Death at Pullman by Frances McNamara Page A

along in front of one of the leaders asking questions as he went. This must be Mr. Eugene V. Debs, president of the ARU. He looked about forty years of age and was nearly six feet tall. His hair was thinning to the point where he was starting to go bald and he wore spectacles, but his clean-shaven face was open and pleasant. He seemed amused by my brother as he strode along, answering his questions willingly.
    â€œWhy, the boys all over the country are clamoring to tie up the Pullman cars. They are in an inflammatory mood and longing for a chance to take part in this affair. The Pullman conductors—who get salaries of twenty-five dollars a month and are obliged to depend on the charity of the public to get enough to live on—would be glad of the chance to go out. Such men are in the mood to get even with the company that compels them to work under this system. The whole country is in an inflammable condition. I never saw it in such a condition before. When a man gets two dollars a day he can live and is therefore a coward—afraid to try to get more—but when he gets cut down to one dollar and forty cents, or worse yet, one dollar, he gets desperate. The difference between that and no money at all is so slight he feels he has nothing to lose and everything to gain by a strike.”
    As we walked along 112th—a great crowd of people by then, perhaps twenty abreast—I could see across the park to the hotel, where guests stood on the veranda watching us march by. But Mr. Jennings and his cronies wisely chose to stay inside until we passed.
    A shorter, vigorous man with a big smile on his face was walking beside Debs. I learned later that he was Mr. Howard, second in command of the union. He told Alden, “The international convention of the ARU will meet in Chicago next week. Then we’ll see what happens.”
    It was very hot in the late afternoon sunshine. When I slowed down and dropped back, wiping a sleeve against my forehead, I found Mr. MacGregor beside me. Repeating his thanks for the efforts to provide relief, he seemed more energetic and optimistic than he had been before.
    â€œWe believe the strike will not last long, Miss Cabot. We‘ve learned the company kept twenty clerks on the payroll so they must not anticipate it will last long. But we expect them to try to lure the men away by opening again. I should not be surprised to see placards on the gates next Monday.” We could see the front gates in the distance and he gestured towards them as we passed. “They’ll announce that all who want to return to work at the old wages can do so. When the company finds no one will come back, then it will be ready to negotiate. The officials are talking nonsense when they say they can get repair work done at railroad shops, for they know that this would cause a strike in the shop where it was attempted and the railroads will not try it.” He shook his head knowingly.
    The man beside him was Mr. Stark. He said, “They say the notices to the men will tell them that, unless they go to work at once, they will never be given employment in the Pullman shops again. It’s got some of the men nervous.”
    â€œAll we have to do is all hang together,” Mr. MacGregor corrected him. “That’s all. You’ll see. We hope we will not have to depend on your relief for too long, Miss Cabot. There is great hope that this will all be over by next week.”
    We reached Athletic Island then and filed onto the wooden grandstand. It faced Lake Calumet, so there was a slight breeze. I shaded my eyes and watched as Mr. Debs jumped up onto a wooden table placed in front of the stands. The crowd grew quiet in order to hear him. He had a voice that carried but seemed never to be raised.
    â€œIt is unnecessary for me to say that I am with you heart and soul in this fight. As a general thing I am against a strike, but when the only alternative to a strike is the sacrifice of