Oppressing The Oppressor

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Title:     Oppressing The Oppressor
Author: Cy Warman [More Titles by Warman]

"Is this the President's office?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can I see the President?"

"Yes,--I'm the President."

The visitor placed one big boot in a chair, hung his soft hat on his knee, dropped his elbow on the hat, let his chin fall in the hollow of his hand, and waited.

The President of the Santa Fe, leaning over a flat-topped table, wrote leisurely. When he had finished, he turned a kindly face to the visitor and asked what could be done.

"My name's Jones."

"Yes?"

"I presume you know about me,--Buffalo Jones, of Garden City."

"Well," began the President, "I know a lot of Joneses, but where is Garden City?"

"Down the road a piece, 'bout half-way between Wakefield and Turner's Tank. I want you folks to put in a switch there,--that's what I've come about. I'd like to have it in this week."

"Anybody living at Garden City?"

"Yes, all that's there's livin'."

"About how many?"

"One and a half when I'm away,--Swede and Injin."

The President of the Santa Fe smiled and rolled his lead pencil between the palms of his hands. Mr. Jones watched him and pitied him, as one watches and pities a child who is fooling with firearms. "He don't know I'm loaded," thought Jones.

"Well," said the President, "when you get your town started so that there will be some prospect of getting a little business, we shall be only too glad to put in a spur for you."

Jones had been looking out through an open window, watching the law-makers of Kansas going up the wide steps of the State House. The fellows from the farm climbed, the town fellows ran up the steps.

"Spur!" said Jones, wheeling around from the window and walking toward the President's desk, "I don't want no spur; I want a side track that'll hold fifty cars, and I want it this week,--see?"

"Now look here, Mr. Jones, this is sheer nonsense. We get wind at Wakefield and water at Turner's Tank; now, what excuse is there for putting in a siding half-way between these places?"

Again Mr. Jones, rubbing the point of his chin with the ball of his thumb, gave the President a pitying glance.

"Say!" said Jones, resting the points of his long fingers on the table, "I'm goin' to build a town. You're goin' to build a side track. I've already set aside ten acres of land for you, for depot and yards. This land will cost you fifty dollars per, now. If I have to come back about this side track, it'll cost you a hundred. Now, Mr. President, I wish you good-mornin'."

At the door Jones paused and looked back. "Any time this week will do; good-mornin'."

The President smiled and turned to his desk. Presently he smiled again; then he forgot all about Mr. Jones and the new town, and went on with his work.

Mr. Jones went down and out and over to the House to watch the men make laws.

* * * * *

In nearly every community, about every capital, State or National, you will find men who are capable of being influenced. This is especially true of new communities through which a railway is being built. It has always been so, and will be, so long as time expires. I mean the time of an annual pass. It is not surprising, then, that in Kansas at that time, the Grasshopper period,--before prohibition, Mrs. Nation, and religious dailies,--the company had its friends, and that Mr. Jones, an honest farmer with money to spend, had his.

Two or three days after the interview with Mr. Jones, the President's "friend" came over to the railroad building. He came in quietly and seated himself near the President, as a doctor enters a sick-room or a lawyer a prison cell. "I know you don't want me," he seemed to say, "but you need me."

When his victim had put down his pen, the politician asked, "Have you seen Buffalo Jones?"

The President said he had seen the gentleman.

"I think it would be a good scheme to give him what he wants," said the Honorable member of the State legislature.

But the President could not agree with his friend; and at the end of half an hour, the Honorable member went away not altogether satisfied. He did not relish the idea of the President trying to run the road without his assistance. One of the chief excuses for his presence on earth and in the State legislature was "to take care of the road." Now, he had gotten up early in order to see the President without being seen, and the President had waved him aside. "Well," he said, "I'll let Jones have the field to-day."

* * * * *

Two days later, when the President opened his desk, he found a brief note from his confidential assistant,--not the Honorable one, but an ordinary man who worked for the company for a stated salary. The note read:--

"If Buffalo Jones calls to-day please see him.--I am leaving town. G.O.M."

But Buffalo did not call.

Presently the General Manager came in, and when he was leaving the room he turned and asked, "Have you seen Jones?"

"Yes," said the President of the Santa Fe, "I've seen Jones."

The General Manager was glad, for that took the matter from his hands and took the responsibility from his drooping shoulders.

About the time the President got his mind fixed upon the affairs of the road again, Colonel Holiday came in. Like the Honorable gentleman, he too entered by the private door unannounced; for he was the Father of the Santa Fe. Placing his high hat top side down on the table, the Colonel folded his hands over the golden head of his cane and inquired of the President if he had seen Jones.

The President assured the Colonel, who in addition to being the Father of the road was a director.

The Colonel picked up his hat and went out, feeling considerable relief: for his friend in the State Senate had informed him at the Ananias Club on the previous evening, that Jones was going to make trouble for the road. The Colonel knew that a good, virtuous man with money to spend could make trouble for anything or anybody, working quietly and unobtrusively among the equally virtuous members of the State legislature. The Colonel had been a member of that august body.

In a little while the General Manager came back; and with him came O'Marity, the road-master.

"I thought you said you had seen Jones," the General Manager began.

Now the President, who was never known to be really angry, wheeled on his revolving chair.

"I--have--seen Jones."

"Well, O'Marity says Jones has not been 'seen.' His friend, who comes down from Atchison every Sunday night on O'Marity's hand-car, has been good enough to tell O'Marity just what has been going on in the House. There must be some mistake. It seems to me that if this man Jones had been seen properly, he would subside. What's the matter with your friend--Ah, here comes the Honorable gentleman now."

The President beckoned with his index finger and his friend came in. Looking him in the eye, the President asked in a stage whisper: "Have you--seen--Jones?"

"No, sir," said the Honorable gentleman. "I had no authority to see him."

"It's damphunny," said O'Marity, "if the President 'ave seen 'im, 'e don't quit."

"I certainly saw a man called Jones,--Buffalo Jones of Garden City. He wanted a side track put in half-way between Wakefield and Turner's Tank."

"And you told him, 'Certainly, we'll do it at once,'" said the General Manager.

"No," the President replied, "I told him we would not do it at once, because there was no business or prospect of business to justify the expense."

"Ah--h," said the Manager.

O'Marity whistled softly.

The Honorable gentleman smiled, and looked out through the open window to where the members of the State legislature were going up the broad steps to the State House.

"Mr. Rong," the Manager began, "it is all a horrible mistake. You have never 'seen' Jones. Not in the sense that we mean. When you see a politician or a man who herds with politicians, he is supposed to be yours,--you are supposed to have acquired a sort of interest in him,--an interest that is valued so long as the individual is in sight. You are entitled to his support and influence, up to, and including the date on which your influence expires." All the time the Manager kept jerking his thumb toward the window that held the Honorable gentleman, using the President's friend as a living example of what he was trying to explain.

"Is Jones a member?"

"No, Mr. Rong, but he controls a few members. It is easier, you understand, to acquire a drove of steers by buying a bunch than by picking them up here and there, one at a time."

"I protest," said the Honorable member, "against the reference to members of the legislature as 'cattle.'"

Neither of the railway men appeared to hear the protest.

"I think I understand now," said the President. "And I wish, Robson, you would take this matter in hand. I confess that I have no stomach for such work."

"Very well," said the Manager. "Please instruct your--your--" and he jerked his thumb toward the Honorable gentleman--"your friend to send Jones to my office."

The Honorable gentleman went white and then flushed red, but he waited for no further orders. As he strode towards the door, Robson, with a smooth, unruffled brow, but with a cold smile playing over his handsome face, with mock courtesy and a wide sweep of his open hand, waved the visitor through the open door.

* * * * *

"Mr. Jones wishes to see you," said the chief clerk.

"Oh, certainly--show Mr. Jones--Ah, good-morning, Mr. Jones, glad to see you. How's Garden City? Going to let us in on the ground floor, Mr. Rong tells me. Here, now, fire up; take this big chair and tell me all about your new town."

Jones took a cigar cautiously from the box. When the Manager offered him a match he lighted up gingerly, as though he expected the thing to blow up.

"Now, Mr. Jones, as I understand it, you want a side track put in at once. The matter of depot and other buildings will wait, but I want you to promise to let us have at least ten acres of ground. Perhaps it would be better to transfer that to us at once. I'll see" (the Manager pressed a button). "Send the chief engineer to me, George," as the chief clerk looked in.

All this time Jones smoked little short puffs, eyeing the Manager and his own cigar. When the chief engineer came in he was introduced to Mr. Jones, the man who was going to give Kansas the highest boom she had ever had.

While Jones stood in open-mouthed amazement, the Manager instructed the engineer to go to Garden City when it would suit Mr. Jones, lay out a siding that would hold fifty loads, and complete the job at the earliest possible moment.

"By the way, Mr. Jones, have you got transportation over our line?"

Mr. Jones managed to gasp the one word, "No."

"Buz-z-zz," went the bell. "George, make out an annual for Mr. Jones,--Comp. G.M."

Jones steadied himself by resting an elbow on the top of the Manager's desk. The chief engineer was writing in a little note-book.

"Now, Mr. Jones--ah, your cigar's out!--how much is this ten acres to cost us?--a thousand dollars, I believe you told Mr. Rong."

"Yes, I did tell him that; but if this is straight and no jolly, it ain't goin' to cost you a cent."

"Well, that's a great deal better than most towns treat us," said the Manager. "Now, Mr. Jones, you will have to excuse me; I have some business with the President. Don't fail to look in on me when you come to town; and rest assured that the Santa Fe will leave nothing undone that might help your enterprise."

With a hearty handshake the Manager, usually a little frigid and remote, passed out, leaving Mr. Jones to the tender mercies of the chief engineer.

Up to this point there is nothing unusual in this story. The remarkable part is the fact that the building of a side track in an open plain turned out to be good business. In a year's time there was a neat station and more sidings. The town boomed with a rapidity that amazed even the boomers. To be sure, it had its relapses; but still, if you look from the window as the California Limited crashes by, you will see a pretty little town when you reach the point on the time-table called

"Garden City."

[The end]
Cy Warman's short story: Oppressing The Oppressor

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