A WORKER’S CRIME.

Otago Witness, Issue 3833, 30 August 1927, Page 82

A WORKER’S CRIME.

By

Hammond Reed.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.) It all happened so unexpectedly and inconsequentially. Such things do to tramps, in whose Order of Outcasts are many degrees. Sundown was long past, and Jim Storey had been walking all day. He had scraped together enough wood for a fire to boil some water for tea. Miserably lonely, he gulped down the little meat and bread which had been collected during the day. If there had been someone to talk to, it would have helped considerably. Even a common tramp oi the usual type might have proved acceptable. As the afterglow faded into darkness and the stars rose in the east, the silence in that wooded retreat became oppressive. A subdued hum of the insect world accentuated the loneliness. With nerves on edge, so that the distant barking of a dog made him start, Storey lay down to try to sleep. To him it seemed no more than a few minutes before he woke suddenly to find that he had rolled over with his back to the blazing logs. Storey was immediately conscious that he was not alone, and, with the instinct of suspicion, his hand slid to the cudgel lying by his side. Then he rolled over as though still asleep. Through veiled eyes he saw a man sitting on the opposite side of the fire with his hands locked round his knees. He stared at the glowing embers with a far-off look in his gleaming eyes. No more utterly melancholy face was even seen. Suddenly he became conscious that he was being watched. “ Hope I haven’t disturbed you, partner,” he apologised. “ But it was cold, and I hadn’t any matches, and I’m getting old.” And his voice trailed off into a mumble. “ That s all right,” answered Storey. “ You’re welcome.” “I wanted to borrow a lighted stick and make a fire over yonder. I’ve scraped up a little wood.” “ Bring it here,” said the younger man. “One big fire is better than two small ones.”

And the old man got up. He was thin and haggard, with the bowed shoulders of continued toil. He walked as though utterly tired out. He came back shortly’ with his arms full of sticks, and, putting a few on the dying embers, sat down. Storey roused himself and sat up. “ Don’t it—,” he began. He was interrupted, but went on: “My tongue’s rusty. I must talk. You’ve struck a bad streak of luck way back, old man, eh ?” “ I am an accursed man.” So he was mad. That’s no odd thing in the Standing Army of Tramps. Is it strange that toil and misery should drive crazy those who have not the strength to meet the bitter new order of civilisation, and that some are crushed by the law that yields Beelzebub his tribute of laggards and weaklings? Storey heated up the tea again, and bestowed upon the old man the remains of a sheep bone and a crust. He drank and ate with eagerness, and thanked his host almost humbly. “You are a good sort,” he said, but was contradicted savagely. Nothing of the kind, old man. If vou want to talk that stuff, move back to your own camp. Good? Why, I’d like to cut the throats of some men!” He shrank back as though he had been struck. “Don’t!” he said. “I felt that wav once myself. But I repent.” “ Did vou do if?” “ What ?” “ Cut anyone’s throat?” He shook his head and smiled. “ I think I did worse, nartner. May I tell you 1 I like to tel] it sometimes.” “Fire away," was the reply. At first he couldn't talk. He whittled at an old stick, and muttered to himself. Perhaps he thought he was talkins aloud, for when Storey did catch what he was saying it was in the middle of a sentence. “ Took it over, paid for it, and took the mortgage with it. And I worked hard. God knows, I worked hard. Wasn’t much of a place, but there was water. I planted oranges and made a vineyard. All the men about said I was a hard man. I don t think I was. I made others work,

and worked hard myself as well. Hadn’t I worked in lowa for lOdol a month, and in Oregon for 20dol, for long years before I went south and put my money into this ranch ? But not so hard as I worked on this place of my own. I wanted to briqg my wife and child from the East. She wasn’t used to roughing it. She was the daughter of a Minnesota man, owner of the only farm for miles round without a mortgage on it. I’ve read of folks saying how lucky farmers are in the United States because they mostly don’t pay rent. No, but they pay interest. As I know—as I know.

“ I worked for five long years on the ranch, and things were in shape. Every orange and every pear and grape was part of me. They were all my children. But, perhaps, partner, you have never owned land ! But you’ve travelled, and the desire must have come to you to -settle down, plant your feet on a’ bit of God’s earth and say, ‘This is my share given me to make fruitful.’ A “man has, so to speak, and I’ve often thought it out, two wives—a woman and a bit of earth. But when a man takes a whole country or half a State, it isn’t according to my notions of morality. For there’s many a fine man with none. And their strength is nought, for they have no children out of the earth. ”

He had forgotten his audience of one, and was standing on his feet talking to the air and the broad lands of that beautiful valley.

“ When five years were past I had the house in shape and the trees were full of fruit. Then I sent for Milly and the child. For them I worked harder, and I was always level, if not a bit more. Sometimes it was a real bit more ; but of course the interest on the mortgage was heavy. And may the inventors thereof be accursed, even as I am I “For, though a man without leeches sucking his blood may abide a bad season according to his strength, it is not so when he works one hour for himself and 10 for a sucking spider in a web of law in a city office. A bad season came, and I was behind my bond with the spider, and on added interest he took 10 per cent. To each dollar he added more until no good season could straighten me out. And life became an almost intolerable burden without a ray of hope anywhere. “ And now, after five more years, the time came my wife’s keep—for she wasn't too strong—-and the two girls—for there was another—seemed too much. So I borrowed some more money—only a hundred dollars, and sent her back to her people. “ And I lived—God knows how, for I don’t. Time and again I dreamt it was all my own and free of interest, and I would wake crying tears of joy in a joyless home that wasn’t mine. The trees seemed to know me and nod to me. and even now when I walk along the road and smell the white blossoms I see the sun in that orange grove, and my heart is sick with desire. But there aren’t any trees there now I

“There might have been, only the old lawyer who lent the young lawyer money to lend me on the land came up to take a look at the land that was mostly his. And that’s why I say I once wanted to cut a man’s throat. As I showed him round, I could have caught him by his fat throat and choked him. He’d never worked. He didn’t know what it was to love the product of real work. He lived to suck blood out of the and then take the fruit of his labour. And this man says, more to himself than to me, ‘A good house built here, and it would be a lovely spot.’ Then he rode off in his while I wont back to prune vines and scrape scale, working like a hired man with all the little profits leaking out and coming up in a spring in a town office. “That night, as I lay in bed. I knew as well as if he had told me that if I was ever a dollar behind I’d be squeezed out even before the clause that gave them power to foreclose unless the whole principle was paid, came into force. They that drew the mortgage knew how to draw it, and I signed it like an innocent. For the money I wanted was honey on a bear trap, and they had me tight. “Then, as always happens, a bad season came. Frost nipped the trees and blasted the fruit. I walked among the trees and on the earth I’d turned over for years to give it sun and air, and I was mad. I heard the trees speak, and the wind in the orange grove was like a voice. I went in and gave the hired man his money, and told him to go quick. And he ran, for he was afraid of me. I was glad the wife and children were away. I had just read in an eastern newspaper how a ruined man had killed his own wife and children. And I knew ■well how it happened. “ I feared to go for my letters. But the notice of foreclosure came. That day I neither worked not ate—just sat in the house thinking of the dead man in New York who had killed his own. Wondered how and why it all happened. Thought of my years of sober, heavy work all going over to a man who sat and cried out kindly that he would help them that wanted it and not be hard. He gave money to churches, and was praised by the papers that he owned shares in till his name was spoken of as one likely to become a senator.

“ The day passed, and it was evening. I went out and saw the sun set behind the orange trees that I had seen grow. But my heart was too dried up to see the beauty of it. I only felt a man accursed,-and a devil, and a sinner. I took my axe and sharpened it till I could shave a slice of horn off the palm of my hand—and God’s light went wholly out of me. I took the axe into the orange grove and destroyed all my trees.

Some I cut down, some I barked. I worked all night by the light of the moon, and when dawn came I did not feel tired. Then I fired the house and the stable that I had built. I took the horse which I had trained and broken, and shot it, watching its blood flow on the heavy dust. But I didn’t care one bit, nor was I sorrv.

“ Then I put on my hat and walked into the hills, for I knew that if I met a man and had the axe in my hand, I should kill him.

“ I walked for days, as far as I know without food, and when I came to myself I was far away. Then I knew that I had done an evil thing, and a thing hated by God. I saw what a small thing I was, and knew that the work of man was for man and not for himself, and that a man could not work for himself alone. I saw that the lawyer could not have kept what he took, for he, too, must have died sooner or later. But my beautiful trees would have remained fruitful for ever. And I had killed them, and so destroyed part of myself, and a great anguish came over me.'

“ If my orchard and trees had still been fruitful I could have said to myself, loti have worked and have been rewarded, even if not as desired.’ But now my life is barren, my labour wasted, and no greater anguish can smite any ’man. lhe years have gone down before the sun, 1,1 the night of my old age I have no consolation, and I can work no more. Alwavs 1 walk and tramp, and alwavs I see and lee the desolation I caused. If I could undo this I would die happy, but it cannot be. I am an old, old man. An old, old man.

His voice trailed off into a whisper, and he sat down, hugged his knees and stared into the fire.

Mechanically Storey handed him some tobacco, for which he was gently thanked, and for a long time neither of them spoke. . Storey had been thinking hard. Something in the pitiful history "of the old man awakened slumbering memories, and he did not find their sting any softer for the passing of the years. ' 1 hen he asked: “What about vour wife and family?”

The old nian said he did not know. “ Did this happen long ago?’’ “About five years ago, I think; but my mind plays me many tricks nowadays.” And Storey could well believe it. “Five years ago. eh?” he mused. “ Sav how old are vou ?”

His companion made a visible effort to collect _ his thoughts and concentrate on something which had not, apparently, crossed his mind for years. “ Must be 42, I think. But I’m old and beaten. There’s nothing left to live for now.”

“Do you remember the name of the lawyer who rode round to vour place in a buggy?”

‘Ay. that I do!” was the agitated reply- “Shall I ever forget it? Amos Kepler, the ...” And words failed him.

. Storey’s muscles tightened at the mention of that name, as though in preparation for a blow ; but his visitor was lost in the past and saw nothing of the signs indicating that Storey knew the name as well, perhaps better than he did. To hide bis confusion, he reached out to the small woodpile and put on a few more logs on the red-hot ashes, and then carefully and thoughtfully refilled his pipe.

“I once owned some land,” said Storey, suddenly. “ but my tale is very diffeient from yours. father was fairly well off, and had alwavs given me all I wanted. When I was through college with a degree for which I had done the least possible work. I went into his business. But* I hated work—of that sort, anyway. Sitting at a desk all day long writing, letters to people you had no interest in. about things that vou knew little or nothing about. And T wouldn’t learn. Life was a thing to be enjoved, especially- when an indulgent parent, kept my pockets well filled, and paid my gambling debts when I got stuck extra hard.

That sort of thing doesn’t last for ever, and the climax came when I was landed in court for assaulting a police officer while I was drunk. The fine was paid, of course, but it nearly killed the old man to think that he had brought a wastrel into the world. And T was"that all right. Perhaps you think I still am. Well, I’ll tell you Then judge. “ It was a question as to what I could or would do, and the open spaces and country had aways appealed to me. I didn’t know how hard it was to grow fruit, nor anything about looking after young trees, pruning, grafting, and irrigation ; but the glamour of a fruit ranch over in California called. So. with 2000dol in my- pocket, and the ownership of a small ranch procured for me by my dad, I started West.” “ Noyv, remember that, this ranch was not a new one. It had been worked by a man who had turned the desert into fruit, and made enough money in the doing of it to sell out and retire. There was a small house set in the middle of lines and lines of orange and lemon trees. Every tree had its small channel leading from the irrigation ditches to its roots. There was nothing to do but carry on the work started, and it was just one man’s work. “ Well, I started in to make myself popular with the people round, and spent my money as though I had an exhaustlees bank account behind me. The fast set, who are always on hand to suck the foolish, got hold of me. And the work on the ranch? Why. fruit grew; you didn’t have to work for it! What was the sun for, and the cloudless skies, and the irrigation ditclies at the. roots of the trees? In my folly, I believed that to be all there yvas to it,

“ The folks way down south, at home, kept writing up and asking how things were going, and I filled them up with reports on crop prospects and developments. The old man had thought of retiring shortly after I left home, and coming up to my place to spend his old age. When that was first suggested I got a frightful jolt, because by that time I realised that everything was not coming my way. The orange trees yvere beginning to fail, and the fruit seemed to be getting less in number and smaller in size. >So I had to put them off, and somehow managed to do it.

“ XX hether it yva>3 because of my arguments against the idea, I don’t really know. Anyway, I got a letter saying that they had found a lovely little place just outside their home town. A mortgage had fallen due, or something, and in the natural course of things the law had stepped in. The man who had been working it had fled after doing all that he could to ruin and blast the trees, and had not been heard of since. Just like you did, pard, but not so successfully, from what I heard.

Then came the smash once more. I had borroyved money and spent it all on a good time, and they yvere pressing me for payments. So in sheer desperation I turned to the ranch to see what I could raise. Mind you, I hadn’t done a stroke of work hardly since getting there—just let things take their course and drift. That morning I walked round the place, and it dawned on me that irrigation ditches need keeping clean. Mine yvere choked up yvith sand and leaves and all sorts of refuse. And in the exceptionally hot, dry spell we had been having the trees yvere beginning to die of thirst and neglect. Feverishly I set to yvork, and at the end of the day, aching in every limb, I seemed to have done nothing to improve things. “That night I tossed about, afraid to face yvhat I knew yvas coming, and scared because I knew- I couldn't stop it. For the next feyv days I worked as I had never yvorked in my life before. But it yvas too late. I yvas finished. They sold the place over my head to pay my debts, and I yvas turned loose without a cent in the yvorld.

“The old folks don't knoyv yvhere I am, nor yvhat lam doing. I send them a card at odd times just to let them know I am alive ami well. And for the last three years I have drifted up and down this yvestern section.

“ Different to your failure, old man, isn’t it? Overwork knocked you dotty, or, if not that, it has given you a knockout that has lasted five years. Laziness yvas my bane. And so I joined the High Order of Outcasts.”

Hie old man had passed no comment during the few minutes it had taken for Storey to go through his tale, and he still sat motionless as though he had not heard a yvord. The only thing that broke the silence was the occasional hoot of an oyvl and the bark of a dog in the distant village. “ XX here are you going noyv ?” asked the older man.

“Home,” replied Storey. “I picked up an old newspaper two days ago and sayv my father's business advertised for sale. >So I sent off a card asking him to. postpone-selling until I arrived.” “XVhv?”

“ Because I am going back to take over that business and carry it on. I'm a different chap to what I yvas six years and less ago. Somehoyy- I believe the folks will welcome me and give me the chance. I want no money. All I yvant is to show them I can make myself all they once hoped I would be. And, pard, you’re coming along! You could help me on that little place they are living on I told you about.” “Never! I couldn't go south. I daren t face the south. Leave me alone, for God’s sake!”

“XX ouldn’t you like to see your wife and children again?” asked Storey. But the stranger sat silent yvith his head between his hands. *And Storey let him, knowing the break yvould come. “ Could never find them again,” he muttered at last. “ XX’hat yvas the name of the place yvhere you had this farm?” “ Galstonville.” “Why, that’s right near my folks. If anyone can help, they can. You’ll find them again if you come on down yvith me.”

Storey stood up, stretched himself, and then turned with sudden resolution to his companion through the night. Dayvn yvas just beginning to tinge the eastern sky yvith red, and the day beginning yvas the commencement of a new life for at least one, if not both, of these chance acquaintances.

“ Look here.” he said, and something in the tone of his voice forced the elder man to face the speaker, “ look, here, you’re coming home yvith me. It’s only a three weeks’ tramp. I know my father —you don’t. He’s always ready to help when he can; but he is just almost to the point of hardness, and sometimes folk mistake his sense of justice for lack of mercy. XX’ell, perhaps he might be more merciful sometimes. But, Jim XVebster—oh, yes, I spotted who you yvere long before you had finished your story—your trees are not all dead, your land is fruitful, and your family are still in Galstonville?”

“ Hoyv do you knoyv ?” shouted his companion.

Storey started to trample out the remnants of the fire and, as he stooped to pick up his small bundle of belongings.

and also that of his companion, he knew by the sudden note of joy in that question that XX ebster would go yvith him. “XX T ell, you see,” he slowly drawled, “ Amos Kepler is my father.”