hunkies mostly were not citizens. But 
 they were certainly good, usable units. Out of hand 
 it was decided. Gates gave them all a half -hour off 
 one day in late September, a round of drinks and they 
 were registered right. The State's Attorney, pressed 
 for his opinion, said certainly he would not mind their 
 being brought to Mapleton the night before, allowed 
 to vote and then sent home. The people's prosecutor 
 was a party man. He was also on Gates' ticket, this 
 time for re-election. Gates sent word to Larrabie, de- 
 clared holiday with pay all of Election Day, and sat 
 back in his office. He had paid them money well-nigh 
 a score of years. He recollected all they owed to him 
 and felt they knew it too. 
 
 About the time that Holden Gates tipped back in 
 his swivel chair, said to Vogel, "Hermann, it's under our 
 hats. We've got 'em cinched," and bit the end off a 
 fresh cigar, a little crowd of blowzy men built up a fat- 
 pine fire in a sooted sheet-iron heater. The Workers 
 of the Woods met here. Those present edged some 
 frayed splint chairs and nail-trimmed boxes a little 
 closer to the stove, bit hard on sour old pipes and 
 got to work. They were not strangers, and they 
 pooled a fund of experience acquired in lives and years 
 of the Fork, also something of brains that both had not 
 entirely dispelled. 
 
 They were ripe for a change. You could visage it in 
 the old Admirable as he fidgeted around ; you could feel
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 219 
 
 it all in Witzke's nervousness; there was more evidence 
 in the clasping and unfolding of Thorn's hands; it was 
 borne in to you by the eager, quizing eyes of Boddfish, 
 as he sat back hard in his wooden chair, examining the 
 others as he drew on his pipe and now and then cursed 
 between teeth when he took the fuming briar from 
 his mouth. Pete of the station buckboard was there 
 and the other Pete, he of the escapades; and two or 
 three more who do not matter, as they were simply 
 audience. They were listening to the Admirable. 
 
 The Admirable looked mad. When he talked you 
 were quite sure he was mad. Refined, his remarks 
 consisted of denunciation. 
 
 "Godalmighty, as if it wan't enough to own this 
 place and run it like a shambles, he takes this running- 
 start for Congress, most like to get a few reforms for 
 them as doesn't need 'em and then he gets us ready 
 to help him out with it. Has anybody voted since 
 Hector was a pup, or half a chance to do it either? Let 
 him as has say so." 
 
 No one spoke. 
 
 "And now, he says to us, 'Here, boys, just take a 
 holiday on me next month. I'll give you all a play- 
 day' 'and you can hand me all your votes.' I s'pose 
 we ought to smile, and say 'Thankee, thankee kindly, 
 sir, of course we'll do as how you want us.' 'Fine,' says 
 I" and the old man's scorn was worth while "We 
 will not! How about it?" 
 
 There was a rumbling of unqualified assent. It was 
 plain they agreed as to mind ; they looked to each other 
 for plans. 
 
 "Don't know, 'm sure, what sort o' platform this 
 here Gates is runnin' on, but to me it doesn't make but 
 mighty little difference. 
 
 "Just what's a platform, anyway, I'm asking
 
 220 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 ye? Don't know? I didn't either, onct, but this 
 here's my idea now. It's somethin' built skimpy to 
 look big; laid wide and thin, spread out, you might say. 
 Sometimes they paint it over thick with promises or 
 whitewash it with lies so you can't see the cracks or 
 holes, and don't dast notice the red-rot that honey- 
 combs it. Such as it is it's builded up of old, cull, loose- 
 knot lumber you know the kind I mean? and 
 painted nice, maybe. The platform's legs are wormy, 
 too, but usually it stands a couple o' months or so, 
 holdin' candidates up so poor ones kin see the show. 
 And afterwards afterwards they kick it clean to little 
 pieces, or else it falls apart itself when the election's 
 over and they've one an' all climbed off. 
 
 "No, sir! Old stuff don't go with me. There ain't 
 much of me left, right now, but what there is is fight! 
 clear to the bone. Answer up! Ain't ye that a- way 
 too?" 
 
 And they all yelled, just as one, "You bet!" 
 
 The old chap's face relaxed. His eyes watered, and 
 a tear or two worked down his gaunt, lined cheeks. 
 
 "Boys, I haven't ever told a soul's long as I've been 
 with you. Maybe I oughn't now, but yet I think I will, 
 tonight. Can't seem to hold it in much longer, 'sides, 
 it might help all around. I've known this Gates a heap 
 sight longer'n worser'n any of you, and if it all hadn't 
 a been he wouldn't be runnin' maybe this fall, and I 
 wouldn't be wiltin' away up here." 
 
 "What do you mean, old boy? Spick plain." It was 
 Witzke, and the others nodded. 
 
 The broken figure for a moment straightened on its 
 box. The watery eyes unclosed a little more, the lids 
 winked back some tears and the lips on the loose, weak 
 mouth were formed an instant in new lines, or perhaps 
 they were very old.
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 221 
 
 "It's soon told. I couldn't make it long, I couldn't" 
 slowly "it always kind of gets me. 
 
 "A good bit back, thirty year come this fall I make 
 it, though it seems most all my life, I had a home in 
 Mapleton. I had a business, too, 'bout like this, and 
 a wife but I can't speak much of her. She was 
 wonderful, best in the world I thought, and I was 
 never good enough by half to even touch her hand. 
 She was young, too, much younger than me, and / was 
 mighty happy in our life. It filled my days and I was 
 satisfied. I thought she was. 
 
 "We, I, had money, friends, everythin' I needed and 
 I thought just what she wanted, too. Gates was a friend 
 of mine. Sometimes when I was tired, for I was happy 
 with our home and didn't care to leave it much, he and 
 his wife took mine, and the three'd go off for a day or 
 an evening. I was glad to have her and I liked Gates. 
 He wasn't rich then, not a bit, as I think back to it 
 now, but he was always busy and I called him a right 
 good sort. 
 
 "But I was too old for that crowd, and I never 
 minded when they all went off and left me. First 
 Elma that was my wife said she wouldn't think 
 of going, and I sort o' had to make her. But after 
 awhile I didn't have to urge so much and they all 
 went out a sight more. I think Mrs. Gates was a good 
 woman though gettin' vain, for she had been a poor 
 girl and was going 'round with a different set. She 
 always seemed fond of my wife, and so one night 
 when Mr. Gates come over and said she wanted to see 
 Elma, I told her "go," of course. 
 
 "And she went. I was reading and after awhile I 
 must have dropped away for a little, for when I woke 
 the room was cold. I shivered I can recollect it all 
 so plainly, it's burnt in heart-deep and got up to
 
 222 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 put another log inside the grate. When I did I looked 
 at the clock. It was 'way past midnight. I waited 
 'round a little longer, for they'd often stayed as late 
 before, but I got sort of uneasy and thought to my- 
 self, 'I'll just run over to Gates', and see what's keepin' 
 her.' 
 
 "It was just across the street, so I slipped on my 
 shoes, put a coat across my shoulders and ran over. 
 The house was dark. That's queer,' I thought, 'where 
 do you s'pose they are?' But I went up the steps and 
 knocked, I rang the bell, too, and after awhile their 
 servant came, looking as if she'd been asleep. 'Where's 
 Mrs. Gates?' I says, 'and Mr. Gates? Where's every- 
 body, anyway, tonight?' 
 
 " 'Mrs. Gates?' she says, 'Mrs. Gates? Why, Mrs. 
 Gates is gone for a week. Mr. Gates hasn't come yet. 
 He ought to be here any minute, and you can wait if 
 you like.' I thought I would. 'Probably though,' I 
 says to myself, 'they've been makin' a call somewhere, 
 playin' a joke on me.' I wanted to see him on a little 
 business anyway, so I just made up my mind to wait. 
 
 "After awhile, hours it seemed, I heard somebody on 
 the stairs. I went out, and just caught sight o' Gates. 
 He was in a dressin' gown and slippers, and had a 
 smoky lamp in one hand. 'What's the trouble, Dick?' 
 he called out sort of shaky. 
 
 "'Trouble! Where is Elma?' 
 
 " 'Elma? I took her home an hour or so ago. Where 
 you been, anyway, Dick? What's up?' 
 
 "That was too much. I jumped toward him and the 
 lamp in his hand almost fell, for my wife ran down the 
 stairs, looked sort of calmly at us both and said, 'Now, 
 Dick, don't make a fuss. Go home. You might as 
 well know, too, that I never really cared for you at all. 
 I'm very grateful because you have been good to me,
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 223 
 
 more like a father' oh! how that hurt, that last 
 'but I have cared much more for Holden, always!' 
 
 "I stumbled at the staircase, and Elma went away. 
 I think I would have killed him, then, but he wasn't so 
 slow to show a gun. 
 
 "The rest of it has eaten up my life, my life-time, 
 but it is quickly told. That night before I left I sold 
 my business and my place in town, and only asked him 
 to be good to her. He said he would. God! I wonder 
 where she's gone? 
 
 "I went away. My heart was broken and I did not 
 care for anything. They gave out both of us had 
 started on a trip, but I was all alone that day and so 
 it has gone on for pretty near to twenty years. The 
 little money that I took from Gates was quickly lost. 
 He promised to send on the rest. I heard from him, 
 once, after that. Said he'd invested it, my money, from 
 my mill. He put it in a bank. He wrote the bank had 
 failed. I didn't know. He never told me of my wife, 
 my Elma. I drifted here. I guess I'd changed, and I 
 got work. Nobody knew. I've seen him up here since 
 and he has scrambled up as far as I've sunk down. 
 I didn't think he even knew me. Perhaps he did, 
 but didn't grudge the bit of bread I earned from him. 
 
 "In those old days I had a wife, I had a home, a 
 business. And I was happy," he rambled on. "Maple- 
 ton knew Richard Crimmins" two of his hearers gave 
 a start "and honored him, for he had money, and 
 a business and he owned a mill, and the woods at . . ." 
 
 "The Fork!" cried Thorn and Boddfish, for they 
 had known the rest, and the old Admirable had just 
 pieced out the tale. But the thread in the loom was 
 almost gone and the old man was drooping now. 
 Friendly arms reached for his shoulders, while great 
 red, honest hands were taking his and drink was forced
 
 224 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 between his lips. He had leaned on liquor for many 
 years, and it slowly braced him now. 
 
 Thorn spoke. "What Rogers, or Crimmins, has 
 told us now can only strengthen our minds and tighten 
 our grip for work put off only too long. I, personally, 
 can think of only one sure way to seek our ends. We 
 can agree with him as to the building of their platform. 
 So we will build our own. We must. 
 
 "Can you think of a man to shape it for us, to keep 
 the same himself when it is done? A man who is one 
 of us, lived what we live, felt what we feel, worked 
 where we work, yet aimed for something higher and is 
 bigger by that much? Yes, I can think of just one 
 such. I know he has the Fork with him. He may not 
 be old in years, but he has got our goods! 
 
 "I would suggest that none of what has gone on 
 here tonight be given out at present but that we, as 
 delegates of the United Workers, fulfill our duty and 
 make our recommendation as requested. 
 
 "And, to my mind, the one best recommendation 
 is a remedy. Let each of us write down the name of 
 some one man that he would like to work for, whom he 
 feels would like to work for him, who is of him, and 
 will always be for him. He will win, I know it!" 
 
 So they did and though chirography was varied, 
 when Witzke and Cosmo counted things over the sum 
 of the writings spelled Johnson. 
 
 The meeting adjourned. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 SINCE the day of their successful founding the 
 United Workers of the Woods and Mill had had some 
 time for organizing. More, they had pioneered well.
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 225 
 
 There was little secrecy at first, and some who helped 
 at preparation had briefly gone forth from the small 
 board shacks. They left the Fork to settle elsewhere, 
 and took their message with them. 
 
 The cry that went out from the wooded highlands 
 grew until it spread far down the valleys and even to 
 the quiet places, one man here and still another there. 
 They saw that it was good, indeed, far stronger than 
 men had ever hoped, and gradually there shaped the 
 slogan: "LABOR FOR LABOR, WORK FOR THE MAN WHO 
 WILL WORK FOR YOU." The day of the harvest was 
 close at hand, and they thought they had found a 
 reaper. 
 
 But when they came to Johnson with this tale, 
 they were very much nearer failing than starting. 
 He was bewildered and surprised, of course, after the 
 usual fashion: he laughed at them and then was sober. 
 He was young and untrained and he felt it more than 
 they, for in the darkened workshop of the world 
 twenty-five shoulders a hod with not more effort than 
 sixty. 
 
 They took no one of his excuses. They snowed him 
 under with urging. And Cosmo Thorn was there, and 
 talked persistently; while Witzke fumed; and Bodd- 
 fish coaxed; and finally to the tune of Hal Jenkins' 
 thundering and earnest pleas, he gave completely in. 
 "Johnson, boy, it must be you!" they said. "You 
 are our one investment." 
 
 And Johnson saw they meant just that, so he finally 
 did as he had wished to all along. His life had been 
 a chance, a wish, why not attempt a crazy shot? 
 
 Both Gates and Vogel ceased from needing Johnson. 
 No more did the latter want them. They had expected 
 a poor lawyer, and had engendered a worse candidate. 
 Gates grunted out "Ungrateful ass," and Vogel just
 
 226 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 said, "Fool!" To them of course it was all a joke, 
 "natura non fecit saltum" as Vogel aptly put it. 
 
 It was sufficiently real to him. His leaving them was 
 simple. He was netting a scratch-living there. 
 In fact, he had so long been a part of Vogel, Gates 
 and Busby that he had felt some time it would not 
 serve much longer. They were working up one way, 
 he had grown out another. It was good time to go. 
 He moved his worldly truck to Dave's. 
 
 One lamented his passing. On his last morning there 
 the dun old harridan who tried half-heartedly to clean 
 the office, without at all succeeding, was still at work 
 when he came to get his things. Probably it was pay- 
 morning, for then she was assiduous in spilling baskets 
 and hiding dirt. The way of her cleansing was one 
 poor subterfuge after another. The gift of the job was 
 Busby's and he had let her shift along. For one thing, 
 she did not touch his stacks and piles and varied, valued 
 muss. Perhaps he owned a fellow-feeling. 
 
 Glimpsing his preparations, she hurried on to John- 
 son's desk to ask him all about it. Yes, he was quitting 
 them. No, he was not going out of Mapleton, but he 
 was leaving here. Yes, no doubt for good, no doubt. 
 The messy old woman strayed about. She came back 
 near his desk. She looked troubled, and her eyes were 
 wet, more watery than usual above the dusty spectacles. 
 
 "Mr. Andrew, 'fore ye go, I will say this: I wish 
 you wasn't. Ye'r the only one as had a word o' kind- 
 ness for a poor old fool like me. Couldn't never stand 
 those two old birds back there" a hand jerked 
 toward the partners' private office "and them two 
 easy-gabbing flyabouts hits me all wrong. As for 
 that spattered ink-well" a dusty finger in the way 
 of Busby "I'd like to see the last o' that old 
 cuss for good."
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 227 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 "My God! I ain't come near to feel as bad since 
 Elder Parsons died. He used to give me apples off 
 his trees, for Tom, the boy I had that weakened in the 
 lungs. Old Elder used to give me apples for him. I 
 got two dollars when I helped to lay him out." 
 
 A pure tear passed along her cheek, and was stopped 
 by a dirty hand. 
 
 William caught up to him when he had got outside. 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Johnson, good-bye and" (the boy 
 whispered it) "I hope you win! Though probably 
 you won't." As for dear old "Busy" Busby, he merely 
 peeked up from behind his stacked-high work en- 
 trenchments, added, "Don't know how any good'll 
 come of it. Fine chance to waste your time," grunted, 
 and was gone. He was busy, he didn't have time to 
 care whether the country went in for paper-backed 
 peace tracts, worked its men on a sixteen-hour scale, or 
 sucked on the eternal lollypop of graft. He was a 
 native-reared American; and germs grew up by night 
 among the foreign-born. 
 
 The campaign progressed on it tri-headed way. The 
 two old parties raised much issue. Judged solely by 
 the third, they had presented on their stage three 
 "isms": pacifism, hyphenism and a bad third, patriot- 
 ism. The latter, though, was largely raised by the 
 very last of the parties. It was not a hydra stirred to 
 life by any of the rest. "Laissez jaire" said they, 
 "because the world is in the boiling pot we do not 
 need to touch the fire. We do not like the fire; ergo, 
 the fire will not touch us." Meanwhile it did. 
 
 Lines, though, were queerly drawn. You could not 
 tell exactly where your fellow stood. You saw the 
 sanguinary blast of War. It was the third year, good 
 people said the last. The national diaphragm had been 
 disturbed, the heart of their country struck faster.
 
 228 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 All the world trembled. It was not by you, or near 
 you, it was of you. The country was divided, and 
 as the country so also Hamlin County. It was only the 
 melee of red blood and white. Men of business 
 thought, but quickly shrugged their shoulders and 
 passed on. Not so the rabble. They gathered together 
 in many places and where their little houses would not 
 hold them all they met in a back room of Dave's, or at 
 the "Farmers' Rest Cafe" across the street. With 
 biting drink and stronger words they struck the light 
 pine tables such conscientious blows as made good beer 
 mugs rattle. It looked as though they had a candi- 
 date. The candidate, astounded, had found himself a 
 party. It was born in mid-summer, might die in No- 
 vember, but all the while it grew. There was even an 
 organization, honest but complete. 
 
 Neither rested much. They took a new breath, spat 
 on their hands, got a fresh hold, and went on. 
 
 There was speaking. Gates, prompted by Vogel 
 and hotly backed by Grubbs and his, forebore to take 
 much part or stock in this. Let others get tired out. 
 The fire was sizzling. You could feel it all around, but 
 the warmth had not yet reached him. He did one night 
 address a small meeting of friends on our new national 
 pride. As no one asked what it was, he managed very 
 well. Had such a one, Vogel would no doubt have 
 filled the breech. Gates was the supposed possessor of 
 much brain. Labor styled him a child of luck, but 
 only the rich man's kind. When people met and Gates 
 was there, Vogel stood by too. 
 
 Johnson did not spare himself, though never sanguine 
 as his backers. They were earnest and even optimistic. 
 Johnson had few illusions, and some hope. He used his 
 right hand lavishly and spoke somewhat from boxes. 
 He did well and had applause. Jenkins was always
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 229 
 
 egging him on, and Johnson was strong in small home- 
 steads. He intended a bigger effort. 
 
 If Gates steeled himself toward the election in terms 
 of ennui, not so his rival on another side. With all the 
 empty eagerness of the high-prided zealot, Mr. Jenny 
 was ever here and there, a-flutter from township to 
 township, spreading the gospel of "peace without mirth; 
 good will to any" "any with votes," old Boddfish 
 said. 
 
 One day at noon good Jenny elected to speak on 
 national offense to they of the Mapleton work-shops. 
 He had been working the other towns. No one here 
 had heard him, and there was a crowd. Mr. Bode- 
 heaver was present, having with much inward shudder- 
 ing he was afraid to show worked through a crowd 
 of sweaty workers just out of dirty shops. But as he 
 said when he got there, "Here was a man as did your 
 heart real good to see." 
 
 No Jenny up to date had been to Congress, and it is 
 difficult to see how this high-infidel of preparation had 
 made successfully such strides of vesture in walking 
 toward those hallowed halls. He was faithful "indeed 
 to the sacred Prince Albert. He had a white necktie 
 clamped under sharp-descending collar-points. He 
 still ran true in chop-like Congress whiskers, full-blown, 
 ultra-ministerial and free, that dropped sufficiently low 
 down to make that necktie a party of the second part. 
 He was as good as a leaf of the Congressional Record. 
 
 He was also just a little late, but there were esti- 
 mable people of the town who met him at the station 
 and rushed him thence with all alacrity. Despite that 
 he came to them blown of wind and red of face. The 
 crowd good-naturedly had let him through. 
 
 "Make way for Makepeace," "Hi, there, Jen, old 
 boy," with other friendly cries announced him.
 
 230 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 The puffing candidate was set upon the box that 
 served as platform. He introduced himself. 
 
 "Good people." Waves of applause. Loud-toned 
 whisper, " 'Good people,' me eye!" 
 
 "Good people, I know you are here, actuated by a 
 common impulse and noble purpose. I feel it in me. 
 That you, busy working people of this day and age, 
 should steal a moment of your single hour at noon 
 to hear the tidings that I bring to you augurs most 
 well for the future of this country. And the future 
 of your country is your future, my friends. Surely 
 not even our friends on the other side would attempt 
 denial of that. It is a law of economics, and a con- 
 comitant of labor." 
 
 Voice from the crowd, "Hey, get busy, or get 
 down ! " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I am coming to that, my friend. Grant 
 me but a moment. Ahem ! As I see so many interested 
 countenances upturned today, toward the platform, I 
 am reminded of a little story I heard the other day, 
 A man was working, ploughing a field not many miles 
 from your beautiful city, and he happened to turn up 
 a stone. It was not a very big stone, but he picked it 
 up, and threw it over the fence into another field that 
 belonged to him. So someone who happened to see him 
 do it spoke to him and said, 'Why, Si, why did you do 
 that? Ain't that your field, too?' So Si said, 'Yes, 
 but I don't plough that till next year.' 
 
 "My friends, it seems to me that this little story 
 illustrates in most graphic form a very great truth." 
 
 "What? Out with it!" 
 
 "Why, that truth is that we may very well put off 
 till another day, or another year, things that vex us 
 today. There are mussy men around us, agitators 
 / call them, who say you are not satisfied: you want
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 231 
 
 a change, that you wish this, and need that. My 
 friends, you have a wonderful opportunity for good 
 and you should be happy to put your trust in hands 
 that will take real care of it, for you. Take no thought 
 for dangers that will never arise they never have. 
 You are alive, or you would not be here today. I hope 
 I have made myself plain." 
 
 A voice, "You bet!" 
 
 "This is a grand, good country. It is at peace, and 
 if we do nothing but hope for peace we shall surely find 
 it. It is a wonderful country. It is one of the largest 
 countries in the world today. It has great oceans on 
 each side of it, and many, many people. Good people, 
 too, the best people of God's earth. I have abiding 
 faith in the common people, and I feel sure they will 
 do nothing to change it in any way. We are well 
 off now. Let well enough alone. Why go out of your 
 way to prepare for anything that has never hurt us? 
 Surely, it never will. I know you are satisfied now, and 
 I am going to keep you just the same. But you must 
 help me.' 
 
 "Sure." A shuffling of feet, and an accompaniment 
 of dinner-pails. 
 
 "'One moment more. The greatest need of the work- 
 ing man today is work, more work. We will give it to 
 him . . ." 
 
 Loud voice, from in front, "It ain't. Less work, 
 less politics, more money. Give those to us, and you've 
 done something. Am I right, boys?" 
 
 "Right as a rivet, Hal!" "Well done, old boy." 
 "Time's up, Jen!' 
 
 Just then, to be sure, the first of the five-minute 
 whistles blew and a hard-used piece of breadcrust 
 went through the air to mat itself in the good left wing 
 of the worthy Makepeace's whiskers.
 
 232 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "Too proud to pipe," one grimy fellow put it as 
 
 they turned their backs on politics and went to work. 
 
 Perceiving a period, Mr. Jenny retired in good order. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 BARBARA looked again. No, not in her many years 
 could she commence to recall the real masses of people 
 that surged uneasily about the stodgy streets of sober 
 Mapleton. All day they had been straggling in, and 
 the night train was due with more. It gave her a 
 strange, uneasy feeling, and since she did not under- 
 stand it she scarcely liked it. It was the night before 
 the eve of the election; of the trying of a people's 
 strength; of what? 
 
 Loud, coarse voices reached in from the street to 
 the little side porch of her home. Though softened a 
 whit by distance, the sounds and dimming echoes were 
 not more pleasant to her ears, and she shuddered 
 slightly at the noisiness of bourgeois fun. It was 
 the beginning of a holiday and the citizens, like sturdy 
 Romans, made merry on the eve of great occurrences. 
 Motives of the day were not the same, a country's 
 fate merely to be wrestled out instead of puny lives. 
 There was singing and showing of teeth, and now and 
 then an officer had recourse to his stick to soften strong 
 beliefs. 
 
 Ah, what has come to Mapleton? No more a haven 
 for the weary, the happy, quiet haunt of tout and idler, 
 time-spendthrift and gossip. Another Eldorado is 
 hastening away. Its lazy air of drowsiness is shrinking 
 fast, not only on tonight. Traditional insouciance is 
 all but gone. A sleeper, stirred at last, has turned up
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 233 
 
 on his back, has stretched, pronounced a couple gapes, 
 and finally made to rise. Where now tonight the silly, 
 talking lot of men on old Dave's steps, their vis-b-vis, 
 that loafing mess of boys which once was draped across 
 the corner opposite? Their microcosm is a vanished 
 joy. Fresh generations cannot heir to creaking chairs 
 and wheezy pipes across the street. Sad. 
 
 Another old, worn callous on the nation has felt the 
 life-pulse of its country. Blood stirs again, and red 
 corpuscles run amuck. 
 
 Changed, indeed, thought Barbara, as Ezra Bode- 
 heaver hastened by, worming through the crowd, elbow- 
 ing sometimes too, forcing a lane for himself and a 
 staff with a banner awave from its top. Other old 
 conservatives were out at sea among the throng and 
 just across the street was Mr. Busby, on the threshold 
 of his office door, his hand on the knob as the poor 
 old chronic wavered betwixt town politics and duty. 
 How blithsome to bide with one were t'other dear 
 charmer away. And this is the night of the torch-light 
 parade. The outcome is all too patent Busby goes in. 
 
 Office lights downstairs flashed on. Barbara saw. 
 How many long weeks were lost since the tiny window 
 above had been warmed by a flame at night. She had 
 seen him very little since the Club. She had known of 
 his selection by the labor force, of course. Her father 
 for a while was very full of it. 
 
 Andrew had never returned. She could see reasons, 
 no lack. Yet when they sometimes met, to speak so 
 briefly, was there some nuance in the way he felt toward 
 her? Doubts wrestled in her own girl-heart, where 
 many things arise that cannot satisfactorily be sent 
 away. But they had been together for so long and now 
 this, this was hard. 
 
 The great house was lonesome, and she. A tear
 
 234 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 crept down her cheek and Barbara was unashamed. 
 She missed him, the light from the poor little window 
 too. Of course she could never have told him that 
 how could she? All women answer no but it was 
 dark enough so that she failed to mind confessing to 
 herself. She would have soundly lectured him. 
 
 If he would only come. She was for him, always. 
 How can men be so blind, unless they wish it? 
 
 It seemed quiet, terribly so. It was not, for beyond 
 the fence the world flowed by, and played, and shouted, 
 and cursed, and sang, and found in tonight enough to 
 enjoy. 
 
 Suddenly there rose a shouting, and promenaders 
 left the sidewalk for the street. Cries of "Yeh! There 
 he goes." "What's the matter with Johnson?" and 
 "Hi, there, Andy! How are you, boy?" broke in upon 
 her silence. 
 
 Impulsively the girl stepped to the rail. A rather 
 senile vehicle was passing up the street, its coming 
 heralded by shouts from all along. It passed below the 
 street lamp on her corner. Yes, in the front of the 
 rickety, lumbering equipage sat Andy, his face confi- 
 dent and pleased as he responded to the crowd. By 
 him, and piling in behind, were Jenkins, "Hub" Sanders 
 too, and some strange, rough-seeming men, with yes, 
 that queer, poor fellow from the Fork. What was it 
 Andrew said they called him? "The Admirable," that 
 was it. He looked even stranger and older tonight, 
 but his face was ashine and he yelled to the horses 
 that dragged them along. 
 
 Even he had caught it, thought the girl. Then, 
 "caught what?" she asked herself and answered, "I'm 
 going to find out!" 
 
 Her mother, undeterred by the election so many 
 persons voted nowadays, to be sure but inwardly
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 235 
 
 exalted by the shadow of the capital, was being fitted 
 for a Bridge. Barbara ran in. "Mamma, Mamma! 
 I'm going down to tell Jerry to get the car and take 
 me downtown." 
 
 "What? what! You'll do no such thing. Tonight 
 of all nights. I never heard of such a thing. (There, 
 there, Marie, no tighter. It's all right, all right, I tell 
 you! ) I wouldn't think of it." 
 
 "Father is down at the office. I'm going to get him 
 and go to the speaking." 
 
 "My dear child, I would much prefer to have you 
 stay at home." 
 
 "But ladies do go, over in England. I know they 
 do. They speak, too. I shouldn't mind the crowd." 
 
 "Well, well, I can't wait to talk with you about it. 
 I'm so tired getting ready for that Bridge. (A little 
 more just here, Marie. But not too much. Be care- 
 ful.} Then I suppose you must. But come home 
 early, and see to it your Father does too." 
 
 "I will, dear Mother. Hope you enjoy the party. 
 Good-night! " 
 
 Old Jerry appeared in a second, broadly speaking, 
 and Barbara was in the car in less. "Down to the 
 Post Office, Jerry." 
 
 "Yes, Miss." 
 
 The car swung out the drive and passed through the 
 gate to the street. Jerry stepped on the siren, but al- 
 most overran a portly gentleman, who curved himself 
 concavely to defeat the impact. 
 
 Once in the street they had to weave their way about 
 as they crawled downtown, grazing on the one side a 
 hay-rack empty of the staple but loaded down with 
 people, and almost touching on the other a carry-all 
 of bouncing girls and rustic swains, all in from up- 
 country for the parade and speechifying. It was an
 
 236 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 animated scene and Barbara missed little as Jerry 
 brought her near the business quarter. 
 
 As there were some swarms of visitors and natives 
 near the Court House, there were black masses here. 
 With difficulty the driver took the girl up Main Street 
 to the Office. By dint of tight driving and long-drawn 
 sounding of his horn Jerry found a space not too re- 
 mote, and left to get the mail. 
 
 Barbara had had to get away, off into the noise and 
 the people, the life that buzzed and pulsed and sounded 
 all about. She was almost as anxious to get herself out, 
 for the uproar was harsh in her ears and there was 
 much that was not pleasant to the sight. Down by 
 the bridge a bulk of people was streaming Dave's way 
 from the station. A gay, bright-colored throng it was 
 and even now, so far away, one ear-marked of the 
 woods. The evening train had got in from the Fork, 
 a shoving pack of real humanity had been disgorged 
 from its caboose and dumped from loaded flat-cars on 
 the town. The town would willingly have turned them 
 back, but chance complaining burghers were not 
 noticed. A huge hand held the woodhicks and it 
 pushed them on, on over the town where tomorrow, 
 probably, they would register their wishes and make 
 their voices heard hi the chorus of the country all 
 about. 
 
 A happy touch of reminiscence caught the girl as 
 men surged past the wooden bridge and neared her. 
 She saw Pete's flannel mackinaw 6r Hans' green hat 
 and white wool socks, Black Charley's small plush 
 cap and Oley's high, black boots with nails upon the 
 soles, with here, far in the van, a great, wide-chested 
 chap whose face was wreathed in crimson whiskers, his 
 bull neck carelessly encased in red bandanna. On they 
 came.
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 237 
 
 Here and there a fat, black bottle left a pocket and 
 found a mouth ; then more mouths. There was shout- 
 ing and whistling and loud guffaws, and the air was 
 sounding with many words it did no good to hear. 
 
 The girl in her car shuddered, and looked inside 
 the Office for her driver. He was half-way to the 
 window in a line which hardly moved. Men still came, 
 men and half-formed youths, with here and there a 
 woman's figure and a waster's face, some garish cloth- 
 ing on a hard-used form, the seeking visage of the 
 street. What part had she, herself, in all of this? 
 What part, indeed? What share had anyone? To 
 whom the credit for the swarm that still advanced' 
 with warming cries and gradually augmented roar? 
 
 Come opposite to Dave's, some broke and ran to 
 gain first place upon the other side. Bright, flaring 
 lights caught Barbara's eyes as she turned to see that 
 way. A sluggish stream went in and out a pair of 
 swinging doors. There were square, small mirrors in 
 them and more than a single plaid-coated chap paused 
 for an instant to size up his liquored, flame-shot face 
 as he passed in to add yet more to the searing fuel of 
 their night. 
 
 As she turned, a figure shot from the door. A strong 
 arm and a leather foot were back of it, and many a 
 hand reached out to shove the reeling form before it 
 reached the ditch, and fell. The young girl looked 
 away. 
 
 Along her side the jacks from the Fork came opposite 
 the car. She saw one fellow speak to a girl and another 
 man reach out to take him by the throat, to choke 
 him just a second before he gave the blow. The face 
 of that girl had flushed, and she tried to get away 
 from all the crowd that blocked her in. Barbara was 
 young but she was brave, impulsive. She leaned from
 
 238 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 her seat as if to get that other girl's attention. The 
 girl did not see, but a hand hairy and black, dirt- 
 caked and bruised by work, came toward her from 
 the mass. A voice cried out, 
 
 "Ah, there, Mary! Mighty gay night for such as 
 you with boobs like us about. Give us a kiss, eh?" 
 
 The girl recoiled as the hand advanced, and it was 
 very near her when a stooping, ugly brute pitched in 
 from out of the ruck of them, twisted the hand so it 
 dropped away, and left a howling, cursing fellow in the 
 mob. The squat one hopped to the edge of the car, 
 then finished by giving a kick in the face that snarled 
 and was spitting back. 
 
 "Oh, Grubbs, don't! Please don't!" cried the girl. 
 
 The Quasimodo got ready for the return attack and 
 the crowd, fast gathering, roared up its benediction. 
 Some of the shouts were of Barbara's beauty and she 
 was faint with their coarseness; others championed 
 the swearing, unfortunate one, who was coming on 
 again. There were a few, fairer, who cried for Grubbs 
 and shouted, 
 
 "That's the stuff, Hunchy! Hand it to him good. 
 Give him hell!" 
 
 Before it arrived Jerry came, and since he was 
 enough of a man to proceed for once without orders 
 they started rapidly. One or two got struck as they 
 went, while Grubbs, still on the running-board, 
 repelled effectually with one free foot a stiff departing 
 rush from the breeder of their trouble. 
 
 Barbara groped for something to say, and when she 
 tried to speak her thanks the stooping figure was no 
 longer there. Jerry turned for orders and gave the 
 mail to Barbara. A copy of the Crier was the price of 
 their rencontre. 
 
 Mr. Gates was fuming by the office "Where had
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 239 
 
 she been; he had been waiting; Vogel was ready; the 
 parade was starting;" much beside. Hermann Vogel 
 came running down the steps and both were in the 
 car in half-a-jiffy. 
 
 Across from Gates' mansion, fronting the Court 
 House square, was a platform. Normally it smacked 
 of dry goods boxes and rough lumber mixed with 
 scantling, but tonight it was covered with red, white and 
 blue, and there were chairs with several ministers. It 
 was irregular, but Mrs. Gates wouldn't know in time to 
 prevent, so Barbara attained the platform with the 
 men. She found a small chair for herself, the lawyers 
 being generally preoccupied, and placed it slightly 
 to the rear. Several others sat just forward, so 
 that she was not left conspicuous, though able to 
 enjoy. 
 
 She heard the complaint of the slide trombone, the 
 whine of some straggling reeds, and the parade was in 
 the offing. It passed the office of Gates & Vogel, and 
 came on fast. It was in two parts: i. The Mapleton 
 Jubilee Band; 2. the Young Men's Gates Club. The 
 Band was "augmented" tonight. There were twenty 
 and they made a good, strong showing. The Club had 
 twice as many. The Reverend Sykes, by Mr. Gates, 
 was fain to rub his hands and say, "A welcome sight. 
 A wholesome spectacle." 
 
 The marchers approached four-abreast. Torches 
 flared with unadulterated kerosene, while rank black 
 smoke and drops of oil assailed the lucky near-by. 
 Half raised one foot, half the other, like marching 
 lodges or school children. Their captain, hoisting up 
 a flag, went on unconscious of them. 
 
 There stood out fore and aft the good, four-sided 
 signs which handed you new lies for old. Phrases 
 jumped out in their clear black paint, whatever
 
 240 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 character the sentiments might lack, and Barbara 
 assimilated several: "THE NEW AMERICANISM," "A 
 FULL STOMACH AND A LOT LEFT," "WE'VE KEPT YOU 
 OUT OF WARS," "RALLY! GOOD PARTY MEN," "VOTE 
 FOR THE PARTY THAT FILLS YOUR POCKETS." As 
 Barbara saw and read the last, a man clear down in 
 the crowd said something shocking to a neighbor. 
 Barbara, of course, did not hear "Oh, hell! Whose 
 pockets?" It was a very good parade, and ordinarily 
 the Crier would have given it three columns, front, in 
 her next regular edition. 
 
 Since all things terminate the band blew past, the 
 Young Men's Club deployed, and "New Americanism" 
 got lost in the crowd. The marchers scattered to good 
 applauding points. 
 
 All was as appointed. A neighboring preacher fur- 
 nished the prelude, since it is policy for politics to be 
 forgiven in advance. 
 
 The Reverend Isaac Sykes, unfearing, was next to 
 forge ahead. His part in rallies was predestined. 
 He presented "Flag of the Free," entirely alone. He 
 did it for all parties, or with less excuse. He took 
 liberties with words, began quite high, discovered it too 
 late, but was a bitter-ender. One forgot the shoulders 
 in one's face, the elbows in one's side, the feet upon 
 one's foot. Some at his invitation participated in the 
 closing chorus. Mr. Sykes, seated and winded, hugged 
 triumph to his reverend chest. 
 
 The Crier had announced that day that Mr. 
 Hermann Vogel would instruct them on "The New 
 Americanism." He coined it himself and "Good strong 
 stuff" it was, as Mr. Gates admitted. It fitted well 
 with the flag-waving and log-rolling. 
 
 Vogel, nicely introduced, began his text. His text 
 was Gates, but that the crowd would never know until
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 241 
 
 the proper time, when waves of great enthusiasm 
 would automatically arise, engulf: the flood of which 
 would cause his subject to himself exude a' few en- 
 tirely impromptu and carefully chalked out remarks; 
 the ebb of which would aid materially in floating votes 
 next day. 
 
 "My friends!" began Mr. Vogel. What he actually 
 said sounded like "Mine Vriens," but we translate for 
 those who take their English straight. 
 
 "My friends, this is a great day. For long I have 
 lived and hoped that I would see a day like this, a 
 day the workingman can cast his vote just right, can 
 cast his vote and feel it is not wasted." 
 
 The crowd seemed friendly, though a lone voice 
 offered, "Whatdye mean, 'wasted?' " As he paused a 
 spatting of hands arose, and it was most remarkable 
 that the applause sprang chiefly from appointed 
 corners, or was nearly always lighted by a "Young 
 Men's" torch. 
 
 The speaker was in an amiable mood. It showed 
 in the arrogant set of his back, and from the spiny 
 up-turn of his thick moustache. 
 
 "Friends, for long you have heard much talk of what 
 the country is, also what it is for. The leaders you 
 have had for several years have looked at it one way, 
 I and very many of you, my friends, another. When 
 they went into office all things were not as they are 
 now. If you then voted for them you could not know, 
 of that I am certain quite, what the future would bring 
 or they would do, those ones who think they must think 
 for you. 
 
 "They like to tell you just what you would have, 
 would need, those men. They say they protect you, 
 that they must 'interpret' this, and that, for you. They 
 say they will protect you. Do they, always? They
 
 242 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 protect you here, perhaps, and they desert you there. 
 I would not criticize. 
 
 "Yet by protection what do they mean? Surely 
 you are always well protected here at home. You have 
 all you could require. No cause to spend good dollars, 
 your dollars! for things you have never needed. You 
 never will. 
 
 "When I came a poor boy, years ago, I looked to 
 your grand Government, your factions, and I said, 
 'Which is the party which takes care of the laboring, 
 the poor, like me?' How I found the answer, and 
 where I found the answer you maybe know. Else I 
 would not be here tonight. So. 
 
 "This party, my party, is not for, what you say, 
 'Pacifism.' Many times, no! But we do not see 
 the urge of losing many dollars that you earn for such 
 things as you will never need. The people I still know, 
 back in my homeland, they love the people of America. 
 They are very fond of them. You We ! need 
 never be afraid of them. They would only wish to see 
 you the fine country you are now, good friend to all!" 
 
 "Yeh! Great! Keep it up," from the crowd. 
 
 "I thank you, my friends. I am an American. That 
 is, I have lived over here. I came a stranger and I 
 have grown to love it, very much. It was good to me, 
 and I shall never go back. (Hand-clapping at desig- 
 nated corners.) It was a fine country then, and it is 
 better now. But we must make it better yet. How 
 to do, then?" 
 
 "Yep! How ye goin' to do it?" 
 
 "We must be fair in everything, above all fair and 
 good to ourselves. We should not let sympathies, 
 emotions, take us far from things that matter, the good 
 material things. We should be practical, we should 
 not try this helping game which we must pay for. We
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 243 
 
 should do as our best citizens wish to do. You know 
 not what to expect from many. You do from us. We 
 would help you. And you must help the men who 
 would assist your brains and muscle with much money." 
 
 "Once I have heard, in this country, everything it 
 was for love of the country. It was only something 
 to work for, maybe something to fight for. I do not 
 understand. My party says, men who are running for 
 the party say: 'Love for the countryman, all people; 
 the 'New Americanism.' 
 
 "It is a great country, it is so great it will take care 
 of itself, almost. It has, for many years. Isn't that 
 quite good enough?" 
 
 "What're you givin' us?" came from the crowd. 
 
 "I give you facts, as an American." 
 
 "Then get a real American! We don't need 
 'hyphens,' " a score of voices bawled. 
 
 "I am telling you that when you will elect a man 
 like the Honorable Gates" at this a chorus of sound 
 cheers or sneers? "we will then all be taken care 
 of, well. You will not have to do more than you are 
 doing now. He does not much believe in the kind of 
 military things some men are talking. I, I have tried 
 them. They are terrible, unspeakable. He will work 
 only for you, will always try to get you work, I promise 
 you." 
 
 "And how about pay? Tell us that Mr. Vogel." 
 The men came crowding forward. The jam was fear- 
 ful ; the voices rumbled and broke like surf on a rocky 
 shore. 
 
 "I have only a little more that I can say. And then 
 Mr. Gates, he will tell you for himself what the people's 
 party, the safe party, can do for you. Wait!" as 
 the noise intensified "Wait, I have a little more." 
 
 "Waits" were as well unuttered. They hemmed
 
 244 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 around the platform. Gates was nervous, but Barbara 
 was lost in the scene's melee. Reverend Sykes shifted 
 seats and added his voice to Mr. Vogel's, "Wait, good 
 people, wait, And quiet!" 
 
 "That's it, go to it, Rev.," they shouted back and 
 from the seas of muttering voices harsh cries, louder 
 than all the rest, were heard. 
 
 "Oh, Andy!" "Where's Andy?" "Get a flesh-and- 
 blood American." "Give us a regular fellow!" "Find 
 the lad who spouts the truth." "Where's our favorite 
 son?" "Enough of this foreign guy." "Way for the 
 Boy Orator o' the Fork ! " A breaking-up appeared far 
 out among the crowd. 
 
 Mr. Schwab, who all the evening had had his nose 
 in a notebook in the corner, at the "press-box," buried 
 his face in his memo and ended with a sob. He was 
 covering the evening for the Crier. He gave up. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 "WHAT do you call an American? What does it 
 mean to you?" 
 
 "Tell me, Mr. Vogel, and you, Holden Gates! You 
 boys, you men down here in front. And you Rev- 
 erend Sykes. I wonder just how you could answer. 
 
 "I take a liberty in asking you. Now I shall take 
 another : I shall answer for you, answer as I think each 
 one of you would wish to have his speech perhaps 
 his own real thoughts handed out now to the man 
 in the crowd." 
 
 Johnson's heart kept ahead of his words, but when 
 the current of his speech was on his sentences came 
 tumbling out unasked. Urged on by Hal, the huge
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 245 
 
 blacksmith his friend, by Boddfish and the Fork, large 
 hands had cut a way and placed him on the platform. 
 He had stood in the pack, with the men; the rest 
 occurred automatically. His time was not self-chosen, 
 but it was here. 
 
 For one instant he lost his wits. Vogel behind was 
 stamping his feet on the floor, Gates muttering to his 
 lieutenants. Sykes cleared his throat successively and 
 rapidly; and out in front, ah, out in front there rose 
 at once a thousand faces. They held him longest, those 
 faces, dirty and bearded and rough, brutishly bloated 
 or horribly sharp, framed by their dun old hats, the 
 brighter tints and wide-made shoulders of the woods 
 uprearing them below. 
 
 He was thinking quickly. After all it lay in how you 
 saw them: Gates looked and was afraid; Vogel, despis- 
 ing them, talked down, attempted flattery and school- 
 boy reasoning. Both failed. The truth. They wanted 
 that! Men gave their lives in searching. It was not 
 much, but there were other things the market of the 
 world must always sell, that something just as good. 
 
 A whisper reached him, "Andrew!" No one else 
 presumably had heard the call. It was little, and 
 enough. 
 
 Browning, fire-scarred timber and brush upreared 
 before his eyes and in it, nestled down, was something 
 squat, and soiled. It clung very close to the heart of 
 the earth and smoke came from its mouth, an endless 
 pall; weird shouts and muttered curses echoed in its 
 ears; the sweat of labor, and of Life and Death, ran 
 down its face; a weakened, grub-like stream possessed 
 its body. And Andy looked, and saw there men and 
 women. God! Was that Life? No, it was the Fork. 
 
 The Truth, did they want? So help him, they should 
 have it.
 
 246 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "Yes, you out there, what do you call a real four- 
 square American? Many of you have had most of 
 your life already. And you, even you who cannot clear 
 your throats and look well back to days of 'sixty-one 
 or 'seventy-one, you have been through one campaign 
 of politics at least when a great deal was talked of all 
 this. You know. If it were given me to pick the chap 
 to tell me what he is! and what his country stands for! 
 I should look straight away to the man who works and 
 the fellow who pays." 
 
 "Yeh, yeh! You're comin' to it, Johnson. Say on, 
 Andy. Give us more." 
 
 The crowd had lost its terrifying faces, was merged 
 for him in one, an upturned countenance that showed 
 harsh work and useless striving, a face long buying its 
 right to know. 
 
 "First, though, I should go to the 'pacifist.' Custom- 
 arily I wouldn't look for him among the ministers. 
 Sometimes you'd find him there, but there are also 
 'fighting parsons,' and it always seemed to me that 
 when the preacher fights an ordinary man had better 
 run. He is as good as two or three, your minister, for 
 usually he knows what he's about, and if he does he's 
 pretty generally backed up by right, which always 
 helps. He isn't half-in-half. 
 
 "No, I shouldn't study ministers for pacifists. I 
 should try among the men who never look ahead and 
 seldom watch behind. Whether that is due to consti- 
 tutional defects, a little practical near-sightedness, I 
 never quite worked out. Maybe you could help me, 
 but we won't spend much of your time or mine, upon 
 his sort. It doesn't justify it. Sometimes, or oftener, 
 they're square about it. That makes it harder. As you 
 know, they disbelieve or claim to in any sort of prepara- 
 tion. Their arguments don't often go with ministers and
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 247 
 
 good insurance people. Why underwrite your life, and 
 soul, and house if you have got 'em now? Good paci- 
 fists are consistent. They never want another district 
 school, or filling up that muddy road of yours in up-to- 
 date macadam. When he is honest and stubborn it 
 takes a powerful physic to clean the vitals of the 
 country of him. But it will be done. 
 
 "There is another, though, a very leech that saps the 
 growing strength and power of all of us from day to 
 day. You found him in the Revolution. He was a Tory. 
 He lived among Americans, and in America. They 
 sometimes clubbed him on the head or used a charge of 
 shot. There is nothing like fight to clear the air and 
 draw men very close; or knock them out when they 
 won't be persuaded. 
 
 "Down through the nation the Tories run. Some- 
 times they are not foes. In 'ninety-eight, 'it is alleged' 
 they fed cheap, poisoned food-stuffs to some volunteers. 
 As in the days of Washington, they merely worked 
 behind. 
 
 "Today he has another name. Kings have denied 
 their contact with him, as kings will always do when 
 their small human tools prove weak and futile. But in 
 this case the Tory up-to-date is strong enough to cause 
 wise men to wince, and stop for thought. Some good 
 Americans endeavored to ignore it, but while they went 
 along it lived and grew. The first pacifist of which we 
 spoke I shall make bold call to call American. He is of 
 us though not with us. He is not wicked; only weak. 
 The latter is most certainly not an American. From 
 any man's land he may hail and to no man's land be- 
 long. Leaving one spot a malcontent, he seeks 
 another. He takes its welcome with contempt; he 
 eats its bread and bites the hand that offers it. Hail to 
 the Hyphen!
 
 248 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "Is there a one of you who does not know of him? 
 No ! there is not, that I would swear. But is there one 
 of you who would confess to being such, could 
 even point one out? No, indeed, for the hyphen 
 works under the ground. Far down in the bowels of 
 our Nation he tunnels and goes, and when great works 
 come crashing down nice people are surprised. For 
 all have been equal, he as brave as the rest. Taking 
 full toll of his equality, he operates until the show- 
 down comes, seeking meantime what living things he 
 may devour. And if America is in ascendancy as 
 may she always be! then too is he American. And 
 no one says him nay. 
 
 "But if another smirches the legends of our ancestors 
 he plays his hand, and you may guarantee that he will 
 have it covered well. Have I made it plain? Do you 
 understand?" 
 
 "Yes! Go on! Go on!" There were earnest 
 shouts from the crowd. "Give us more! Give us 
 more!" 
 
 "No, 'Give us men!'" cried Johnson. "Not many 
 years ago I lost my father. The manner of his going 
 need not concern you, but when the earth was dropped 
 in place above him my mother laid a flag upon the 
 grave. It was not a large flag, and it was not very ex- 
 pensive. It was all she said. 'Remember the flag, 
 Andy,' she said to me. 'The father we know would have 
 wished it so. The great Father who makes all things 
 possible will not let harm touch anyone for loving it.' 
 
 "My father, men, was not born an American. He 
 died one. He used to talk to me when I was a little 
 lad, and he said: 'In some lands, son, it is every man 
 for himself. Over here, before I die, I want to see 
 deep-written on the heart of every man of us, "Where 
 country comes before and man behind ! " ' I should
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 249 
 
 like to think that old man's wish was realized. There 
 have always been divisions. Honest divisions are our 
 life-blood, pure democracy. Some say that the spirit 
 of 'seventy-six is dead, but I prefer to think that it is 
 only resting until the day when it is needed. 
 
 "Men, there never will be such another day as now. 
 Two hundred years ago we had discussions, differences, 
 the fallings-out of pioneers. What have we now? 
 Of men for defense, dozens for hundreds, hundreds 
 for thousands; platitudes for pistols; air for artillery; 
 words for weapons. Sometimes I get discouraged about 
 our country. 
 
 "Groups of poverty, of wealth, of politics. John 
 Smith, one party, says to Bill Jones, same party, 'Here, 
 Bill, this ain't a question of whether it's good for the 
 country, but whether it's our party, and whether it's 
 good for me! Don't you see? It's plain as the nose 
 on a crocodile's face. Be sensible, Bill'.' 
 
 "Well, if that is being 'sensible' I say, 'To hell 
 with being sensible!' Why not be plain American? 
 I am afraid of many things. What I fear most is that 
 our soul, our old-time national conscience, will be 
 weakened, even killed. Such things have happened, 
 and history runs riot with grim ruin. Cast out well- 
 meaning pacifist and vicious hyphen, and get you back 
 to beginnings. 
 
 "What is an American, then? Maybe I cannot tell 
 you, either, but I should like to try. A citizen it 
 seems to me is he who helps to put his country on a 
 level with the kingdoms of the world, and when he's 
 done it helps to keep it there; a man who gives to 
 everyman his due in 'life, and liberty, and the pursuit 
 of happiness.' 'Life' to live in decency and self-respect, 
 normal, right-thinking, clean-breathing; 'Liberty' to 
 hear a private conscience consecrated to a common
 
 250 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 right; 'Liberty' to live cleanly, work humanly, love, 
 marry, bear children and raise them to an even chance; 
 'Pursuit of happiness' in a country and a world, a 
 city and a town, where the refreshing hours of night 
 are not irrevocably lost to one degrading chain of 
 days. 
 
 "A man who would live and let live, grow rich and 
 clean in character by helping others to lay by, building, 
 constructing, improving, creating why, such a man, 
 in my mind's-eye, is an American. This man, if he 
 may live, no longer thinks (and such as that could 
 never have) of building up his pile of wealth by pouring 
 into it the tattered lives and toil-dulled minds of 
 'masses'; of lapping up the freshness and the life of 
 little children; of piling up the stories of his world- 
 built, tower-high structure with the mutilated hands 
 of men who fall; of sapping our vitality by feeding into 
 open maws of factories weak mothers who have babies 
 at their breasts. 
 
 "And yet we have Gateses and Vogels." 
 
 A demonstration budded, but was quenched. 
 
 "Wives and new mothers work to keep the hound of 
 hunger from their door; women try to join purity and 
 poverty, and live; the babies of the poor die just three 
 times as fast as those with golden spoons; school 
 children underfed and undernourished; men, women, 
 children, babies, herd in one room at night, jammed 
 beds, fouled air, morals that shred by the wayside. 
 Great buildings reach the sky. A workman lends a 
 life as cornerstone, for every floor. Factories build 
 wealth; they also mold the weakling child whose 
 growth is stopped, whose mind is checked, whose 
 shoulders are hunched, whose eyes go out before their 
 time. They build, and they consume. ... I learned 
 when I left the Fork. If labor and right can't live
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 251 
 
 on their merits then let them die. We cannot 
 hope unless we fill the belly and feed the mind. It is 
 great, that mind, but it is hungry. 
 
 "It must be, it must always be in a democracy, the 
 unfettered rule of the people: rule of that people by 
 the help of the best men they can get to lead them in the 
 ways they need to go." 
 
 There was real silence. It was the first. 
 
 "There are many who gag at the flea of live growth, 
 but would and do willingly swallow the time-eaten 
 lion of penny-politics and senile partisanship. 'The 
 workingman wants work' indeed, and he must have it 
 too, full-time, backed by a living that is all-American 
 - American clean through ! Don't speak of 'dues' or 
 'obligations.' We speak of rights. 
 
 "Great years ago and they were great, those years 
 some freedmen found the light. They were not 
 born free, but they so became, themselves. And they 
 declared that life without three things 'Liberty, 
 Equality, Fraternity' was not worth having. They 
 fought for it, they killed for it, and they got it! Time 
 has gone by, those men have passed their way, but the 
 Golden Rule of France still spirits the quick and 
 eases the dead. Democracy was born of these. 
 Congress and Congressmen, I say to you, are very 
 little links. 
 
 "There is only one way for Labor it is the road of 
 service. Blessings come slow to great democracies. 
 They are not reaped by chance. They are conceived 
 in noble living, by sturdy, clean-kept minds and will- 
 ing hands. 
 
 "I know what Gates is thinking, Vogel too. Look 
 to yourself. Harmony plus conciliation gives pros- 
 perity. Capital and Labor both have rights. But 
 don't forget the great third party rather first!
 
 252 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 the Country. Serve that country now. As you guide 
 it, so will it guide you. There have been mistakes, 
 great, terrible, in the past. They were the first-fruits 
 of ignorance, the working of a great experiment. A 
 light is just ahead. By it we see the turning of a 
 road. 
 
 "It was Washington himself who said, 'Nothing but 
 harmony, industry, and frugality are necessary to 
 make us a great and happy people.' 
 
 "There is no need to go back so far, either. 
 Perhaps some think that times have changed? 
 Listen then to Theodore Roosevelt, great-heart, patriot, 
 statesman, man: 'If one set of our fellow citizens is 
 degraded, you can be absolutely certain that degrada- 
 tion will spread more or less to all of us. This govern- 
 ment is founded on the theory that "all men up" is a 
 safer motto than "some men down." We must make 
 it good. Let us pay with our bodies for our souls' 
 desire.' 
 
 "Throw out the man who says to you, 'My friend, 
 don't take things hard. Shirk. Be a tool. The dodger 
 in this country gets the best.' Don't you believe it! 
 Nail the lie fast with your fist, with the Heaven-sent 
 doctrine of practical patriotism. Answer him back, 
 'I've done my duty. Have you done yours?' 
 
 "When you have found your big man, keep him. 
 God! it might be great to be a real American today." 
 
 The crowd of men below went wild but it might have 
 been all waste without an opportunist. It ended 
 happily, for Hermann Vogel led them in the "Star 
 Spangled Banner." Mr. Gates and Reverend Sykes 
 sang too. Several on the platform rose. Later the 
 band chimed in, and shortly the meeting broke up. 
 
 No one thought to look for Johnson. 
 
 The men were full of themselves, and others would
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 253 
 
 gladly forget. Johnson himself did not notice, for he 
 had left them long ago and body might well have 
 gone with spirit in the tonic of his one great effort. 
 He jumped from the platform and was making off 
 through the crowd when a hand plucked at his coat, 
 while a voice said, "Andrew, will you walk a little way 
 with me?' 
 
 Barbara had come to him. Just how he could not 
 imagine, though he fancied she must have followed 
 very closely, passing perhaps through the lane he had 
 elbowed for himself and which became the crowd 
 again immediately. 
 
 Not answering, he seized her arm, and so they pushed 
 along until the mass was individuals, the individuals a 
 scattering. They reached the edge of the town, where 
 there was nothing but the evening. He released her 
 arm as she moved slightly, and had probably forgotten 
 that he held it. 
 
 Down beneath, in the factory hollow, a whistle 
 shrilled. It was sharp and short, and it reminded you 
 of smoky places and a summons to get back. The 
 hands had returned to night work. 
 
 The man and the girl were awkward. The initiative 
 was finally hers. 
 
 "Andrew, it was wonderful! Indeed, you took me 
 from myself; it seemed as though I saw again, from a 
 very long while of being blind. How could you know, 
 how did you think like that?' 
 
 "I couldn't, Barbara, at first. And then and then 
 - something spoke in me. It was as though that life, 
 those things that have been seared in me from the be- 
 ginning, called out aloud for utterance and they 
 would not be stilled." His face held tired shadows, but 
 his eyes smiled as they saw the girl. 
 
 "But, ah, tonight I feel as though the great election,
 
 254 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 everything, were mine here, waiting to be taken 
 by my hand." , 
 
 The girl stiffened. "Everything?" 
 
 "Probably not. Why, though, must you ask? Such 
 feelings as these never last, you know; a doubt, a dash 
 of water-puff! and they had gone. Enthusiasm votes 
 they're far apart. 
 
 "But plenty of wakings to that; a man should have 
 his evening-spoils. My hopes go up tonight, up, up! 
 like the smoke of the factories down there " it rose 
 and swirled, but then, despondent, dark, it settled in 
 a sooty pall. 
 
 "Yes," said the girl, "the smoke does ascend, and 
 it is very light and airy. It floats for a little and then 
 it falls, or night winds blow it away like the stuff that 
 our dreams are made of. 
 
 "Success may be to make our dreams come true; but 
 look at it awake! Don't be a jack o' dreams. Re- 
 member my tale of the clambering vine that never 
 quite reached the top, though when it had no opposition 
 it was full of sappy strength. Yes, Andrew, consider 
 the vine." She was laughing now; it was a relief. "Are 
 you looking over the top of the wall?" 
 
 "Oh, I have not done with climbing, and I am full 
 of courage yet. Probably, though, it is vine-like." 
 
 They walked again, and this time toward the town. 
 Smoke choked the hollow, the lights in the mills were 
 faint and blurred. 
 
 "But you, you, Barbara! What must I think? 
 You know, the last few weeks . . ." 
 
 "Have been pleasantly lonely for me, my dear, 
 though probably busy for you." 
 
 "Now surely . . ." 
 
 "Yes, 1 know that much has happened. 'How has it 
 affected me?' Often I've thought: that evening, the
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 255 
 
 days since then, the times I've seen you and received a 
 little nod. I'd be ashamed to say I've missed the 
 little lamp that used to wink at me from above the 
 office when you were deep in reading law but I 
 have!" 
 
 "We've made mistakes, I guess," went on the man 
 dispiritedly, "but the only questionings I've had have 
 been of me, myself. How could you really care for me, 
 what can I offer you?" 
 
 "Now surely I need not tell you again," replied the 
 girl and straightway did a very human thing. Bar- 
 bara Gates, offspring of wealth, fashionable scion of 
 repressive schools, quietly gave and received a kiss. 
 But I do not judge that anyone saw. 
 
 "My dearest!" he whispered, "an election is one 
 trick I do not need, nor even want with you." 
 
 "But I should much prefer you to have both" she 
 was a woman, after all "though you will always be 
 desirable to me. Yet even in my own heart's heart 
 I cannot sometimes understand. It is very plain to me 
 here; but after, when you have gone? I never want 
 you to be too certain, for that is very bad. It is all a 
 great experiment, an older one than I, I think. 
 
 "But what am I saying? 7 can accept you, now, but 
 maybe I am mean enough to hesitate when I must 
 give all of myself." 
 
 "And you were once so sure," he said reproachfully. 
 "I counted on you. I have worked for you. The rest 
 - is nothing. I have been a great fool, I expect. I 
 feel I am back at beginnings." 
 
 They were home. He did not hurry. 
 
 "No, don't, please don't stay! I am so tired. You 
 must remember that these days are coming at me from 
 so many angles. You and father, I fear, are hopeless. 
 I have never dared speak of us."
 
 256 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 "Darling, just wish me luck tomorrow. Then I 
 shall certainly know and believe." The man was 
 speaking. 
 
 "No, I dare not add anything now, I can't." The 
 girl turned to him quickly. "But take that, sir, for 
 your persistence." Her lips touched his cheek. 
 
 A whisper reached him from the door, "Tomorrow 
 night, come. I will try to make you happy. And - 
 good luck!" 
 
 He was alone. 
 
 Returning to a world of men and things, he passed by 
 crowds of patient revellers, glad, spirited, unreckon- 
 ing and careless of the morning's headaches. Few 
 recognized him. He went upstairs to his room, at 
 Dave's. It was dark, quiet and lonesome. He un- 
 dressed without a light. 
 
 Black thoughts came crowding in. Had he made 
 a good speech, or had he been more than an ordinary 
 fool? how would the election go? how could it, but 
 against him? where were his friends on a night-of- 
 nights, or had he any? where were the men he had 
 thought to help, and were they worth it? why must he 
 raise them in spite of themselves? why should he do it 
 at all? yes, why? how much did this girl care? if he won, 
 should he have her too? if he lost ah, if he lost 
 whom should he find to share that? would she be the 
 same in either or, if he won or lost, what right had 
 he to think of happiness like this, who had not even 
 law-books of his own, a poor, hard-toiling family in 
 the hills for liabilities, real assets only in good strength 
 and hope that never yet had sunk so far it could not 
 gather for another spring? What right, indeed? His 
 grip was failing. He muttered a hundred cursing com- 
 plaints, and nearly all of himself. 
 
 He sighed unconsciously, and the heavy mantle of
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 257 
 
 despair fell down a little farther on his shoulders. "The 
 vine that never quite reached to the top" yes, that 
 was it. He was a vine, growing, toiling, clambering, 
 weak, just missing it, perhaps by inches, but clearly 
 missing. 
 
 In the dark he struck out savagely. His fist fell on 
 a little table. It overturned upon the floor. So might 
 he too come clattering down, but by the gods, he would 
 take his fall and no man should be glad in his com- 
 plainings. 
 
 Fumbling about in the little room, he got to the 
 narrow bed. 
 
 "Oh, God," he cried, in all his loneliness and doubt, 
 "help me to be a man for men! " 
 
 Sometime he slept. Gates' image showed above the 
 foot-board of his bed; Grubbs joined it in a moment; 
 both grinned sardonically, and from behind his hump 
 the latter reached a rough pine board that said on it 
 "The Fork." He made to strike, Andrew awoke. 
 
 It was day. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 THE DAY was not old, it was wonderfully new. Re- 
 luctantly the rosy face of the sun just showed an edge 
 across the town. Half-drunkenly itself, as if in shame 
 or sympathy with all the rousing celebrants, it came 
 and peered uncertainly above the scattered roof-tops, 
 a line of rugged sentinels out-flung against the sky. 
 
 But soon it shook itself of lethargy, with a waking 
 smile touched up the summits of the girdling hills, and 
 finished off the autumn-frosted trees with gold. It 
 stalked among the houses of the town and smiled again
 
 258 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 upon the ragged mob of roofs. It even found a bit 
 of beauty high-up among the factory stacks. 
 
 A whistle shrilled from the hills, and Johnson leaped 
 to the floor. Men, more men, were coming from the 
 woods and mills and he must meet them. 
 
 As he walked out on Dave's porch, the first of the 
 tatterdemalion crew were shouting and swearing over 
 the bridge. The shrill ping-ping of the lumberjack 
 boot came up from the sidewalk flags and early-going 
 villagers paused to gape as the ranks of the mill-men 
 and hill-billies swept on from their train and into the 
 town. Bright of clothing and stout of form they 
 looked in the early light, as their shouted words and 
 loud, strong laugh rang robustly out on the cold, damp 
 air of November. 
 
 On toward Dave's they came. 
 
 "Ah, there, Andy!" 
 
 "Bane gude day, by Yiminy." 
 
 "Top o' the mornin' to ye, me boy!" 
 
 "Out airly to catch the vote, eh, lad?" 
 
 Straight for Johnson they came, on past for the bar, 
 and then the opener of eyes their special train had 
 made them miss. Then Ho! for bad liquor. A holiday 
 with pay! Ah, they must take good toll. Johnson 
 almost joined them. He made as if to follow, for now 
 his day was here and he was weak. The unsolved 
 questions of the night before came hammering again, 
 the usquebaugh they poured at Dave's was strong. 
 
 But his time had come and slipped away, for Grubbs 
 slid in another door, cried in his hunchback's shrill, 
 cracked voice, "Good morning, boys, drink up the 
 first's on me! No strings tied to it, either," and each 
 one did so gladly. The devil looked good if he stood 
 for a drink today. The room was full, the stench of 
 drawing pipes and raw, new-opened whiskey came out-
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 259 
 
 side. It was fairly sickening, and Johnson left for 
 breakfast. He would gain a little time. 
 
 "Come in, me boy, come in, and get a bit. 'Twill 
 do you good. You look played out, you do indeed. 
 Just wait till we get a few dishes slicked up, and we'll 
 bring yer meal right in." Dave was professionally hos- 
 pitable, and Andrew dropped down gladly at a place. 
 
 Dave went and came back. 
 
 "I s'pose now, Mr. Johnson, you won't stay with us 
 a great spell longer? Try them potatoes, fresh het 
 up. After that speech last night don't see how this old 
 place can hardly hold ye. Crackee! it was fine. Tell 
 ye, if I could spout like that you bet I wouldn't be 
 holdin' down no thankless sittyation. Here, nail on this 
 ham. Gave it to 'em, didn't ye, yes sirree, Bob ! Ought 
 to put you right at the head of the pile. How about it? 
 Try a little corn bread with N.O. 'lasses. How about 
 it, heh?" 
 
 "Dave, I'm not so sure. I've sent my case to the 
 jury, and now it's up to them." 
 
 He ate a mouthful, and a man burst in the door from 
 the saloon. It was Cosmo Thorn, with Boddfish follow- 
 ing. The two made straight for him. 
 
 "Come, out o' here, Andy! Get out and to work. 
 Just show yourself. Think everything's done? Not by 
 a long shot. Boys all in town and now's our time. Our 
 work's cut out." 
 
 "Yes, come along, Johnson," put in Bill, "today's the 
 day; another like it ain't so near. Grub's all right - 
 any old time but you've had all you need." 
 
 Johnson was ready. No breakfast tempted him. 
 
 Partly to keep them clear of mischief but mainly to 
 lay hold of what all politicians need, more time, Gates 
 and Vogel had got up sports and current refreshment 
 to last well through the morning, "to give the boys a
 
 260 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 day," as Hermann put it. Johnson in the meanwhile 
 held a conference; said no to a proposal to spread some 
 old misdeeds of Gates. They claimed they'd just found 
 out the Admirable's wife lost sight of, starving, in 
 a little hut-like place down by Mill Hollow. A Sunday 
 long ago came back to Johnson, a woman, broken, old, 
 had thanked him for some yarn dropped in her hand. 
 No! Their mission had never been nearer fulfillment, 
 and he would make the try-out with a clean, straight 
 deck. 
 
 His lieutenants took his hand and wished him luck, 
 and all went into the warming day to join the men in 
 some of their carousing and loud, gay let-down from 
 the years of being creatures. 
 
 Gad, it was fine, and "I'll go you a new race, Sandy," 
 or "Try me another tug, Bill," and "Go on, you son of 
 a woodpecker, you! I'll beat you good this time." 
 
 There were strong cigars without a name and red- 
 hot, "burny" liquor that put good spirits in them all - 
 these from the opposition. Yet when there was a point 
 to be adjudged it was, "Well, how about it, Andy?" 
 or "Give us a lift with this, eh, boy?" The heart of 
 the man warmed with his day. 
 
 Toward ten o'clock, when to Johnson indeed it 
 seemed far more like evening, there came toward the 
 rousing group of eager woodsmen a curious, pathetic 
 figure. Silence filled him instead of shouts, his face 
 was gray beside their animal red. 
 
 A few cried, "Hi, old boy, which way're you 
 headin'?" and "What's on today, old man?" 
 
 The man or well-worn "boy" went on as calmly with 
 his mission, which was selling papers, more explicitly 
 the Crier. In a used-up voice he answered back, 
 
 "Here y'are, here y'are, today's news, all of it, right 
 fresh from the press. Five a copy. Five a copy.
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 261 
 
 Here y'are. All 'bout the 'lection. Mr. Gates makes 
 speech." Schwab vouched for Gates. 
 
 A few bought copies. Not many "bothered" about 
 news, and Andrew thought of poor Bill Boddfish's ex- 
 cuse whenever he received a letter he never had his 
 glasses. Regarding him with sadness, Andrew 
 beckoned for the newsboy and his wares. The old chap 
 answered eagerly. Grubbs gave him a teasing slap, and 
 the vagrant turned like a dog. 
 
 He came toward Johnson. A string for tie, gaping 
 collar, coat of one kind, pants of another, of vests 
 none and it was cold. The hands that guarded the 
 Criers were old and broken with work. Yet a mashed 
 black hat was even cocked a little to one side and when 
 he came a trifle nearer Andrew looked again, and saw 
 the Admirable. 
 
 "Why, dear old Admirable, what are you doing here? 
 After that night at the Fork, the others told me of it, 
 recollect? you disappeared. They wondered where you 
 went, and I have tried to find you, till last night, and 
 then . . ." 
 
 "There, there, don't say no more. I went away. I 
 couldn't stay. I never thought to come back here, but 
 today, today . . ." His voice trailed off. "Today, I 
 knew it would happen and I wanted to be in at the 
 end." 
 
 Johnson took a paper from him. 
 
 "I always sort o' hoped I'd see the ending of it all, 
 a happy ending, mebbe, but any sort would be relief I 
 guess. I shan't be here again, but here I am today, 
 a-cryin' papers with a speech about that man, that 
 man of all. 
 
 "I'll have to be gettin' along. Got lots of 'em to sell. 
 No, won't take nothin' from you. Much obliged. 
 Don't bother readin' it. Good luck to you. Wish /
 
 262 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 could bring it to you, boy. Never seemed to hand much 
 happiness to no one, though. But t'won't last long, I 
 guess. Good luck. Good-bye." 
 
 Johnson's eyes filled as the old man took himself 
 away. He glanced at the paper limp in his hand: 
 "VOGEI/S GREAT EFFORT; A. Johnson Also Speaks." 
 Bitterness, unfairness filled him. So that was what 
 the Admirable meant "Don't bother reading it." 
 
 He heard a cry across the square, "Rogers, Rogers! 
 Here, come quick!" They didn't know him! Far off, 
 he saw the old man turn and shuffle toward the Crier 
 office, whence wildly waving arms bade him still faster. 
 
 The figure waved some inky sheets, and Johnson 
 saw the old chap take them. The man that gave them 
 said a few words quickly, disappeared. Crimmins 
 paused before he turned again, and Andrew saw him 
 stooped above the page. Then suddenly he came. 
 
 "Extry!" he called, "Extry! All 'bout the big 
 woods fire. Starts in the timber. Slab Fork goin'. 
 Gates' town right in the flames!" 
 
 Faster, and faster, ran the old man. His shuffle 
 became a trot, one ludicrously queer had any noticed, 
 and then a panting run. Straight for Andrew he came, 
 and when he almost reached his side he shouted out, 
 
 "The fire, the fire! Gates' mill burns up. The 
 Fork is gone!" and fell down in the mess of all his 
 papers. 
 
 Men pushed him roughly to one side and set to 
 grabbing for the little inky sheets. When Thorn and 
 Andrew raised the vendor he was quiet. 
 
 Someone said, "The old man's gone, I guess." 
 
 Thorn looked again. "There's something sort of 
 smiling-like about his face." Perhaps he had seen the 
 end of the race. 
 
 A whistle sounded, fiercely, shrilly.
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 263 
 
 A runner screamed, "Relief train! Startin' for the 
 Fork!" 
 
 At once there was a great, mad rush and on the 
 square where there had been some cheering, laughing 
 men, there was just one, who bore the news, with Thorn 
 and Andrew. Of all the rest a scattered piece of 
 food, an empty or a half-filled bottle that was all. 
 
 Holden Gates' car tore by. And when the others 
 reached the Station they found outside the man who 
 owned their homes, their work, themselves. 
 
 He cried out, "No, by God! Not till you've voted. 
 Back, get back to the polls, every man-jack of you. 
 The Fork can burn. If I win there'll be another. And 
 if you don't go back, no one leaves here, at all." 
 
 The thought of several scores of fire-ringed women, 
 children too, rose up to mock the men, a top-fire burst- 
 ing from the forest, its sparks and flaming bark a-whirl- 
 ing with the wind and settling in the mill dust, to start 
 again in fierce, hot life on top the pine-roofed shacks. 
 A roar as of the fire itself was wrung from the tortured 
 men. and there were some who clambered up the car 
 that tagged a smoking engine. 
 
 But others pushed them off again, and Gates 
 screamed out once more. 
 
 "We're losing time. Get back get back. You do 
 your part and I'll do mine. You know I will!" 
 
 There was no other way. As if by plan gun muzzles 
 bore out here and there aboard the red caboose. Back 
 to the town they tore; the board bridge thundered 
 to their hob-nailed tread. On, into the polls, where 
 ballots already were "fixed," and a dozen blue-coat 
 specials who swore by the law and cursed at the men 
 kept them coming and going through each of the four 
 small booths. Little hurrying did they need, but 
 Grubbs was there to help, Grubbs and his "officers." 
 Few had voted before.
 
 264 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 It went through fiercely, though Andrew then, and 
 Thorn, knew little of it for they had stayed by 
 Crimmins. When Boddfish, Witzke and their allies 
 tried to enter, they were simply shoved aside, the doors 
 kept clear for voters not well known or better liked. 
 Indignant, wild as any, they would despite have fought 
 a way inside but Maugan said, "Repeaters!" His 
 officers did their best. Crazed by it all, men fled again 
 to the station. 
 
 As Thorn and Johnson, forgetting polls and think- 
 ing of their Fork, at last got to the railroad, the logger's 
 smoke was left. The train tore away in a sooty trail, 
 and left them whistled shrieks that sounded bleakly. 
 
 "Too late!" 
 
 Board shanties, what were they? Not homes. 
 Gates' town? A prison place. Election days? Were 
 nothing. They saw up there the slab-walled shacks 
 that held a mother and a brother, for Thorn his wife 
 and children. A sob rose in their throats. 
 
 Together they went toward town. A breath of 
 smoke, pine-laden, pungent, assailed them at the 
 bridge; a wisp of it brushed past their faces, farther on. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 GATES' special never reached the Fork, not quite. 
 
 Perhaps a half-mile from the clapboard depot was 
 the long plank span, on either side of it and all about, 
 the woods. Some time before the news reached Maple- 
 ton, the forest fire had ringed the town itself, had 
 jumped and crawled and swept beyond the Moosehead, 
 down through the brushwood and culls that lined the 
 narrow-gauge toward town.
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 265 
 
 From burning brush to wooden bridge was but a 
 little leap for darting fire-tongues on this cool and very 
 dry fall morning. They caught a hold; they ate and 
 burned a space; and then went out. 
 
 The train shrieked along, a bit slowly up-grade, then 
 gained in speed as it traversed the high plateau which 
 held the Fork. The bridge settled a little in its place, 
 and groaned, as though perhaps its twenty years of 
 uncomplaining toil had left it tired. The bridge itself 
 had never had much care; it too had got merely its 
 living; it was weak. 
 
 Those on the train filled their lungs with acrid smoke 
 as all cried out "The town!" 
 
 It was in sight. Even Holden Gates held his own 
 head higher and stiffened up his body, as if with fresh 
 determination. 
 
 The straining locomotive reached the bridge, then 
 its one car. The engine had almost crossed; a snap- 
 ping; engine, red caboose and bridge are hi the water. 
 There are the cries of men, the hiss of steam, a great 
 explosion. That is all. 
 
 Johnson, left by the train, had tried in agony to 
 reach the Fork; was blocked by walls of fire. At last 
 one man got through. His news returned to Johnson, 
 in the town. 
 
 He pressed a hand against his forehead. His 
 mother had been spared, and brother. But Gates? It 
 could not be! It all seemed so incredible in the warm- 
 ing sunshine of late-afternoon. He thought of Barbara. 
 Now he would go to her. 
 
 Half-dazed, he passed up State Street, turned at the 
 short flag walk, ascended the steps to the house of 
 Gates. Barbara was at the door, with wet eyes and 
 hands that reached to him. They entered her home 
 together.
 
 LAST WORD 
 
 AND it came to pass within weeks that the im- 
 possible was once more done, that Andrew 
 Johnson was the elected of his fellows for that 
 odd job in Washington; and that sometime earlier he 
 was also chosen of the one woman. 
 
 Gates' election had been written down that day, 
 but his name was recorded in the Book somewhere 
 above or beyond before it might have been inscribed in 
 halls of Congress. So it fell out that there came a 
 special poll, when Johnson's opposition was well-buried 
 beneath a heavy snow of honest balloting. This time 
 we like to think the best man won, though Mr. Jenny 
 also ran. 
 
 Johnson, after all, was a queerly quixotic sort. 
 He entered Congress while war began, and left before 
 war was investigated. He refused another term when 
 his own two years of able service there had closed, and 
 why? Because he had real work at home. 
 
 He had his problems, certainly. Soon after the 
 fire, plans had been laid for bringing its survivors down 
 to Mapleton, and closing up for all good time their 
 shambles there. After his marriage Johnson was made 
 free to act for Barbara and Mrs. Gates, the former 
 being enthusiastically pro and the latter only negatively 
 con. There was of course some opposition to anything 
 that might be radical, yet Johnson worked his way. 
 
 Those dwellers who had escaped chiefly by virtue 
 of their quick immersion in the log-pond were 
 
 266
 
 LAST WORD 267 
 
 fetched to town. The timber land was well-nigh cut 
 at any rate, and there was no reason to rebuild. 
 Insurance covered everything but people, and though 
 Gates had had partners, in time quite everyone was 
 satisfied. Strangely, the fact at length came out that 
 this vast blaze was the unaided work of one of the 
 least of them, just "Red-eye Ed." It was the one big 
 thing he ever did. It was also the last spree. 
 
 Business was very good it always is if you take 
 it right and by some careful human engineering 
 these folk of the Fork were recast. The men were 
 given factory jobs that paid a wage their families 
 lived on well. Their wives, allowed a respite from 
 demands of industry, made homes in bona fide houses. 
 The children went to school. Rehoused, reclad and 
 reemployed, reborn and recreated, Andrew's own at 
 last could live. 
 
 Little, cooperative movements were launched as they 
 were able. No one slaved for Johnson; all worked 
 with him. No man was master. He met them not 
 half-way, but all of it. He failed who could; and when 
 he could, failed to starve. Workhouse and poor- 
 house did badly, but the house of man was strong. 
 
 Hearts leaped again, bodies filled out, long-dormant 
 minds awoke. The under dog was fed, and he did not 
 even have to beg. Others of Mapleton were made to 
 follow in the path of Andrew Johnson and his profit- 
 sharing partners. Perhaps, in time, no man could find 
 a twelve-hour job. Spring came again in bursts of song, 
 summer drowsed by on its contented way, and winter 
 raised a frosty claw. But men were men; and life had 
 found again its appetite. 
 
 Yet after all, he had but helped one man to compre- 
 hend another. He carved no model town nor city. He 
 only blazed a way out of fetidness, into light. He
 
 268 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 was young and he made mistakes; but they were not 
 like Gates'. 
 
 So in that time and single place there is worked out a 
 little better average, and one or more have come to see 
 how their brother ninety-and-nine had fared. In all 
 has Johnson enjoyed as it is only fair to add the 
 constant sympathy and actual support of Barbara. 
 Her feeling, we know, has been partly atonement. 
 
 Thus have one man and a woman crossed their 
 morass of humanity. They have tried an experiment 
 and it pays in men and women, children, life, and 
 ^ven dollars. 
 
 Andrew and Barbara have found their road. She 
 grew in strength and love and understanding, and the 
 poor beginnings were washed out by the kindly hand 
 of Him who cannot love the sparrow less because, per- 
 haps, he loves his human children more. Andrew was 
 offered much, has taken little, and is living his life in 
 serving. He remembers that while charity must hold 
 a bitter taste, the free-will offering of the warm heart, 
 the fair mind and friendly hand are not unappreciated 
 by what they reach and touch. Yet even if they were? 
 He has travelled far, and he has felt along drab 
 journeyings the first faint breath of winds to come. 
 
 Mrs. Gates was not long for her children. She 
 died, mayhap of a broken heart. Her world was 
 overturned and she could not embrace the ruin. 
 Though gone she still remains to Mapleton, one notes, 
 in church memorials of pink stained-glass, where 
 faults are ne'er existent and virtues ever fair. And 
 speaking of Emma Gates not to forget old 
 Crimmins and his one-time wife have decent burial, 
 though separate. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson lived along for a time, happily. For 
 the most part she rested. She had George and also
 
 LAST WORD 269 
 
 certain grandchildren. George had a good deal made 
 up to him, and is not disappointing. 
 
 Should you ask for old Vogel you would not find him; 
 he may have gained a shore where there is only one 
 allegiance. Karl has become in course of years the 
 model of a small-place lawyer. He sometimes speaks 
 "for the defense," occasionally wins, retails a little 
 insurance, and was wived with a good, plain woman 
 who was handy with a needle, but authoritative. If 
 not too happily, they at the least live fairly usefully. 
 
 There are not so many more you will remember. 
 Mr. Bodeheaver should have died a-laughing at his 
 own uncommon jokes; and that sterling fellow Busby? 
 One day a greater mass of papers was seen atop his 
 desk, and when they moved the maze, lo! there was 
 Busby, with a bill marked "paid" clenched tightly hi 
 his hand? Indeed, dear public, it was nothing of the 
 kind. The real fact is that one succumbed at length 
 to an extremely commonplace old age, the other just the 
 other day surrendered to an excess of bile from an 
 ingrowing disposition; which was not inapropos, after 
 all. 
 
 Maugan Grubbs swung no elections, any more. He 
 was a fraud and many published it. His attachment 
 to Gates had been devout, unswerving, but yet at 
 length his votes come home to roost, and in a part-en- 
 lightened commonwealth they've found him out. 
 
 Mrs. Schwab and Mrs. Watts outlasted some dozens 
 of teas, till in all good time they saw the day when 
 neither could do aught but converse, and that hollowly. 
 So even they soon went on, though true to life's ideals 
 they talked to the pearly last. The Editor survives 
 his paper. 
 
 Dave too, perhaps preserved in spirit, is outliving 
 his hotel. Their town's new-come progressiveness be-
 
 270 BROKEN SHACKLES 
 
 sought another place, until to all the modernness and 
 prohibitions Dave's trade dissolved away as the dun- 
 gray snows of spring; finally the fated hour when 
 even on dull evenings his rockers caught and held no 
 crowd. Dave retired, on receipts of forty years that 
 had not been so bad. We presume he keeps sweet, 
 and is happy. 
 
 Most of the rest, save only those the Great Elector 
 has removed, are dwelling there today except the 
 Very Reverend Sykes, perchance you should recall 
 him, who lived a minister and died a poor man. He 
 did not, as some have averred, succumb during one of 
 his sermons. It was just a gradual attrition, which 
 occurred at the home of his wife. He perished, where 
 he had prayed a way, in Mapleton; and there were 
 several at his passing. 
 
 As Ezra Bodeheaver said, "he would lie with the 
 Lord forever."
 
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