The Coal War by Upton Sinclair Page B

meeting secretly in the canyons. There had been a walk-out at San Rafael last week, and one was expected any time at Greenough. So many men were being turned off that a big strike had become a matter of life and death to the union. If Hal had any idea of helping, he had better be starting.
    Jerry stated the facts without comment; but Hal could read between the lines and realize what tension must be in the coal-towns. And the day after the receipt of the letters came a cablegram from Billy Keating, telling that Pete Hanun had shot and killed Tom Olson. Hal decided that the time for holidays was past. He took the letters and cablegram to Jessie and her mother, and informed them that he would have to leave for home.
    There was a terrible scene, of course. Jessie wept hysterically, and Mrs. Arthur was indignant. It startled Hal to see this placid lady, whom he thought of as amiability incarnate, suddenly transformed under provocation. It was not merely a personal discourtesy, because Hal was an escort, and their trip would be spoiled if he deserted them; it was an offense to Mrs. Arthur’s class prejudices—for Hal was going to mix himself up in a strike, and it was stupid folly, because he could not do the least good to poor ignorant people who were being deluded by selfish agitators.
    Before the discussion came to an end, Hal had been made to understand that in taking his departure in this way he might be giving up all hope of becoming a member of the Arthur family. And then Jessie flung herself into his arms, weeping like one possessed. “You are killing me for your old miners!” she cried; and when he tried to argue with her, she started back from him, her eyes flashing, her hands clenched. “Oh, how I hate your miners! How I hate them!”
    Mrs. Arthur sent a cablegram at once, and next morning there was a message for Hal from his father, imploring him not to take this mad step. Hal saw the hand of his brother in this, and appreciated the tact which had led Edward to dictate a plea instead of a command. But he cabled back that he had already engaged passage.
    Hal was humble and apologetic, and Jessie was haughty—that is, until the day before he sailed, when she broke down, imploring him almost on her knees to abandon his project. She was pleading not only for their love, but for his life. She had been impressed to this extent by the awful tales he told of the coal-camps—that she wanted her lover to keep out of them. Rough and untutored men might face such dangers, that was their part in life; but she and Hal belonged to a world in which such things had no place. What madness to throw away one’s birthright of safety and ease!
    All the way home, on the steamer and the train, Hal carried these images of Jessie with him; the feeling of her tears upon his hands, the sound of her sobbing in his ears. This was love, no doubt; but it seemed to him a cruel thing, not the brave thing he had dreamed. Much as it hurt him, he had to turn his back upon that love.
    In the ten days’ journey he had plenty of time to think about the course he was taking, to examine stone by stone the foundations of his beliefs. He was at the parting of the roads, he could see; casting away the life to which he had been born, his family, his friends, his whole “world” of privilege. To live in a beautiful house and eat at a well-appointed table; to wear elegant clothing and carry a full purse; to have a host of cheerful friends and be popular with them; to marry a charming girl and raise a loving family—these things were not to be lightly discarded by any man. But there was a price a man had to pay for them, the price of his conscience. He must know that these pleasant things came to him through the enslavement and degradation of thousands and tens of thousands of other people. He must know that the food he ate was the flesh of other people, the wine he drank was other people’s blood!
    There was no