The Coal War Read Free

got a chance, must tell this gentleman something about the lives of coal miners.
    It was almost the same with Mr. Arthur, Hal went on. Mr. Arthur was a very rich man, and a lot of people thought he must be a selfish man, but it wasn’t really so—it was just that he didn’t know. He was cross with Hal because he wanted Hal to stay at home like other rich men’s sons, and not go off stirring up the working-people and making trouble for the owners of mines. Mr. Arthur was a friend of Mr. Peter Harrigan, who owned the General Fuel Company, and was making fortunes out of the misery of the people in the coal-camps; but Mr. Arthur had no real idea about the way Mr. Harrigan ran his mines—he actually thought that miners were men who wanted to loaf and get drunk, and had to be driven and made to obey their masters. Little Jerry would be helping the union if he would tell this old gentleman a little of the truth. “You know what I mean,” said Hal.
    â€œSure, I know!” replied Little Jerry. And a calm, firm resolution took possession of his bosom. In early life he had meant to be a shot-firer, that had seemed to him the highest destiny of man; but recently a new vista had opened, to be a union organizer, a teacher of working-class solidarity—and here was the first step to that thrilling career!
    There was one thing more, Hal said; Little Jerry must be extra careful not to swear. The people he was to meet were different from mining-camp people in this respect, they had peculiar notions about the most every-day cuss-words. Had Little Jerry ever heard the story of the beautiful young lady who was bewitched, so that every time she opened her mouth there hopped out a toad or a snake? Well, that was the way these people at the party would feel about the simplest “damn”. Little Jerry must be very, very careful.
    â€œYou won’t forget?” said Hal.
    â€œHell, no!” answered Little Jerry.
    So Hal had to explain in detail just what he meant by “cuss-words”. Perhaps the safest way would be for Little Jerry to say his exclamations in Italian; then nobody at the party would understand. Of course, he must shake hands politely with everyone he was introduced to; and when he was given things to eat, he must eat carefully, and not spill things on his fine new suit, nor on his host’s carpets or chairs.
    â€œSure, I know that!” said Little Jerry, reassuringly.
    â€œAnd you’ll remember the old gentleman’s name—Mr. Arthur.”
    â€œSure, I got it. Mr. Otter.”
    And then, Hal’s instructions being completed, the floodgates of Dago questions rolled open! Was it a very big house? As big as the superintendent’s at North Valley? And the pretty Miss Otter lived there? When she and Hal got married, would he live there? And this ottermobile? Did it belong to Hal? How much did it cost? Would it go very fast? Could Hal ride in it all he wanted to? Holy Smoke! (That wasn’t swearing, was it?)

[4]
    The car had passed the limits of the city, and following a great boulevard along the slope of the mountains, came at last to the Arthur home. A blanket of snow lay over the grounds, but one could see that they were vast and amazing. There were whole rows of ottermobiles drawn up along the drive. Did everybody come to this party in an ottermobile? Why did they have so many different kinds?
    The car stopped in front of the door; and there was a man in short pants to open the door for them. Little Jerry had never seen a grown man in short pants before; he would have thought it was a play—only he had never been to a play!
    He got out, holding tightly to Hal’s hand, as they approached a bronze-barred doorway which was like a jail. Little Jerry knew about jails; they had one at North Valley, and Little Jerry had seen his friend, “Joe Smith”, looking out through the bars of it.
    But these impressions came so quickly, that the Dago