Success, A Novel

Accessibility was one of Mr. Horace Vanney’s fads.  He aspired to be a publicist, while sharing fallible humanity’s ignorance of just what the vague and imposing term signifies; and, as a publicist, he conceived it in character to be readily available to the public.  Almost anybody could get to see Mr. Vanney in his tasteful and dignified lower Broadway offices, upon almost any reasonable or plausible errand.  Especially was he hospitable to the newspaper world, the agents of publicity; and, such is the ingratitude of the fallen soul of man, every newspaper office in the city fully comprehended his attitude, made use of him as convenient, and professionally regarded him as a bit of a joke, albeit a useful and amiable joke.  Of this he had no inkling.  Enough for him that he was frequently, even habitually quoted, upon a wide range of windy topics, often with his picture appended.

With far less difficulty than he had found in winning the notice of Mr. Gordon, Banneker attained the sanctum of the capitalist.

“Well, well!” was the important man’s greeting as he shook hands.  “Our young friend from the desert!  How do we find New York?”

From Banneker’s reply, there grew out a pleasantly purposeless conversation, which afforded the newcomer opportunity to decide that he did not like this Mr. Vanney, sleek, smiling, gentle, and courteous, as well as he had the brusque old tyrant of the wreck.  That green-whiskered autocrat had been at least natural, direct, and unselfish in his grim emergency work.  This manifestation seemed wary, cautious, on its guard to defend itself against some probable tax upon its good nature.  All this unconscious, instinctive reckoning of the other man’s characteristics gave to the young fellow an effect of poise, of judicious balance and quiet confidence.  It was one of Banneker’s elements of strength, which subsequently won for him his unique place, that he was always too much interested in estimating the man to whom he was talking, to consider even what the other might think of him.  It was at once a form of egoism, and the total negation of egotism.  It made him the least self-conscious of human beings.  And old Horace Vanney, pompous, vain, the most self-conscious of his genus, felt, though he could not analyze, the charm of it.

A chance word indicated that Banneker was already “placed.”  At once, though almost insensibly, the attitude of Mr. Vanney eased; obviously there was no fear of his being “boned” for a job.  At the same time he experienced a mild misgiving lest he might be forfeiting the services of one who could be really useful to him.  Banneker’s energy and decisiveness at the wreck had made a definite impression upon him.  But there was the matter of the rejected hundred-dollar tip.  Unpliant, evidently, this young fellow.  Probably it was just as well that he should be broken in to life and new standards elsewhere than in the Vanney interests.  Later, if he developed, watchfulness might show it to be worth while to….

“What is it that you have in mind, my boy?” inquired the benign Mr. Vanney.

“I start in on The Ledger next month.”

“The Ledger!  Indeed!  I did not know that you had any journalistic experience.”

“I haven’t.”

“Well.  Er—­hum!  Journalism, eh?  A—­er—­brilliant profession!”

“You think well of it?”

“I have many friends among the journalists.  Fine fellows!  Very fine fellows.”

The instinctive tone of patronage was not lost upon Banneker.  He felt annoyed at Mr. Vanney.  Unreasonably annoyed.  “What’s the matter with journalism?” he asked bluntly.

“The matter?” Mr. Vanney was blandly surprised.  “Haven’t I just said—­”

“Yes; you have.  Would you let your son go into a newspaper office?”

“My son?  My son chose the profession of law.”

“But if he had wanted to be a journalist?”

“Journalism does not perhaps offer the same opportunities for personal advancement as some other lines,” said the financier cautiously.

“Why shouldn’t it?”

“It is largely anonymous.”  Mr. Vanney gave the impression of feeling carefully for his words.  “One may go far in journalism and yet be comparatively unknown to the public.  Still, he might be of great usefulness,” added the sage, brightening, “very great usefulness.  A sound, conservative, self-respecting newspaper such as The Ledger, is a public benefactor.”

“And the editor of it?”

“That’s right, my boy,” approved the other.  “Aim high!  Aim high!  The great prizes in journalism are few.  They are, in any line of endeavor.  And the apprenticeship is hard.”

Herbert Cressey’s clumsy but involuntary protest reasserted itself in Banneker’s mind.  “I wish you would tell me frankly, Mr. Vanney, whether reporting is considered undignified and that sort of thing?”

“Reporters can be a nuisance,” replied Mr. Vanney fervently.  “But they can also be very useful.”

“But on the whole—­”

“On the whole it is a necessary apprenticeship.  Very suitable for a young man.  Not a final career, in my judgment.”

“A reporter on The Ledger, then, is nothing but a reporter on The Ledger.”

“Isn’t that enough, for a start?” smiled the other.  “The station-agent at—­what was the name of your station?  Yes, Manzanita.  The station-agent at Manzanita—­”

“Was E. Banneker,” interposed the owner of that name positively.  “A small puddle, but the inhabitant was an individual toad, at least.  To keep one’s individuality in New York isn’t so easy, of course.”

“There are quite a number of people in New York,” pointed out the philosopher, Vanney.  “Mostly crowd.”

“Yes,” said Banneker.  “You’ve told me something about the newspaper business that I wanted to know.”  He rose.

The other put out an arresting hand.  “Wouldn’t you like to do a little reporting for me, before you take up your regular work?”

“What kind of reporting?”

“Quite simple.  A manufacturing concern in which I own a considerable interest has a strike on its hands.  Suppose you go down to Sippiac, New Jersey, where our factories are, spend three or four days, and report back to me your impressions and any ideas you may gather as to improving our organization for furthering our interests.”

“What makes you think that I could be useful in that line?” asked Banneker curiously.

“My observations at the Manzanita wreck.  You have, I believe, a knack for handling a situation.”

“I can always try,” accepted Banneker.

Supplied with letters to the officials of the International Cloth Company, and a liberal sum for expenses, the neophyte went to Sippiac.  There he visited the strongly guarded mills, still making a feeble pretense of operating, talked with the harassed officials, the gang-boss of the strike-breakers, the “private guards,” who had, in fact, practically assumed dominant police authority in the place; all of which was faithful to the programme arranged by Mr. Vanney.  Having done so much, he undertook to obtain a view of the strike from the other side; visited the wretched tenements of the laborers, sought out the sullen and distrustful strike-leaders, heard much fiery oratory and some veiled threats from impassioned agitators, mostly foreign and all tragically earnest; chatted with corner grocerymen, saloon-keepers, ward politicians, composing his mental picture of a strike in a minor city, absolutely controlled, industrially, politically, and socially by the industry which had made it.  The town, as he came to conceive it, was a fevered and struggling gnome, bound to a wheel which ground for others; a gnome who, if he broke his bonds, would be perhaps only the worse for his freedom.  At the beginning of the sixth day, for his stay had outgrown its original plan, the pocket-ledger, 3 T 9901, was but little the richer, but the mind of its owner teemed with impressions.

It was his purpose to take those impressions in person to Mr. Horace Vanney, by the 10 A.M. train.  Arriving at the station early, he was surprised at being held up momentarily by a line of guards engaged in blocking off a mob of wailing, jabbering women, many of whom had children in their arms, or at their skirts.  He asked the ticket-agent, a big, pasty young man about them.

“Mill workers,” said the agent, making change.

“What are they after?”

“Wanta get to the 10.10 train.”

“And the guards are stopping them?”

“You can use your eyes, cantcha?”

Using his eyes, Banneker considered the position.  “Are those fellows on railroad property?”

“What is it to you whether they are or ain’t?”

Banneker explained his former occupation.  “That’s different,” said the agent.  “Come inside.  That’s a hell of a mess, ain’t it!” he added plaintively as Banneker complied.  “Some of those poor Hunkies have got their tickets and can’t use ’em.”

“I’d see that they got their train, if this was my station,” asserted Banneker.

“Yes, you would!  With that gang of strong-arms against you.”

“Chase ’em,” advised Banneker simply.  “They’ve got no right keeping your passengers off your trains.”

“Chase ’em, ay?  You’d do it, I suppose.”

“I would.”

“How?”

“You’ve got a gun, haven’t you?”

“Maybe you think those guys haven’t got guns, too.”

“Well, all I can say is, that if there had been passengers held up from their trains at my station and I didn’t get them through, I’d have been through so far as the Atkinson and St. Philip goes.”

“This railroad’s different.  I’d be through if I butted in on this mill row.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, for one thing, old Vanney, who’s the real boss here, is a director of the road.”

“So that’s it!” Banneker digested this information.  “Why are the women so anxious to get away?”

“They say”—­the local agent lowered his voice—­“their children are starving here, and they can get better jobs in other places.  Naturally the mills don’t want to lose a lot of their hands, particularly the women, because they’re the cheapest.  I don’t know as I blame ’em for that.  But this business of hiring a bunch of ex-cons and—­Hey!  Where are you goin’?”

Banneker was beyond the door before the query was completed.  Looking out of the window, the agent saw a fat and fussy young mother, who had contrived to get through the line, waddling at her best speed across the open toward the station, and dragging a small boy by the hand.  A lank giant from the guards’ ranks was after her.  Screaming, she turned the corner out of his vision.  There were sounds which suggested a row at the station-door, but the agent, called at that moment to the wire, could not investigate.  The train came and went, and he saw nothing more of the ex-railroader from the West.

Although Mr. Horace Vanney smiled pleasantly enough when Banneker presented himself at the office to make his report, the nature of the smile suggested a background more uncertain.

“Well, what have you found, my boy?” the financier began.

“A good many things that ought to be changed,” answered Banneker bluntly.

“Quite probably.  No institution is perfect.”

“The mills are pretty rotten.  You pay your people too little—­”

“Where do you get that idea?”

“From the way they live.”

“My dear boy; if we paid them twice as much, they’d live the same way. 
The surplus would go to the saloons.”

“Then why not wipe out the saloons?”

“I am not the Common Council of Sippiac,” returned Mr. Vanney dryly.

“Aren’t you?” retorted Banneker even more dryly.

The other frowned.  “What else?”

“Well; the housing.  You own a good many of the tenements, don’t you?”

“The company owns some.”

“They’re filthy holes.”

“They are what the tenants make them.”

“The tenants didn’t build them with lightless hallways, did they?”

“They needn’t live there if they don’t like them.  Have you spent all your time, for which I am paying, nosing about like a cheap magazine muckraker?” It was clear that Mr. Vanney was annoyed.

“I’ve been trying to find out what is wrong with Sippiac.  I thought you wanted facts.”

“Precisely.  Facts.  Not sentimental gushings.”

“Well, there are your guards.  There isn’t much sentiment about them.  I saw one of them smash a woman in the face, and knock her down, while she was trying to catch a train and get out of town.”

“And what did you do?”

“I don’t know exactly how much.  But I hope enough to land him in the hospital.  They pulled me off too soon.”

“Do you know that you would have been killed if it hadn’t been for some of the factory staff who saved you from the other guards—­as you deserved, for your foolhardiness?”

The young man’s eyebrows went up a bit.  “Don’t bank too much on my foolhardiness.  I had a wall back of me.  And there would have been material for several funerals before they got me.”  He touched his hip-pocket.  “By the way, you seem to be well informed.”

“I’ve been in ’phone communication with Sippiac since the regrettable occurrence.  It perhaps didn’t occur to you to find out that the woman, who is now under arrest, bit the guard very severely.”

“Of course!  Just like the rabbit bit the bulldog.  You’ve got a lot of thugs and strong-arm men doing your dirty work, that ought to be in jail.  If the newspapers here ever get onto the situation, it would make pretty rough reading for you, Mr. Vanney.”

The magnate looked at him with contemptuous amusement.  “No newspaper of decent standing prints that kind of socialistic stuff, my young friend.”

“Why not?”

“Why not!  Because of my position.  Because the International Cloth Company is a powerful institution of the most reputable standing, with many lines of influence.”

“And that is enough to keep the newspapers from printing an article about conditions in Sippiac?” asked Banneker, deeply interested in this phase of the question.  “Is that the fact?”

It was not the fact; The Sphere, for one, would have handled the strike on the basis of news interest, as Mr. Vanney well knew; wherefore he hated and pretended to despise The Sphere.  But for his own purposes he answered: 

“Not a paper in New York would touch it.  Except,” he added negligently, “perhaps some lying, Socialist sheet.  And let me warn you, Mr. Banneker,” he pursued in his suavest tone, “that you will find no place for your peculiar ideas on The Ledger.  In fact, I doubt whether you will be doing well either by them or by yourself in going on their staff, holding such views as you do.”

“Do you?  Then I’ll tell them beforehand.”

Mr. Vanney privately reflected that there was no need of this:  he intended to call up the editor-in-chief and suggest the unsuitability of the candidate for a place, however humble, on the staff of a highly respectable and suitably respectful daily.

Which he did.  The message was passed on to Mr. Gordon, and, in his large and tolerant soul, decently interred.  One thing of which the managing editor of The Ledger was not tolerant was interference from without in his department.

Before allowing his man to leave, Mr. Vanney read him a long and well-meant homily, full of warning and wisdom, and was both annoyed and disheartened when, at the end of it, Banneker remarked: 

“I’ll dare you to take a car and spend twenty-four hours going about Sippiac with me.  If you stand for your system after that, I’ll pay for the car.”

To which the other replied sadly that Banneker had in some manner acquired a false and distorted view of industrial relations.

Therein, for once in an existence guided almost exclusively by prejudice, Horace Vanney was right.  At the outset of a new career to which he was attuning his mind, Banneker had been injected into a situation typical of all that is worst in American industrial life, a local manufacturing enterprise grown rich upon the labor of underpaid foreigners, through the practice of all the vicious, lawless, and insidious methods of an ingrown autocracy, and had believed it to be fairly representative.  Had not Horace Vanney, doubtless genuine in his belief, told him as much?

“We’re as fair and careful with our employees as any of our competitors.”

As a matter of fact there were, even then, scores of manufacturing plants within easy distance of New York, representing broad and generous policies and conducted on a progressive and humanistic labor system.  Had Banneker had his first insight into local industrial conditions through one of these, he might readily have been prejudiced in favor of capital.  As it was, swallowing Vanney’s statement as true, he mistook an evil example as a fair indication of the general status.  Then and there he became a zealous protagonist of labor.

It had been Mr. Horace Vanney’s shrewd design to show a budding journalist of promise on which side his self-interest lay.  The weak spot in the plan was that Banneker did not seem to care!