From: Arden Town (1913; Unpublished MS)
Author: Scott Nearing
Published:
8/18/1913.A. T.
Friday afternoon, in a tidal wave of summer heat, found Fred Allen clearing up his desk preparatory to spending a long anticipated week at the shore. Since eight o’clock he had worked arduously. At one the office-boy had brought him a bottle of ale from a neighboring saloon. Now, at two, he was clearing the last few bits of paper from an erstwhile littered desk.
He had eaten no lunch. Lunch? He half smiled as his mind ran over its possibilities. Sam was coming in at three. The train left at four. Meanwhile, time pressed. Then, too, he would take supper at the shore with Eleanor, which would go a long way to compensate even the hungriest of men for a missed lunch; and Fred Allen, who ate only two hearty meals a day, was accustomed to skipping lunch when the call of business necessity was insistent.
He picked up a final letter from his desk, turning with it in his hand to a tier of filing cases which filled one side of the room. Rapidly he turned the cards in one drawer after another. Still unsatisfied, he touched a button on the end of his desk, calling a quick-motioned, clear-eyed young woman from an adjoining office.
“Miss Fisher,” the tone was clear and firm, “Was Mr. Jones in to-day?”’
“Yea, sir, he came in while you were busy with Mr. Wallace. I told him th.at you were anxious to see him and asked him to wait, but he said that he must try to see Mr. Jamison again before he left town. He left almost immediately.”
“Hm. It looks from this letter as though we should lose that entire Jamison operation. What did Jones say?”
“He said that he had done everything that he could think of, but he was afraid we had lost out.”
“Well, I will take up the natter myself. Please let me have that Jamison correspondence regarding the East End deal.”
Miss Fisher left the office, returning a moment later with a file of letters, which Fred Allen examined attentively. The survey finished, he shook his head with a movement of vigorous discontent, exclaiming,—
“Confound it, Jamison is sticking on the artistic features of the job. I can’t imagine what has come over him. He paid little enough attention to it before. Well, here goes. A letter, please, to Jamison.” Then he dictated,—
“My dear Mr. Jamison: I regret the evident misunderstanding over the estimate for electric fixtures on your East End operation.
“You state in your letter of the sixth that you do not like the style of our fixtures and describe them as ‘inartistic.’ As you know, art is largely a matter of taste. We aim to make all of our fixtures conform to the current styles, and we believe that we can quote you a better price on a given product than any manufacturer in our territory.
“I trust that we may be able to come to some agreement regarding this matter, and I should esteem it a favor if you would communicate with me again before your final decision is reached.”
Fred Allen paused for an instant, and then, “Suppose you read that letter back to me.”
Again he paused.
“Are there any other letters, Mr. Allen?”
“No, Miss Fisher—let me see.” He was chewing his lip reflectively. “Strange, isn’t it, to hear a man like Jamison talk about ‘artistic.’ I doubt if Jamison knows a work of art from a waste basket. However, tell Jones that he had better call up Jamison on long distance Monday morning. He is in charge of the selling. Of course his judgment must carry. Still, after all of the trouble that we have taken I should certainly hate to lose that job.”
He looked at his watch.
“Hello, two-fifteen, and Sam will be here by three. Please let MacPhail know that I am ready to go through the factory with him at once. That is all.”
Miss Fisher, casting a look of satisfaction at his cleared desk, withdrew; and Fred Allen rose from his chair and stepped to the window, where he stood tapping his fingers on the pane and gazing fixedly over the vista of gray slag roofs and cramped alleys that surrounded him. The weather had been unseasonably hot; but Fred Allen, in his airy office, ministered to by electric fans, and lifted high above the furnace of paved streets, had thought little of it. Now, for the first time that day, the press of business was relaxed, and his eyes wandered over the scene spread out before him.
Fred Allen was perhaps thirty-five, of middle height, well-built, with a resolute mouth and a keen, strong glance. His face was almost handsome. His hair was light and wavy. His clothes, out to the latest style, fitted him elegantly, and he wore a pansy in his button-hole. A typical American business man, he stood there musing before the open window, while the summer sun beat down on the gray slag and the air rose in wavy lines from the narrow streets.
“We must land that job,” he muttered. “It will rather overload us, but a little overwork will not hurt anybody.”
A group of children howling joyously in a neighboring alley brought him back with a sharp jar to the realities of life, so that he muttered testily, “How the devil do people live in such houses.”
He made the remark to himself in a low tone of voice, but it was promptly answered from the doorway—
“They do na live, sir. They marely tumble fra one day into the next.”
“Hello, Sandy,” said Fred, turning around quickly. “I didn’t know you were there. Awful houses, aren’t they? Like a row of pig pens. All the same size and shape. Are we ready?”
“Aye.”
“Come along then.”
They started out together on a tour of the factory. Fred Allen made a practice of inspecting his factory at least twice every week. Sometimes he was accompanied by his superintendent; sometimes he went alone; always he watched with quick intensity the processes of’ manufacture and the disposition of machinery. He was a college-trained man, a good mechanic, and he had worked in nearly every department of the factory while his father was still alive. He understood his business thoroughly, and kept in close touch with all of its departments. The business, which was devoted to the making of all forms of ornamental iron and brass work, had been well-established by his father, who had built around it a good clientele. As Fred Allen saw the problem, it was merely a matter now of turning out the goods at a low figure; yet here was this fellow Jamison overlooking his low prices on the ground that his fixtures were inartistic.
“Sandy,” said Fred Allen, as they walked downstairs, “We must try to get more artistic effect into our product—more of the aesthetic, you know.”
“I dinna ken ‘aesthetic’ vera weal, sir, but I can tell ye when your machine and the donkey behind it has na done the work.”
“You’re a slave driver, Sandy. You’ll have the men calling a strike on me,” said Fred Allen, with a half joking, half serious smile.
“Na, na,” answered Sandy shortly, “I ha no been here thirty years to ha the men doin’ na such thing. They are well satisfied enow. Wages are mostly guid, and they can a’ work up to the better places. You’ll na ha trouble, sir.”
Sandy MacPhail, a canny Scot of the old school, with high standard of honor and a vigorous executive mind, had proved a very successful manager. He was strict and exacting; his Employer’s interests were always first; but everyone who came into contact with him knew where to find his heart, and his rule, though despotic, was, on the whole, eminently fair.
“The inspectors ha been here and certified my fire escape.”
“What fire escape?”
“The wan on the north wall.”
“Was that in bad shape?”
“I ha never thot so, sir, but the inspector came here the other day. I thot mysel’ he was a bit the worse for liquor. Be that like it may, he gave me an order to ha the fire escape rebuilt.”
“Well, why didn’t you speak to me about it?”
“You ha been very busy this week, air, and I did na wesh to trouble ye.”
“Well?”
“Besides, I thot that I might take care o’ the matter mysel’, so put a couple o’ men at the Job and rebuilt it wi’ a few bits of iron and a pail o’ red paint.”
“But we can’t afford to trina with such matters, Sandy,” exclaimed Fred Allan, stopping short in front of a fire door. There are sixty women on that third floor.”
“A weel, the escape it guid enough for the likes of them. It is the inspector we must persuade. Ye need ha na fear, sir, the escape is satisfactory,—and in time o’ fire it wad serve all meesaary purposes.”
They had entered one of the finishing departments and were standing beside some new machines which were running at high speed under the guidance of woman.
“How about the labor?”
“Weal, the work is a’ done by the weman, as ye see. The’re workin’, and for the life o’ me, I don’t see how they might go speedier.”
“Sandy,” said Fred Allen, “the costs in this department have been excessive ever since those machines were installed. How can we cut it down? Could you use less power?”
“I ha tried that, sir, but it pleyed havoc wi’ the output.”
“How much are these women making’?”
“From six to ten dollars, sir. I dinna dare to offer less.”
“There is nothing for them to do except feed the machine and regulate the speed?”
“Na thing, sir.”
“Why couldn’t we replace them with boys or girls?”
“I ha thot o’ that, sir, but I knew your sentiments on the question of kiddie labor.”
“Well, Sandy, try it out on two machines. Keep the women in until they teach the children,—then shift them to some other department, or let them go. I hate to put in more children, bu.t in some way we must cut the costs in this department.”
“I’ll try it as ye say, sir, but I mistrust it ‘ll hardly wark. The pace is too swift for kiddies. Still, we shall see. Ye’ll wish to ha a look at the engine room, sir. I ha an idea or twa that I should like to put to you,” and the two proceeded down the stairs.
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