Free The Iron Heel by Jack London Page B

did not,” was the answer, and his mouth set bitterly. “I testified to the effect that Jackson injured himself by neglect and carelessness, and that the company was not in any way to blame or liable.”
    â€œWas it carelessness?” I asked.
    â€œCall it that, or anything you want to call it. The fact is, a man gets tired after he’s been working for hours.”
    I was becoming interested in the man. He certainly was of a superior kind.
    â€œYou are better educated than most workingmen,” I said.
    â€œI went through high school,” he replied. “I worked my way through doing janitor-work. I wanted to go through the university. But my father died, and I came to work in the mills.
    â€œI wanted to become a naturalist,” he explained shyly, as though confessing a weakness. “I love animals. But I came to work in the mills. When I was promoted to foreman I got married, then the family came, and . . . well, I wasn’t my own boss any more.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?” I asked.
    â€œI was explaining why I testified at the trial the way I did—why I followed instructions.”
    â€œWhose instructions?”
    â€œColonel Ingram. He outlined the evidence I was to give.”
    â€œAnd it lost Jackson’s case for him.”
    He nodded, and the blood began to rise darkly in his face.
    â€œAnd Jackson had a wife and two children dependent on him.”
    â€œI know,” he said quietly, though his face was growing darker.
    â€œTell me,” I went on, “was it easy to make yourself over from what you were, say in high school, to the man you must have become to do such a thing at the trial?”
    The suddenness of his outburst startled and frightened me. He ripped 28 out a savage oath, and clenched his fist as though about to strike me.
    â€œI beg your pardon,” he said the next moment. “No, it was not easy. And now I guess you can go away. You’ve got all you wanted out of me. But let me tell you this before you go. It won’t do you any good to repeat anything I’ve said. I’ll deny it, and there are no witnesses. I’ll deny every word of it; and if I have to, I’ll do it under oath on the witness stand.”
    After my interview with Smith I went to my father’s office in the Chemistry Building and there encountered Ernest. It was quite unexpected, but he met me with his bold eyes and firm hand-clasp, and with that curious blend of his of awkwardness and ease. It was as though our last stormy meeting was forgotten; but I was not in the mood to have it forgotten.
    â€œI have been looking up Jackson’s case,” I said abruptly.
    He was all interested attention, and waited for me to go on, though I could see in his eyes the certitude that my convictions had been shaken.
    â€œHe seems to have been badly treated,” I confessed. “I—I—think some of his blood is dripping from our roof-beams.”
    â€œOf course,” he answered. “If Jackson and all his fellows were treated mercifully, the dividends would not be so large.”
    â€œI shall never be able to take pleasure in pretty gowns again,” I added.
    I felt humble and contrite, and was aware of a sweet feeling that Ernest was a sort of father confessor. Then, as ever after, his strength appealed to me. It seemed to radiate a promise of peace and protection.
    â€œNor will you be able to take pleasure in sackcloth,” he said gravely. “There are the jute mills, you know, and the same thing goes on there. It goes on everywhere. Our boasted civilization is based upon blood, soaked in blood, and neither you nor I nor any of us can escape the scarlet stain. The men you talked with—who were they?”
    I told him all that had taken place.
    â€œAnd not one of them was a free agent,” he said. “They were all tied to the merciless industrial machine. And the pathos of it and the tragedy is that