suffering during this strike.’’
Fred downed the remainder of his coffee. ‘‘I couldn’t agree more. And you’ve been doing your part to help, too. When word got out that the brickyard workers were going on strike, too, those news articles you wrote caused quite a stir.’’
When the Pullman workers went out on strike in May, the sizable group of unskilled immigrants from Italy and Bohemia who worked in the brickyards continued working, primarily because they’d not been invited to join the American Railway Union. But shortly after the strike began, they organized and demanded wage increases, and when their demands were refused, they, too, walked out.
Eager for a fresh story, reporters swarmed the town and made their way to the seldom seen frame homes adjacent to the Pullman brickyards to speak to the workers. Subsequent news articles reported unpaved streets lined with three-room hovels that lacked any indoor plumbing yet fetched eight dollars a month in rent. The reports brought unwanted attention to a section of Pullman that had been overlooked by the outside world and caused a good deal of embarrassment for the company, which pleased most residents of the town.
The waiter offered another cup of the steaming brew, but the men declined. ‘‘If you have no objection,’’ Matthew said, ‘‘I’ll walk along with you. Mr. Ashton may have some information that will give my article a different slant than some of the others. We’re all scrambling for news until the convention actually begins on the ninth.’’
Fred nodded. ‘‘You’d think it was already in progress. Seems like there’s a lot more folks in town than usual. The train station was brimming with people.’’
‘‘The railway union has gained national attention. Reporters from the eastern press and national wire service have been arriving for days now. I believe it’s going to prove beneficial to the Pullman employees that the annual convention was scheduled for this time and place.’’
‘‘Some say it is the hand of God at work,’’ Fred said.
‘‘And you?’’ Matthew asked.
Fred shrugged. ‘‘I’m not certain. Either way, I know it’s a good thing the convention will bring attention to our plight.’’
‘‘Before this is over, the entire country will be interested in what’s happening here,’’ Matthew said as they entered Montrose Ashton’s law office.
The white-haired attorney pointed his familiar unlit cigar in their direction. ‘‘Are you concocting another headline, Matthew?’’
‘‘No. I thought I’d have you do that for me. When Fred said he was coming to visit, I invited myself along. Thought you might have some insider information for me.’’
The older man flapped a newspaper in the air. ‘‘From what I’m reading in here, looks like those easterners think the nation’s headed toward catastrophe.’’
While Mr. Ashton and Matthew bantered back and forth, Fred picked up the paper and perused the lengthy article about groups of men, former members of Coxey’s Industrial Army, who were now roaming the countryside seeking assistance. He’d heard about Jacob Coxey. With so many out of work after the Panic of 1893, Coxey organized a march on Washington, D.C., to petition Congress for measures to help relieve unemployment. Numerous groups of men from across the country gathered to join Coxey’s march. They had arrived in the nation’s capital in late April this year, where Mr. Coxey had hoped to persuade Congress to issue federal bonds to build public roads and put the unemployed to work. Instead, he’d been arrested and Coxey’s Army had disbanded.
‘‘Do you believe this?’’ Fred asked while pointing to a comment in the article he’d been reading. ‘‘Jacob Coxey named his son Legal Tender Coxey.’’
Matthew glanced at the paper and nodded. ‘‘Hard to believe a man would go so far to prove he’s not a socialist.’’
Fred shook his head in disbelief. ‘‘Poor kid.
Fred downed the remainder of his coffee. ‘‘I couldn’t agree more. And you’ve been doing your part to help, too. When word got out that the brickyard workers were going on strike, too, those news articles you wrote caused quite a stir.’’
When the Pullman workers went out on strike in May, the sizable group of unskilled immigrants from Italy and Bohemia who worked in the brickyards continued working, primarily because they’d not been invited to join the American Railway Union. But shortly after the strike began, they organized and demanded wage increases, and when their demands were refused, they, too, walked out.
Eager for a fresh story, reporters swarmed the town and made their way to the seldom seen frame homes adjacent to the Pullman brickyards to speak to the workers. Subsequent news articles reported unpaved streets lined with three-room hovels that lacked any indoor plumbing yet fetched eight dollars a month in rent. The reports brought unwanted attention to a section of Pullman that had been overlooked by the outside world and caused a good deal of embarrassment for the company, which pleased most residents of the town.
The waiter offered another cup of the steaming brew, but the men declined. ‘‘If you have no objection,’’ Matthew said, ‘‘I’ll walk along with you. Mr. Ashton may have some information that will give my article a different slant than some of the others. We’re all scrambling for news until the convention actually begins on the ninth.’’
Fred nodded. ‘‘You’d think it was already in progress. Seems like there’s a lot more folks in town than usual. The train station was brimming with people.’’
‘‘The railway union has gained national attention. Reporters from the eastern press and national wire service have been arriving for days now. I believe it’s going to prove beneficial to the Pullman employees that the annual convention was scheduled for this time and place.’’
‘‘Some say it is the hand of God at work,’’ Fred said.
‘‘And you?’’ Matthew asked.
Fred shrugged. ‘‘I’m not certain. Either way, I know it’s a good thing the convention will bring attention to our plight.’’
‘‘Before this is over, the entire country will be interested in what’s happening here,’’ Matthew said as they entered Montrose Ashton’s law office.
The white-haired attorney pointed his familiar unlit cigar in their direction. ‘‘Are you concocting another headline, Matthew?’’
‘‘No. I thought I’d have you do that for me. When Fred said he was coming to visit, I invited myself along. Thought you might have some insider information for me.’’
The older man flapped a newspaper in the air. ‘‘From what I’m reading in here, looks like those easterners think the nation’s headed toward catastrophe.’’
While Mr. Ashton and Matthew bantered back and forth, Fred picked up the paper and perused the lengthy article about groups of men, former members of Coxey’s Industrial Army, who were now roaming the countryside seeking assistance. He’d heard about Jacob Coxey. With so many out of work after the Panic of 1893, Coxey organized a march on Washington, D.C., to petition Congress for measures to help relieve unemployment. Numerous groups of men from across the country gathered to join Coxey’s march. They had arrived in the nation’s capital in late April this year, where Mr. Coxey had hoped to persuade Congress to issue federal bonds to build public roads and put the unemployed to work. Instead, he’d been arrested and Coxey’s Army had disbanded.
‘‘Do you believe this?’’ Fred asked while pointing to a comment in the article he’d been reading. ‘‘Jacob Coxey named his son Legal Tender Coxey.’’
Matthew glanced at the paper and nodded. ‘‘Hard to believe a man would go so far to prove he’s not a socialist.’’
Fred shook his head in disbelief. ‘‘Poor kid.
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