Free My Story by Elizabeth J. Hauser Page B

responded to that call.
    The first thing he did was to assign a duty to every man available for work of any kind.
    It was but natural that he should look to the leading citizens, the men who stood high in business circles, those who were prominent in the churches and in the social life of the community for the most intelligent and spontaneous cooperation; but these failed so utterly to meet the emergency that their defection was a matter of general comment. They ran away from responsibility.
    But if the calamity brought out the weakest and worst elements of character in this class, it had quite the opposite effect on those in the humbler walks of life. The men who were accustomed to work with their hands were not found wanting. All that was big and brave and strong and good in their characters came uppermost. And in that crisis when native worth — not artificial attributes — was the test of patriotism, or citizenship, or brotherhood, or whatever name you choose to call it by, the positions of the two classes of society in Johnstown were reserved.
    One man who stood out like a giant was Bill Jones, known to the world because of his association with the early development of Andrew Carnegie’s enterprises, but deserving to be known for his own sterling worth. He had been connected with the Cambria Iron Company at one time and directly after the flood he came on from Pittsburgh with a great body of men, extensive camp equipment and tools of various kinds and went to work. In his rough and ready way he got right at the essential things and brought the kind of relief that money couldn’t buy.
    One day when he and I were going through the devastated district on horseback, a man so begrimed withdirt as to be unrecognizable hailed him with a hearty, “Hello, Bill!” Jones dismounted to exchange greetings with his unknown friend and said, “You’ll have to tell me who you are.” The man answered,
    â€œI’m Pat Lavell,” and then they embraced like two brothers.
    There was a pause, for Bill Jones was hesitating before putting that hardest of all questions: “How did it go with you?”— the question so apt to bring a story of unthinkable disaster in reply.
    â€œLost everything,” answered Lavell, “my home, my savings,— everything; but,” and in spite of the grime his face lighted up with the brightest look I ever saw, “I’m the happiest man in Johnstown, for my family’s all right.”
    They say at some of the fine London hotels that Bill Jones didn’t cut much of a figure when he visited the English metropolis. When I hear this I like to call up in my mind the image of Bill at Johnstown, and I wish I could make everybody else see the picture of that man triumphant. I cherish the memory of my acquaintance with Bill Jones as one of the great privileges of my life.
    Somehow the value and importance of “leading citizens” to a community has never impressed me much since then.
    I reached Johnstown from Cleveland the day after the flood, arriving just a few hours after Mr. du Pont, who had come on from Cincinnati, where he happened to be when the news of the disaster reached him. We were both immensely relieved to find our partner, Mr. Moxham, all right. We three men were all smokers, but it had not occurred to Mr. du Pont or to me to bring an extra large supply of cigars, for even if we had been thinking of ourown comfort, which we were not, we did not know that it was impossible to get tobacco in Johnstown, nor had we anticipated the difficulties in getting supplies of any kind from Pittsburgh or any other place in the outside world.
    Mr. Moxham and I got together early and took account of stock and hit upon a plan which would prevent the tobacco famine from affecting Mr. du Pont for several days at least. We planned that when we got together each morning, preparatory to separating and going about our respective work for the day, that