Читать книгу The Electric Gun - Harold Johnston - Страница 6

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On the fifteenth day of June, 1950, a worker, employed in the local branch of the State Bakery, was walking down the main street of Balmain towards his lodging-house. He had completed his daily task and was at liberty to spend the hours between 5 and 9 p.m. as he pleased, provided that he did not attempt to leave his own precinct, and that he registered at the latter hour. Hundreds of other workers were slouching along the street, or standing in groups at every corner.

There was room enough and to spare. The trams, which in the old days had rushed noisily through the streets of the suburb, had long years ago been taken off as entailing unnecessary expense on the State. The workers had no desire to travel, and would not have been allowed to do so if they had wished. And, besides, they could see nothing in any other suburb that they did not have here, unless they penetrated into the districts where their masters, the officials, resided and this was out of the question. Every industrial district had the same State factories, State Stores and State Lodging Houses and Children's Homes. There was no longer any need for shops, as the State provided everything that was considered necessary—food, clothing, lodging. There was no hotel in the workers' district. The use of tobacco had been prohibited, or, to be more correct, no tobacco was supplied to the workers. The drapery and millinery establishments which had delighted the feminine heart in an earlier age had disappeared. The State barber cut the hair and trimmed the beard of the worker once a month.

As Jack Bruce walked along the street with a brisk step and upright carriage he presented a marked contrast to the men whom he passed. The most remarkable thing about them was that they all appeared to be members of one family. Dressed exactly alike, in shapeless trousers, Norfolk jackets, and cloth caps, it was almost as difficult to distinguish one man from another as to identify a Chinese coolie. They seemed healthy enough, but healthy, strong animals of a lower order rather than men.

Yet they were men, men who, under the system which boasted that it would raise all to the rank of demi-gods, had become nothing more noble than slaves. The dream of the socialists had been of a people free—free because no man would be of higher social rank than his fellows, a people having under their own control all the means of existence, and supervised by paternal officials, appointed for a specific purpose and removable by the popular vote when they failed to carry out their duties.

The trouble had come about simply enough. The book politicians naturally expected that the most intelligent, industrious and capable men would be appointed to direct the labours of others. But they found that, although they had changed the form of government, human nature remained the same. The positions of authority were given, in almost every case, to the wire-pullers of the party, and these men determined to hold those positions by the simple plan of depriving the mass of the people of all power.

Under the old despised capitalistic system the worker, if he were harshly treated by his employer, had the option of leaving the factory or workshop and offering his services to another. But with the impersonal State as sole employer the worker no longer had that option. He must remain where the state put him.

When the officials developed, in due course, into tyrants, an outcry was raised by the workers, and mass meetings were convened for the purpose of deposing those who had betrayed their trust. The meetings were dispersed by the State militia, and workers were warned that any act of a similar nature would, in future, be regarded as treason. Nothing daunted, the workers assembled in thousands in the Domain on the following Sunday afternoon, but the meeting had hardly been opened when there was a cry that the troops were coming. Of the massacre which followed, the survivors spoke only in whispers for months to come. One lesson was enough and, although fifteen years had passed since "Black Sunday," there had been no further mass meeting.

With no longer a free press to give utterance to their sentiments and voice their grievances, their trades unions and friendly societies suppressed, without means, arms or organization, the franchise abolished, they were as helpless as a flock of sheep. A generation ago they had given up State Rights at the bidding of unscrupulous leaders, and now they had lost the right to call themselves men.

Every day the power of the official class increased, while the workers became even more incapable of resisting the tyranny of their masters.

Jack Bruce's reading had made him familiar with ancient history, especially the history of fights for freedom. His favourite hero was Wallace, whose exploits he often dreamt of emulating. Jack was a man of such education as was possible under a system where everyone of the industrial class was drafted into the army of workers at an early age. In Bruce's case the age had been sixteen, but now children of twelve were sent out from the State Homes. Every year the production per worker fell below that of the year just closed, owing to inefficiency, waste, and the absence of any incentive to exertion. In addition, there was another reason for reducing the age of recruits. Many of the elder girls in the State Homes had been corrupted by the officials, and cases of abuse were becoming alarmingly frequent. Further, owing to the laxity of the medical officers, the mortality in these establishments was appalling.

Jack Bruce spent most of his leisure in the lodging-house library, poring over the pages, chiefly history. Of recent history there was, of course, no record. The "State Daily News" had long since become merely a record of official acts and regulations.

As Bruce approached a cross street a number of women came into the main road, from one of the clothing factories, and among them he recognized a girl whom he had first noticed about a month before. She was strikingly beautiful—so beautiful that even the dress of coarse, grey wincey, made in what was formerly known as the "princess robe" style, and the hideous, round straw hat, could not entirely hide her beauty.

Jack paused to let the women pass, and incidentally to have another look at the girl, who, in some strange way, had occupied such a large share of his thoughts for the past month. Suddenly a workman lurched forward, and with a grin the fellow caught the girl by the arm and made an attempt to kiss her.

With a sharp cry the girl snatched her arm away, and raising her hand, she struck him a stinging blow on his pasty face.

Uttering a snarl of rage the fellow clenched his fist and struck her on the temple. She would have fallen but for a middle-aged woman who caught her in her arms.

Jack hesitated not a moment. He thrust the other men and women roughly aside and springing forward, struck the girl's assailant a smashing blow in the face, knocking him over like a ninepin.

"Get up!" he panted, as he stood over the prostrate man. "Get up, you miserable cur! You would strike a defenceless woman, would you?"

But the fellow had had quite enough, and lay there with the blood streaming from his damaged face. Two or three of the man's companions. moved forward as if to take his part, but Bruce turned upon them like a wounded lion, and they shuffled hastily out of his reach. Then he turned to the girl, who was still being supported by the work-woman. Her face was deathly pale, save for a crimson mark where the brute's blow had fallen.

"Pardon me!" began Bruce, raising his cap courteously, "I trust that you are not seriously hurt. I cannot forgive myself for allowing such an outrage."

She smiled, such a poor little wan smile, as she replied:

"No, no; I feel better already. I shall be quite well in a few minutes."

"Let me take your arm," said Jack. "Thank you," he added, turning to the woman. "Where do you lodge? Number four! We'll have you there in a few minutes. Lean on me. Oh! the brute!"

She protested, rather feebly it is true, that she could walk quite well alone, but made no attempt to disengage her arm, And, but for his anxiety, Jack Bruce would have been in the seventh heaven of delight. He proceeded to introduce himself.

"My name is Bruce—Jack Bruce. I am employed at number two bakery, Henson Street. I have been there nine years."

"I am Mary Heath," she said, and the introduction was complete. Then she went on:

"I work in the Denfrew Street clothing factory. I have been in Balmain for only about a month, but was in one of the North Sydney factories for four years, before I came here."

"Yes—yes, that is, I knew you had been here for only a short time," said Jack, in some confusion. The girl looked at him in surprise.

"How can you know that?" she asked. "I have never seen you—I mean I have never met you before to-day."

Jack's heart almost stopped beating. The girl's words conveyed the impression that she had seen him—had noticed him before—before this eventful and blessed day. Bruce was rather a modest young fellow, despite the fact that many of the Balmain work-girls had shown themselves only too ready to lay their hearts at the feet of the handsome, fair-haired young Hercules. But she was different. He was too generous, however, to allow her to see that he had noticed the slip, and merely said:

"Oh, I have a good memory for faces, and I am sure that I should have remembered yours."

They walked along in silence for a little. Then she burst out:

"Oh, I do hope and trust that I am not going to be ill. It is so dreadful to be sick in those wretched lodging-houses. In the old days, when members of a family lived together, it must have been rather pleasant to be an invalid. Just imagine a mother or sister fussing over one! Wouldn't it be lovely?"

"Do you think so?" asked Jack eagerly. "I am so glad that you take an interest in the old days. I cannot understand how our fathers could have been so foolish as to give up that beautiful family life."

"Neither can I," she said, sadly. "Perhaps they were too happy in those days. We are told that no perfect happiness is permitted on this earth, otherwise people would wish to remain here always. However, there does not appear to be any danger of the present generation becoming too much attached to life."

"No, indeed," observed Jack, "although I can imagine a case in which a man might feel satisfied with the sordid life we lead to-day."

Mary Heath did not press him to state his imaginary "case." Perhaps she thought the topic a delicate one to discuss with her present companion.

"You appear to take a great interest in the old days," she remarked.

"Interest! I live in the past, I spend nearly all my time, my leisure, in the library, reading: reading of those bygone, happy days, now gone for ever. No," he went on fiercely, "not for ever. There must surely be some manhood in the country still. Oh! for another Wallace to attack the tyrant bureaucracy, which is strangling the land; for another Tell, another Kossuth, another Washington to point the way to freedom! I beg your pardon," he added hastily, "I forgot myself for the moment."

Mary had felt the young workman's whole frame quiver as he uttered those glorious names of the past.

"Go on; I love to hear anyone speak of the brave deeds of those old heroes," she said softly. Then she went on, inconsequentially: "Do you know what I regard as the cruellest part of it all, apart, of course, from the loss of home life? It is this hideous uniform which the women are compelled to wear. Ah! you are smiling. You think me foolish and frivolous. I have no doubt, but, to a woman, the question of dress is one of the things which really matter in life. How can a woman retain her self-respect when she is forced to wear such a garment as this? After a visit to the library, where I spend hours and hours, reading accounts of the social events of fifty years ago, and, looking at the illustrations, I invariably cry myself to sleep. I feel that I could just die happy if I were allowed, only once, to wear one of those lovely gowns."

Jack smiled indulgently at the girl's enthusiasm. He glanced at the flushed, handsome face a moment, and then remarked:

"I cannot see that you have much reason to complain. The dress, in itself, may not be—er beautiful, but then the appearance of clothes depends a good deal upon the wearer, don't you think? Oh! you know what I mean, I—many girls require some aid from art, but you—but you—"

He stopped in confusion.

Mary Heath laughed—a frank, hearty, unaffected laugh.

"Well, I suppose it serves me right," she cried, "for introducing such a topic as dress to a man, especially when he happens to be a student of ancient history. But here we are at my door. Thank you so much, Mr. Bruce, for your kindness, and now I must say good-bye!"

"Good-bye! good-bye!" he said, taking the hand she held out. "But, I say, you'll let me see you again, won't you? Look! I'll call on the portress here to-night at half-past eight, to enquire how you are, after the—the accident. You won't mind, will you?"

"Thank you! I shall ask one of the girls to let the portress know how I am before I retire. I feel almost well again, though, and I am sure that I shall be able to go to work in the morning as usual."

"I'll wait for you in the morning," he broke in eagerly. "Please don't say that I mustn't. That brute may be about—may attempt to annoy you again. By Jove! if he does—Oh! are you going? Good-bye!"

He raised his cap, and then walked down the road towards his own lodging-house—walked on air. He had forgotten the glorious days of the past, and the dead heroes. There had never been a day like today. And to-morrow would be still better, for he would see Mary again. He repeated the name—"Mary." Mary was a beautiful name. And what a lovely girl she was! But, perhaps, she had a lover! Of course a girl like that—What a fool he had been. Why hadn't he found out? He stopped, and looked round. Too late now she had disappeared. He would ask her in the morning. He clenched his fist at the thought of one of those soulless, degraded creatures becoming the mate of such a girl. It would be sacrilege!

From which it may be gathered that, after the manner of men, Jack Bruce had fallen in love.