Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 284, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 December 1915 — WHO PAYS? TODAY and TOMORROW? [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WHO PAYS? TODAY and TOMORROW?

by EDWIN BLISS

(Copyright, UU. by Path* BSxchaass, Inc. All Moving Picture Rights and all Foreign Copyright* Strictly Reserved.)

EIGHTH STORY N I. **T-R-U-B-B-E-L, trouble, Mr. Payne/' Plat Qrady solemnly spelled his prediction. “I kin smell it in the air plain aa I smelt the rotten food in the mess shack that’s causing it all. And I’m telling you now that there’s no saying where it’ll lead any more than I can tall where it’ll end. Trouble and bad grub—they been twins from the beginning of time.” Lee Payne tapped the table thoughtfully with his pencil. A young man, he was not inclined to take the matter so seriously as the old foreman of Ira Monroe's oil fields; still there was no dodging the fact that the men were lately become sullen and apathetic in their work, and a few of them openly Insolent. “And you think the food at the bottom of the men’s actions?’’ “Their stomachs iB at the bottom of it —stomachs and lack of food,’’ Pat corrected. “But it can easily be Remedied.” “Then why ain’t it?” Grady did not wriit for an answer, but pointed out of the window silently, toward a group of laborers loafing boldly beside the nearest big tank. In the center of the group a broad-shouldered, swarthy, beetle-browed fellow was frantically gesticulating to emphasize his remarks, remarks which the two men in the office could not hear but which caused their brows to furrow anxiously. “Brown Joe’s at it agin,” muttered the foreman, as though to himself, “and he’s got the right of it this time. I tell you, Mr. Payne, I’d rather have a rattler sleeping with me than a mouthy workman. Get rid of that fellow and do it quick. Look at him.” Payne slowly nodded and turned back to his desk.

He glanced at his watch and felt a little tremor of anticipatory fear as he noted the noon hour was upon him. There had been open mutterings this morning. If the food had not improved for dinner, what would those mutterings become? For a half day’s labor in the oil wells is not conducive to making one’s appetite dainty or birdlike. The situation must be improved and that immediately. If only he could gain a little time. As the whistle summoned the men from their work he waited for them in the shack, watching them being seated at the long table, noting the furrowed brows, the somber eyes, the significance of their steady scrutiny of Brown Joe, seated next himself. That there was something afoot he could not doubt.

The cook entered, heavily ladeD with a couple of steaming platters. There was something savory looking about that steam, but the look was dispelled almost instantly by the rancid odor that percolated through it. As the cook placed a steaming plate before Brown Joe, the young superintendent strained forward, every muscle 'flexed to anticipate the trouble he knew instinctively had reached a crisis. But even as his fists balled, even as a hoarse cry of rage broke from Pat Grady’s throat, the swarthy, evil-eyed fellow looked at the unsavory mess before him, lifted the plate as though to sniff its contents, then hurled,lt squarely in the cook’s face. As the fellow staggered back, digging wildly at eyes and ears and nose to wipe the stuff away, Brown Joe lunged forward. But not so quickly that he escaped the heavy right-hand swing of the foreman. Grady, quick to take advantage of the man’s stagger back was instantly upon him. For a second Payne felt himself glued to the spot, unable to grasp the full significance of what had happened. As he threw himself beside his foreman, swinging with both fißts, the men lunged forward en masse. In

a second the mess hall was a sham- ■ btes. Chairs, dishes, tables were hurled aside like straws before the brutal ferocity of the enraged crew. Wild with the delight of combat, Grady followed up his advantage, inflicting fearful punishment upon Brown Joe, regardless of the fact that he was getting into the open, where the fellow’s supporters would make easy work of him. Slipping upon the messes of food, stumbling over the wreck of *he?ball, they threw themselves upon him, swallowing him up as in a whirlpool. Payne tried to fight his way through that Jam. only finding each effort sent hint farther away. There was a murderous note in the hoarse gutturals of the men. The original idea of mutiny against the food had now grown into hatred tor those above them. . For Just a second Payne hesitated. The arms of Grady still swung like flails, now and then a heavy body crashing to the door under the force of those piledriver blows. Then the fiats were pinned and waved uselessly in the air. Qmm another lunge mid he knew his fnreitta" had been taken off hie feet His hand kissed the cold butt of the revolver at his waist He did not

know how It happened, how it came in his hand, was unconscious of the muscular action that pulled the trigger. He only saw the orange spurt of flame that leaped over the heads of the squirming mass, heard the splatter of splinters from the roof, then the weapon dangled uselessly in his hand. A cold silence fell instantly upon the pandemonium. He was conscious of a long, sighing shudder and knew seconds would tell whether the victory was won. Brown Joe staggered to his feet, pushing the hair from his eyes and staring about him glassily, still dazed from the blow that had felled him. Payne waved the revolver threatening add the men quailed away from him, the expression of cowed beasts in their eyes, then as the gun steadied in his hand, dived fearfully out of the place. Grady gripped the ring-leader by the arm as he would have sneaked out, throwing him heavily before the young superintendent. “You’re fired,” Payne snapped. “Get out and don’t wait for your time, either. If I catch you about the fields again I’ll not shoot at the rafters. Get me?” The fellow slunk backwards toward the door, darting fearful glances at the foreman. Payne started to look about him at the wreckage, when a heavy step from the doorway made him turn abruptly, to see hiß ' employer entering the room. Framed in the doorway he stood, staring about him with knitted brows. Behind, the men had gathered about his touring car, the sound of their threatening murmurs a low buzz —the buzz of a mob just barely held in check. “Well?” he snapped. “Mutiny against the food,” Payne explained. “I phoned you yesterday again for orders as to what was to be done. The men really can’t be

blamed, Mr. Monroe. They haven’t had Btuff fit for a dog to eat.” “Humph!” ' The old man picked up a remnant of crockery upon the floor upon which some of the food still clung. He regarded it disgustedly a second, then allowed it to drop quickly from his hand as a sniff of it caught his noßtrils. “Phew! Can’t blame anybody kicking at Buch stuff,” he muttered, then a frown of annoyance grew into heavy anger upon his countenance. “You’ve written npe three times qbout this situation, haven't you?” he demanded, abruptly; then, without waiting for an answer, as Payne flushed and started to stammer: “I don’t want to hear anything about that It’s my own tauMs trust Julia to ever do anything. Every morning the same thing; every night—wait till tomorrow. The girl seems absolutely to have no sense of responsibility, of the rights of others, anything save her own right to put off—put off—put off.” Payne hung his head, avoiding the glowing eye of the old man. There was no denying what had Just been said. It was characteristic of the man that the moment he saw a situation and grasped its full significance he took hold of it and battled for the mastery. Payne stepped quickly up beside him, fearful of the result of such an attempt while the men were in their present humor. Monroe brushed him aside, lifting his hand.

* ”1 under*tana there’s ocen some •complaint about the food.” he began, a twinkle in his eye that melted some of the threatening glances fastened upon him. “1 have understood it was bad for eome time, but I didn’t realise how bad food could be until 1 took a —He wrinkled his face wryly and the Ice was broken. From the back of the crowd a man laughed. In a second he was Joined by others and soon Monroe held them in the palm of his hand. "Well, it’s going to get better and get better right away,” he declared, , emphatically. “I’ll go you one better than that, men, and tell you its going to get good. Tonight you can look forward to a real supper—a real supper, understand.” He turned upon Payne, even as the men were wildly cheering, knowing that now was the psychological moment to make his strongest play. "Get in my car, Lee,” he conmanded, “and don’t waste any time — getting back here with a load, of grub —have it here for supper.” 11. For once Julia Munroe was ready, Impatiently waiting the arrival of her sweetheart. He had told her nothing of the reason for his coming to town in the middle of the week, told her nothing of the row. But he had spoken of something which had made her Jump from the mass of cushions against which she spent a goodly portion of hpr days and hustle into her most becoming afternoon gown. Just a week remained before the date of their wedding and she had delayed in characteristic fashion procuring any of the clothes she had spent so many hours planning and dreaming out upon the divan. She plunged immediately to the subject, even before Payne’s arms had relaxed about the waist of her, looking up into hiß face in the tantallzingly irresistible fashion which he, as well as her father, always found so irresistible. ,

“Now, there’s no use telling me why you came to town; there’s no sense trying to talk to me about food for the men. There’ll be plenty of time after you look over a few little things in the shops with me.” “But I must have it there for supper—l tell you, Julia, the situation became so serious there was nearly a murderous row at the fields —” “Bother the fields,” she exclaimed petulantly. “You’re Just like father —oil, oil, oil morning, noon and night, until I’ve even ordered the cook to leave any of the hateful stuff out of the cooking.” Payne laughed, despite himself, laughed and catching her about the waist, drew her to him, trying to coax the pretty, pouting face towards his own. “All right,” he laughingly capitulated. “But on Just one condition —that we go to the grocery together.” The irresistible music of her laughter intoxicated him and, as they swung into the car he wondered how in the world he had ever for a moment dreamed of resisting her lure. In fact, as they wandered from shop to shop that afternoon, he felt more and more the hero for the manful fight he had put up against her tempestuous assaults. And once as he looked at his watch, to his strained, guilty ear came sharp report, the report of a revolver. He started and moved swiftly toward Julia, placing his arm commandingly upon her wrist. She turned the witchery of her glance upon him and, for just an instant, the suspicion of a frown puckered her brow. It cleared instantly then, with an exquisite, little whimper she came very close to him, looking up into his face with the perplexed and worried expression of a child.

“I’m simply famished,” she exclaimed. “Surely, you won’t permit me to starve, Lee. Just a mouthful and then we can —” “Hungry! He started as she voiced his thought of the unappeased hunger of those men he had visualized throughout the afternoon. “No really, Julia—” She had his arm in her . two, tiny hands. Ineffectual hands they seemed, dainty and blue-veined and almondtipped at the fingers. And yet, like bands of steel, they drew him, despite himself, despite everything within himself that cried out aloud against their pressure. 111. Ira Monroe settled back in his office chair, idly staring at the hands of the big clock. He had gone over the books for the first time in a week, had listened to Pat Grady’s story of the fracas that had come bo near ending fatally. And, as the old man’s eyes closed, slowly, very slowly his mind traveled from the fields to his home in Los Angeles. A faint smile hovered about his lips as he thought of his petted daughter, of the fearful consequences that might have occurred from her remissness in writing concerning the food supply out here. It seemed incredible that such a slight, fragile little thing could be the storm center about which such things revolved. Two—three —four o’clock and still the hands traveled along their way. At five o’clock, the old man rose and stared anxiously out upon the road that led past the great derricks of his oil fields. Here and there he could catch a glimpse of the men, great, powerful fellows, cheerfully exerting their muscles to the utmost, their unhide centered wholly on the mess hall and the elaborate supper that had been prepared for them. Five-thirty. He frowned heavily. Was it possible that Payne, knowing the seriousness of the matter, could permit anything to delay him. Failure was a

word which Ira Monroe had never tolerated in himself any more than he tolerated it in others. Results —that had always been the foundation stone upon which he builded. Tick—tock—tock —tick — The strokes were pounding at his very brain now. Like blows from a sledge they were. He clamped his hands to his ears that he might shut out the sound of the clock. Five-forty-flve. He shrugged his giant shoulders and moved out along the road for some sign of the motor. Not even a dust cloud rose above the shimmering heat waves that danced along the way to the city in the distance. He felt an irresistible desire to look at his watch, although he knew what tale it would tell. Nervously looking about him he saw the men slacking in their labors. He hustled'toward the mess shack. Something must be done but for the life of him he could not imagine what it would be. Supper was what the men wanted and supper was vjhat they

Intended having. He had sent his superintendent, the man he trusted sufficiently not only to put his business in his hands, but also the happiness of his daughter. And his superintendent had failed. He joined Pat Grady in the mess hall. Silently the two men looked about them. Tables, chairs, crockery, food remained as it had been after the mutiny at the dinner table. Even the stench of the mess still hovered over the hall. He threw out his hands in a wide gesture of rage and helplessness. “Hell t’ pay and then some,” muttered the foreman.

Monroe started a nod but checked it, throwing up his head like a runaway horse as the shrill scream of the whistle pierced his ears. Loud, shrieking, fiendish was the sound. He did not know what it might mean. There was no way of telling that. Of consequences he cared little compared to the broken promise to his men. Already they were rußhing toward this very place. And he had promised that they would find the food there which they were entitled to, instead of which —this mess. Before he had time to even talk the situation over, to reach any conclusion, a burly form hurtled in the doorway, followed by another, another, and then another. Monroe met the startled, incredulous eyes of the workmen. Then he lowered his own. “Well, I’m damn—” * He lifted his head quickly at the threat in the angry voice. If the men were in this mood already, then, under full headway, there was no telling to what extent, their rage would take them. He lifted his hand, his powerful shoulders lunged forward. “Men, I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “You know I sent the superintendent to town to remedy this condition. I’m going to the phone now and see what can be done.” The growl that went up showed that his declaration had far from mollified. He flushed darkly, his iron jaw creeping out.

“It’s the first time I’ve ever had to apologize to you men,” he snapped. "I’m going to do my best for you now. I said I’m sorry and I’ll phone the city immediately. Now, you can take it or get your time. That's all.” Without a side glance he shouldered his way through and stamped angrily into the office, snatching the receiver fromthe hook. SWlftly he clicked, his powerful finger gripping and ungripping over the little bit of iron that spelled so much to him. A step sounded from the door. He turned to meet the eyes of his foreman, then shrugged his shoulders. "The phone won’t- work,” he announced, slowly putting # the receiver back in place. Pat Grady did not answer. For Just a moment the two men stared at one another. Then Grady quietly put his shoulder against a big cupboard at one side the room and hauled it before the window, so that just a mere slant of light showed through. “Bolt the door double, boss,” he said softly. “The devil’s in those men at the best. But he’s got so much room to locate in their stomachs this

day, I'm thinking well hare * bit of a scrimmage," Monroe stared at him Irresolutely a second, then moved decisively to the door. Outside the men waited eagerly, their brows still lowering, their faces dark and sullen, yet expectant “Men," cried the oil king, a slight tremor in his voice despite the effort made at control, “I’ve Just tried the phone and it’s out of or— ’’ A hoarse laugh that had nothing of mirth in it halted him. Then he leaped back into the office, hurriedly tossing the bolts into place, as the laugh grew into a roar, a roar of such menace as even he had never heard before. A roar and then a wild, insane rush forward. Came the crack of a revolver. He shuddered at the sound. Never before had he heard the sound of a gun in fields within his dominion. He looked around to see Pat Grady, chuckling silently to himself, as he squinted through the aperture beside the cupboard which concealed the window, his right hand firmly gripping the revolver he had found in Payne’s room —Payne, whose delinquence was the cause of all this. IV. Brown Joe laughed aloud as he stuck the pliers in the waistband of his trousers and clambered laboriously down the telegraph pole. Above him dangled the wires*to the city, the wires along which the message of Monroe was futilely seeking way. He had seen his opportunity for revenge when, peeling furtively through the mess hall window he saw there was no chance for the promised supper.

Quick thinking had it been that led him to the phone wires, thinking inspired within his cunning brain by the master of evil himself. And now he would go back and complete the work. As he rushed toward the group about the office door he caught the laugh that greeted Monroe’s announcement of his inability to get Los Angeles on the wire. He knew that laugh might be turned in either direction. He took It up instantly, a wild yell of hatred and defiance bursting from his throat. He grinned to himself as the workmen caught that yell up and lunged toward the man who seemed mocking them. Then he whirled back, staggering slightly, but quickly righting himself from the blow that had tossed him round lightly. He pressed his hands to the place where the blow had fallen, at them in astonishment as they came away, a red sticky smear upon them. And then the rage that he had so cunningly controlled leaped up and overwhelmed him. He had been shot, had been shot by the same ihan who had knocked him down and then discharged him from the place without even giving him opportunity to get his pay check. And for what? Because he refused longer to tolerate the vile food that was served him.

With little whimpers of anger shrilling from his brawny throat, more like an animal of the African jungle than human being was he as he gathered the me® together behind the mess hall, planning with them how to capture the office and take revenge upon the pair within. “Two men —and a gun, boys," be declaimed shrilly. “Let 'em use up that bunch of cartridges and they won’t amount to two whoops. Draw their fire while —” He did not finish, turning and ducking the leaden messenger which was sent from the office toward him. In a few moments he reappeared with a rifle, waving it triumphantly above his head, exultantly shrilling a defiance toward the two in command. In command no longer. For two men and a gun had been offset by this crowd and a rifle. Quickly Brown Joe made out from where the fire came, carefully plugging away at the aperture, disturbing and" at the same time drawing the fire of Grady. And always did his lips move in careful count, a slow smile distorting his face evilly as he realized the supply of bullets must be getting low. “There’s a big timber round the other side of the shack,” he suggested. "His fire is getting weak now. Get that timber and make a rush at the door. I’ll keep his aim wild with the rifle.”

Without a hint of disobedience they fell into the suggestion. Moblike they had been led into this affair and now all the wild, unthinking, ungovernable impulse of mob Spirit was upon them. Swiftly Grady discharged his revolver in their midst One man fell and they stared at him wonderingly, brutishly pained that such a thing should happen. Brown Joe saw the hesitancy and let out & wild whoop of exultation. “I got him —winged him —” “You’re a dirty, brown liar,” thundered back Grady* from the cabin. But his retort was drowned by the cheer from the mob, as they picked up the log again and lunged toward the office door. “Short jabs, boys," yelled the leader, punctuating his howl by a rifle shot. Manfully they stood to their work, ramming, ramming against the door. It was sagging at the upper corner now, sagging heavily. And then, even as they exulted, It slapped back into place, re-enforced from inside. Easily as a mob is encouraged, it becomes discouraged quite as readily. They dropped the log and stared at one another, then fell back to Brown Joe for advice. He started to speak, then started toward the rear window of the office, a howl of execration and triumph coming from his lips. Snatching a lantern and followed by a few of his fellows, he darted out

into the open, after tne swift moving, shadowy outlines of a man who had lunged through that window. He was able to make out the outlines finally, as he drew closer to the fleeing man. It was Grady—Pat Grady, the man who bad knocked him down and winged him in the same day. Rage gave wings to his feet. He was gaining, gaining upon the man. He started to yell, then clamped his lips shat, realizing it would require all his strength to catch up. Almost upon him, something slipped from beneath his feet. Wild at the thought of losing, he hurled the lantern at Grady’s head. The foreman ducked and the red-eyed thing crashed to the ground. Brown Joe recovered his balance and started again in pursuit, then halted. For, from beneath his very feet, a long sliver of flame was reaching, a beautiful little trickling stream of yellow light over which clung an acrid, black plume of smoke. It reached out eagerly, devouringly and the man leaped back, staring aghast at the fire monster, creeping, insidously yet remorselessly toward the tank from which the treacherous oil had leaked. V. After the theater Payne left Julia and spent a restless night. Next morning he was at the grocery store early to make the selections of food, and was on hlB way back when he met the messenger with the news that the oil refinery was besieged and burning and that the old boss was fighting off the hordes alone. Payne aroused the sheriff and, loading his car with deputies, rushed off, only to arrive too late. Ira Monroe was rescued, 'tls true, but only after his entire plant had been destroyed by fire. Yesterday he bad been rich; today, now, he was a poor man. His life had been devoted to these fields that were now bdt signs of what devastation can be caused by the thing which man had harnessed. Triumphing in its freedom, exulting, wild clamored the fire. And still he stood and stared at the ruin of everything he had held dear. He turned to his daughter and his eyes fell upon Payne, who hung his head, unable to meet again those eyes. "Well,” he laughed, harshly, “I trusted you, Lee Payne. I always trusted you. And my reward —is this —” He waved his hand in a wide gesture toward the terribly beautiful sight. “You may go now. I suppose you will wish to go now, you have done —your worst —” Julia sprang forward, her arms affectionately about the broken old man’s neck. But he made no ro»

sponse. As well might he have been dead tor all sign of response he gave. "Oh, dad, I did it —it was my f*ult— 1 ” “I trusted you," Ira Monroe repeat* ed as Payne would have opened his lips to spare her. Gently but firmly the old man reached up and disentangled her arms from about him, slowly moving toward the waiting motor car, wbereia the deputies were already piling, after scattering the rioters. Julia turned toward her sweetheart, her hands outstretched in appeal, the agony of worlds upon her face. “And I did it—l did it, Lee. And I only wanted to be with you because —I loved you so much. But I did it all —and now—” "He trusted me —for this —” the .superintendent answered slowly, the words falling dully from his lips. “Lee —Lee,” she clung to him desperately. "Say you forgive mo that you understand why—” “He —trusted —me —sor —this—" Slowly, heavily he turned. She reached out her arms toward him, but he did not turn, did not even turn when the black smoke swallowed a* his form from her sight. Blinded she looked upon the havoc. She could never see again for the memory of this mass of fire and smoke. But always could she hear — always would she hear that merciless sound —the tick-tock, tiok-tock of • watch to which die gave heed, ton late * . WHO PAYS? End of Eighth Btory. (The next story Is "For the Cess, monwealth.”) ■

Grady Conquers Brown Joe.

She Turned the Witchery of Her Glance Upon Him.

"You May Go Now, You Have Done Your Worst!”