“But that is far-fetched,” I objected. “Suppose I should disagree with everybody about the literary style of a book. They wouldn’t send me to an asylum for that.”
“Very true,” he replied. “But such divergence of opinion would constitute no menace to society. Therein lies the difference. The divergence of opinion on the parts of Mary McKenna and the Bishop do menace society. What if all the poor people should refuse to pay rent and shelter themselves under the American flag? Landlordism would go crumbling. The Bishop’s views are just as perilous to society. Ergo, to the asylum with him.”
But still I refused to believe.
“Wait and see,” Ernest said, and I waited.
Next morning I sent out for all the papers. So far Ernest was right. Not a word that Bishop Morehouse had uttered was in print. Mention was made in one or two of the papers that he had been overcome by his feelings. Yet the platitudes of the speakers that followed him were reported at length.
Several days later the brief announcement was made that he had gone away on a vacation to recover from the effects of overwork. So far so good, but there had been no hint of insanity, nor even of nervous collapse. Little did I dream the terrible road the Bishop was destined to travel—the Gethsemane and crucifixion that Ernest had pondered about.
Chapter VIII.
The Machine Breakers
It was just before Ernest ran for Congress, on the socialist ticket, that father gave what he privately called his “Profit and Loss” dinner. Ernest called it the dinner of the Machine Breakers. In point of fact, it was merely a dinner for business men—small business men, of course. I doubt if one of them was interested in any business the total capitalization of which exceeded a couple of hundred thousand dollars. They were truly representative middle-class business men.
There was Owen, of Silverberg, Owen & Company—a large grocery firm with several branch stores. We bought our groceries from them. There were both partners of the big drug firm of Kowalt & Washburn, and Mr. Asmunsen, the owner of a large granite quarry in Contra Costa County. And there were many similar men, owners or part-owners in small factories, small businesses and small industries—small capitalists, in short.
They were shrewd-faced, interesting men, and they talked with simplicity and clearness. Their unanimous complaint was against the corporations and trusts. Their creed was, “Bust the Trusts.” All oppression originated in the trusts, and one and all told the same tale of woe. They advocated government ownership of such trusts as the railroads and telegraphs, and excessive income taxes, graduated with ferocity, to destroy large accumulations. Likewise they advocated, as a cure for local ills, municipal ownership of such public utilities as water, gas, telephones, and street railways.
Especially interesting was Mr. Asmunsen’s narrative of his tribulations as a quarry owner. He confessed that he never made any profits out of his quarry, and this, in spite of the enormous volume of business that had been caused by the destruction of San Francisco by the big earthquake. For six years the rebuilding of San Francisco had been going on, and his business had quadrupled and octupled, and yet he was no better off.
“The railroad knows my business just a little bit better than I do,” he said. “It knows my operating expenses to a cent, and it knows the terms of my contracts. How it knows these things I can only guess. It must have spies in my employ, and it must have access to the parties to all my contracts. For look you, when I place a big contract, the terms of which favor me a goodly profit, the freight rate from my quarry to market is promptly raised. No explanation is made. The railroad gets my profit. Under such circumstances I have never succeeded in getting the railroad to reconsider its raise. On the other hand, when there have been accidents, increased expenses of operating, or contracts with less profitable terms, I have always succeeded in getting the railroad to lower its rate. What is the result? Large or small, the railroad always gets my profits.”
“What remains to you over and above,” Ernest interrupted to ask, “would roughly be the equivalent of your salary as a manager did the railroad own the quarry.”
“The very thing,” Mr. Asmunsen replied. “Only a short time ago I had my books gone through for the past ten years. I discovered that for those ten years my gain was just equivalent to a manager’s salary. The railroad might just as well have owned my quarry and hired me to run it.”
“But with this difference,” Ernest laughed; “the railroad would have had to assume all the risk which you so obligingly assumed for it.”
“Very true,” Mr. Asmunsen answered sadly.
Having let them have their say, Ernest began asking questions right and left. He began with Mr. Owen.
“You started a branch store here in Berkeley about six months ago?”
“Yes,” Mr. Owen answered.
“And since then I’ve noticed that three little corner groceries have gone out of business. Was your branch store the cause of it?”
Mr. Owen affirmed with a complacent smile. “They had no chance against us.”
“Why not?”
“We had greater capital. With a large business there is always less waste and greater efficiency.”
“And your branch store absorbed the profits of the three small ones. I see. But tell me, what became of the owners of the three stores?”
“One is driving a delivery wagon for us. I don’t know what happened to the other two.”
Ernest turned abruptly on Mr. Kowalt.
“You sell a great deal at cut-rates.54 What have become of the owners of the small drug stores that you forced to the wall?”
“One of them, Mr. Haasfurther, has charge now of our prescription department,” was the answer.
“And you absorbed the profits they had been making?”
“Surely. That is what we are in business for.”
“And you?” Ernest said suddenly to Mr. Asmunsen. “You are disgusted because the railroad has absorbed your profits?”
Mr. Asmunsen nodded.
“What you want is to make profits yourself?”
Again Mr. Asmunsen nodded.
“Out of others?”
There was no answer.
“Out of others?” Ernest insisted.
“That is the way profits are made,” Mr. Asmunsen replied curtly.
“Then the business game is to make profits out of others, and to prevent others from making profits out of you. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Ernest had to repeat his question before Mr. Asmunsen gave an answer, and then he said:
“Yes, that’s it, except that we do not object to the others making profits so long as they are not extortionate.”
“By extortionate you mean large; yet you do not object to making large profits yourself? . . . Surely not?”
And Mr. Asmunsen amiably confessed to the weakness. There was one other man who was quizzed by Ernest at this juncture, a Mr. Calvin, who had once been a great dairy-owner.
“Some time ago you were fighting the Milk Trust,” Ernest said to him; “and now you are in Grange politics.55 How did it happen?”
“Oh,