Part 1

ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS A DAY. STUDIES IN PRACTICAL ECONOMICS.

BY

ADELINE KNAPP.

1894: THE ARENA PUBLISHING COMPANY, COPLEY SQUARE, BOSTON, MASS.

COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY ADELINE KNAPP.

[All rights reserved.]

DEDICATED

TO THE

THOUGHTFUL MEN AND WOMEN OF AMERICA.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION 5

ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS A DAY; A FINANCIAL EXPERIMENT 11

THE SICK MAN; A FABLE FOR GROWN-UP BOYS AND GIRLS 42

THE DISCONTENTED MACHINE; AN ECONOMIC STUDY 73

GETTING AHEAD; A SKETCH FROM LIFE 101

THE EARTH SLEPT; A VISION 125

INTRODUCTION.

It seems to me that the accompanying little sketches are timely. A deal of thinking must be done by all classes of people before any solution is attempted of the problems in economics that are pressing upon us, and any factor that will help turn the general mind to this unwonted exercise may be termed a useful one.

There is one sketch for which I wish to make a special plea. “The Discontented Machine” has been criticised as teaching a false principle in economics.

We are told that never before in the history of the world did labor absorb so great a proportion of the gains that would otherwise accrue to capital. It is claimed that fully ninety per cent. of the entire income of the United States is paid for wages and salaries.

On the other hand, it must be stated that the individual laborer is worse off to-day, in this free country, than he was twenty, or even ten years ago. The census returns of 1880 showed the average wage among laborers in the United States to be less than $7 per week. The returns of 1890 show that wage to be less than $5 per week.

And yet we are told that labor absorbs ninety per cent. of the income of the United States. This is an enormous percentage to flow in one direction, and seems ample refutation of the laborer’s claim that even at this rate he does not get enough.

This leads to the question whether the laborer really does get his share of return from the results of his labor, and in “The Discontented Machine” I have tried to show a very curious phase of this question, and one which I do not remember to have seen touched upon elsewhere.

Wages are supposed to be adjusted, in the long run, to that which among a people is customarily requisite for the perpetuation of life, and the propagation of the species, according to the standard of living among that people. This is called “The Law of Wages.” It means, put very plainly, and according to La Salle, that the income of labor must always dance around the outside rim of that which, according to the standard of each age, belongs to the necessary maintenance of life.

Now the point raised is this: That under the so-called law of wages, the wage laborer is not really paid anything for himself. Judged from a purely commercial standpoint, labor gets its wage; but what does the laborer get?

In every manufacturing business the wear and tear, original cost and cost of repair, of machinery, etc., are taken out of the gross receipts of the business. Now labor, in the eyes of the employer, is simply an adjunct, as the machines are adjuncts, to the business. As these require, for their successful operation, certain expenditures for coal, oil, gearing, and the like, so labor requires for its successful operation, certain expenditures for food, shelter, clothing, which are, so to speak, labor’s coal, oil, and gearing. These expenditures, for which a wage is paid to labor, “in order that it may live,” are regulated by the law of wages as stated above. They represent exactly what will enable labor to perform its function, and the amount required for them is charged to labor out of the gross receipts of the business, just as the items of machinery expense are deducted from those receipts. For himself, over and above his labor’s bill of expense, the laborer gets nothing.

It may be that he is entitled to nothing. This condition of affairs may be only his misfortune. It certainly cannot be said to be his employer’s fault that in delivering the commodity in which he deals—labor—the laborer must deliver himself as well. This is the tragic phase of the whole situation. Labor, the power to perform, is the man himself; so that in offering his commodity, the working man must offer, as well, himself, with all his human rights and endowments. He does this literally, but in reality it is only his commodity that is wanted, only this that is paid for. The human being himself is a superfluous consideration, and an inconvenient one.

And as for him? He waits, asking his question, now softly, now with clamoring insistence; but he, too, along with the others, must do a deal of thinking before any tangible solution to his problem is presented.

ADELINE KNAPP.

_San Francisco, Cal., 1894._

ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS A DAY. A FINANCIAL EXPERIENCE.

“Yes,” said the anti-poverty orator, “what we require is an equitable distribution of the world’s wealth. The bloated bond-holder, the idle, white-handed aristocrat and the politician who rob the people, must all go. We want such a distribution of the money and wealth of the land as will make every man independent of his neighbor. Then the world will really prosper, but not until then will we see an end of poverty and misery, and the never-ending struggle that is driving men to desperation and women to perdition!”

“Time for us to go,” whispered Carroll Burton’s companion just at this juncture. “He’ll begin to wave the red flag in a minute, and then there’ll be an anarchistic powwow. This meeting always ends in a rumpus,” and together the two young men forced their way through the crowd and out upon the street.

Dale, Burton’s friend, was inclined to poke a little quiet fun at him for the attention he had given the ranting speaker. “These fellows have each an infallible scheme for setting the world straight,” he said, “and no two are alike. Between you and me, anyway,” he added, “the world’s a good deal better than the ranters would have us think. Why, give these fellows one thousand dollars a day apiece and they wouldn’t be satisfied.”

But Burton was not in the mood for laughing. His reason told him how specious were the arguments of the anti-poverty speaker and how preposterous were the ideas he advanced regarding an equitable division of the world’s wealth, but he could not tonight, as he had frequently done before, shake off the conviction that our present industrial system is out of joint.

“It don’t seem right,” he muttered to himself, as he stood waiting for his car, after bidding Dale good-night, and saw the carriage of a well-known millionaire dash along the street and nearly run down a poor little shivering wretch of a news-boy, who, hurling a curse in a shrill, piping voice after the driver of the carriage, was only answered by a stinging blow from the latter’s long lash. One or two by-standers laughed. “The young imps,” said one carelessly, “’twould be well if they were all run over and killed. They’ll only grow up into hoodlums and fill our jails later. What other chance have they?”

“It isn’t right,” Burton concluded. “We can’t have perfect equality of conditions, but such glaring inequalities as that ought not to exist in a free country;” and swinging aboard his car he was soon speeding homeward.

Next morning he was awakened much earlier than usual by the sound of unwonted cries under his window. “Have all the newsboys in town come into this one block?” he asked himself. “What are they saying, anyway?”

Listening a moment the cry took definite shape.

“Extra _Leader_, five cents; all about the money distribution!”

“What’s that?” wondered Burton. “Have the anti-poverty people carried their idea?”

Dressing himself, he descended into the street and directed his footsteps to the restaurant where he was accustomed to breakfast. Incidentally he bought a paper, and glancing at the first page was filled with wonder at what he saw recorded.

To sum up in a few words the story to which the paper devoted two whole pages, with blazing headlines: the anti-poverty element, who, since the last election, Burton knew, had been in a large majority in both houses, had at last carried the point for which they had long been working—namely, the division among the people of the enormous output from the great Golconda mines in Arizona. These mines being situated on government lands, the anti-poverty party had from the first contended that they were the property of the government—that is, of the people—and, having grown sufficiently strong to put the matter through, they had at last, by Act of Congress, secured the distribution among the people of the fabulous sums that had accumulated since the opening of the mines. The coinage had been greatly increased since the discovery of this great supply, but despite this fact, money had been in no freer circulation than before, and on every hand complaints of hard times were heard, while the gold coin in the government treasury was piled ceiling high in the great vaults, and the question of what to do with it was becoming a serious one.

Now, by Act of Congress, it was to be equally divided among the people. For the present, and until the accumulated hoard should be reduced, every man and woman in the country over eighteen years old was to receive one thousand dollars a day.

Burton read the account incredulously. It was too preposterous to be true. If that were done—Great Heavens! Why, he was one of the people! He, Carroll Burton, would be entitled to a thousand dollars per day. Ah! if it could but be true, what a plum it would be. Joe should go to college, his old mother back East, why, both Joe and his mother would each have a thousand dollars a day as well as himself. Pshaw! It was only a newspaper fake. Yet—they would hardly dare. Those Golconda mines were said to be inexhaustible. He remembered hearing a great city capitalist say, some time before, that if the government did not close them up soon, money would become a drug in the market and capital would be crippled.

At the restaurant the only theme of conversation was the great new act. Few credited it—it so staggered belief. Later in the day, however, proclamations were out on every bulletin board and dead wall in the city. The act had really passed. Every state, county, township and city was to be districted, and on the first day of June every American citizen above eighteen years of age would, upon calling at the distributing station in his or her ward, receive the sum of one thousand dollars daily until further notice.

The first of June was only three days off, which was fortunate for the people, as, while every one made a pretense of being busy, very little besides talk was accomplished in any of the places of business, excitement running so high that no one could settle down to work.

Early on the first day of June, Burton found himself one of a great crowd waiting at the door of the distributing center of the ——th ward, which in this case was one of the chief banks of the city, all of whose employees were busy paying out piles of beautiful bright gold to all comers.

The crowd was a very silent one. Burton wondered why, until he suddenly realized that he, himself was silent, oppressed and feeling almost solemn at the wonderful event that was taking place. The people took their gold, glanced at it, signed a receipt for it and retired at once, some furtively counting the piles as they went, some affecting indifference, others openly exulting in the shining twenties as they walked along gazing at them.

When it came Burton’s turn he received fifty broad gold $20 pieces—more gold than he had ever before owned. “You know there’ll be as much for you to-morrow,” the paying teller said as Burton signed his receipt, and Carroll was so awe-stricken at the idea that he could only nod without speaking. Then he fell back to watch the crowd. Poor widows, wondering young men and maidens, prosperous business men, business men whom he knew to be tottering on the brink of ruin, hard-handed workmen, pompous millionaires, writers, mechanics, ministers, college professors,—every class and grade of the body social, was represented in turn as the people filed up to the window.

After a while Burton turned and went to his place of business—a commission office, where he spent eight and a half hours every day in adding rows of figures and carrying results from page to page in a complex system of “bookkeeping by double-entry,” to acquire which he had years ago attended a business college. Every one about the place was jubilant. Even the errand-boy, a chuckleheaded lad just turned eighteen, had drawn a thousand dollars, and was already, in expectation, drawing another cool thousand on the morrow, and succeeding morrows.

Business throve that day, in all its branches. Men who, the day before, had been seeking extended time on small accounts, now came in to pay up and make new purchases. Men who had never bought in their line came forward as purchasers. In all departments of trade money was plentiful; people bought freely and everybody was happy as the day is long.

A second distribution the next day gave another impetus to the market. “Now,” said Burton to himself, when at noon he had a breathing spell, “we can begin to live. I’m going to treat myself to one of Reading’s wheels and take an occasional spin into the country.”

“Yes,” said the man whom he addressed, an old forty-niner, “there’ll be good times now. Haven’t seen anything like this since ‘the days of old, the days of gold,’ and so forth. Why it’s regular diggings times again.” The day passed by. Every one was in good spirits, buying everything he wanted.

It is curious to note how quickly we become accustomed to pleasant things. Carroll drew his thousand dollars on the morning of the third day, quite as a matter of course, and even felt that ’twas not such a very great matter after all. “I wish they’d give it to me all in a lump, instead of in these daily driblets. Then a man could really do something with it,” he thought to himself as he carelessly dropped into an outside pocket, what was really more than under the old system he would have earned by six months’ work.

Through the day, however, he did a little thinking. “There’s really no occasion for my working now,” he said. “I never did like this business. I’ll quit, and go on with my electrical studies, as I’ve always longed to do.”

No sooner thought of than decided upon. That night, as he was going home, Burton stepped into the private office of the head of the firm and announced his intention of leaving.

“Oh, is that so, Burton?” said his employer. “I’m sorry to hear that. I am thinking of going out of business in order to travel, and had hit upon you as just the man to succeed me. I’d make very easy terms with you.”

But Carroll’s mind was made up. He was a natural-born electrician, and here was the long-coveted chance to perfect himself in his favorite hobby. He must not miss it.

He slept late next morning, but was ready to go down town in time to draw his thousand dollars. He had to wait a strangely long time for a street car, and when, at last, one came down and he boarded it, he was surprised to note that the gripman was none other than the chief engineer of the road, while the secretary of the company himself was handling the punch and taking fares. As he handed up his nickel Burton asked: “How’s this, Graham? Are you ‘personally conducting’ this car load?”

Graham smiled grimly at the joke. “Looks like it,” he said sharply. “This thousand-dollar-a-day lunacy of the anti-poverty people is going to ruin our business. All our men have quit work. When they’ve a thousand dollars a day to draw they’re not going to pull grips and punch tickets for $2.50 a day, they say—and no one can blame ’em, I suppose, but it’s mighty hard on capital, I can tell you. We’ve got to run cars or forfeit our franchise.”

Burton assented that it was pretty tough. “I must see Reading about that wheel,” he thought, “then I can be independent of cars.” So having drawn his money he started for the shop of a famous mechanic, who made a superior style of wheel for which he controlled the right on the Pacific Coast. On the way Burton tried to bank his money, which was heavy and troublesome to carry; but found, much to his disgust, that none of the banks would touch it.

“We’ve got more now than we know what to do with,” was the cry. “We can’t loan it nor invest it, and we’ve no room to store it.”

So, carrying it, Carroll proceeded to Reading’s shop. He was not really surprised to find it closed, and a notice on the door to the effect that Reading had gone out of business. “I can’t say I blame him,” thought Burton, “but I wish I’d got my wheel yesterday. I must hunt up an agent.”

It was a long hunt before he found one whose store was open, and he had but one machine left that Carroll could ride. “I’ve sold a good many this week,” the agent explained, “and it’s hardly worth while to stock up again, as I’m going out of business. Besides, I had a telegram from the Eastern factory this morning, saying their men had nearly all quit work.”

Congratulating himself upon having secured any bicycle at all, Carroll, who had before had a few lessons, wobbled uncertainly away upon it, to the restaurant where he was wont to eat his meals. It was closed.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, as he met another of the frequenters of the place, “this is getting serious. I’m hungry.”

“Yes,” said the other, “so am I. I quit work myself to-day. I’ve always wanted to study medicine, but fate made me a carpenter. Now I’ve got even with fate. I’m going to college, but I want something to eat.”

So the two began a round of the restaurants of the neighborhood, and at last found a wretched little place open, where they were glad to satisfy their hunger with coffee and doughnuts eaten at a dirty table, in a dirty, ill-smelling room. “I gloses up to-morrow,” the proprietor said, with a grin, as they paid their checks.

“Great guns!” exclaimed the carpenter. “We’ll all starve at this rate.”

“Oh, no,” said Burton hopefully. “We can always ‘bach it.’”

But one evening at the end of a fortnight he began to fear that even this would fail. He had cooked his own meals for three days, and had lived mainly on boiled eggs and baker’s bread; but on this particular morning he was unable to buy any bread, and had been forced to content himself with a single egg and the heel of a stale loaf soaked in milk.

“I shall go out in the country this afternoon in search of food,” he decided. Meantime, however, he had to go and fetch away a double load of golden twenties, for, filled with disgust at the useless coins, he had not gone the day before, and had been promptly notified by the bank that he must come and take away his daily allowance, as it would not be allowed to accumulate, the bank having no place to keep the quantities that would be left on their hands.

As he walked down Market Street he saw one of San Francisco’s millionaires driving his own team and carriage up-town. Inside the carriage was a tiny casket, at the head of which sat a weeping woman, the millionaire’s wife. The other occupant of the carriage was a lad of fourteen, the millionaire’s son. The casket contained the remains of the millionaire’s baby, and as Burton looked he knew that the millionaire was on his way to the cemetery to bury the child, for on the seat beside him he saw a pickax and shovel and a coil of rope. He remembered that in all the city there was not a man who could be hired to do a hand’s turn. All had money a-plenty, and no need to work. Then he remembered that there was a milk famine in the city, and reflected that the millionaire’s baby had probably died because of it.

He went to the bank and got his money, carrying it up Market Street openly in a canvas bag. There were no police in the city—the entire force had resigned, but no one would think of stealing money. If his bag had contained bread, now, it would had been different. Every food shop in town had long since been plundered by leading citizens, but gold was safe. Every store on the street was closed; not a street-car was in sight,—none were running. The ferries had ceased to make regular trips; sometimes a boat did not pass between Oakland and San Francisco for days. No trains went in and out of the city. Commerce was at a stand-still. It was in banking hours and every passer along Market Street carried a bag of gold, and every man and woman among them was hungry.

“Something must be done,” they muttered to each other. “This state of things cannot last.”

Passing down a street on the south side, to escape the sight of the general misery, Burton chanced upon a curious scene. A wretched, ragged street gamin was leading a goat along the sidewalk. A handsomely dressed gentleman had accosted him. The boy was just explaining to him that he meant to take the goat home and kill it; his mother would cook it.

“Here is a thousand dollars,” the man said, holding out a bag. “I’ll give it all to you for one quarter of the goat when you kill it.”

The boy grinned. “I’m takin’ this ’ere home ter my mudder,” he said. “She don’t want gold; she’d ruther have a bag of Injun meal.”

“See here,” the man said, suddenly. “I used to have a big merchant tailoring establishment. My men all left me and I had to close up, but I’ve got lots of cloth. If you’ll just milk that goat before you kill it, and let me take the milk home to my baby, I’ll make you a suit of clothes with my own hands.”

The boy looked down at his ragged togs, then at Burton. “You’re witness,” he said. “It’s er bargain.”

The episode gave Burton a bright idea. In a couple of hours he had secured a large store on Market Street and put out a sign: “Labor Exchange. A Way Out Of Our Present Difficulties.”

He had not long to wait for visitors. The city was full of idle people, and they flocked to learn what the new idea was.

The first inquirer said:

“I’ve got a house half built. I want it completed. Have you got any carpenters that want a job?”

“What’s your business?” asked Burton.

“I’m a baker.”

“Would you be willing to pay for your labor in bread?”

“Of course, if I could get flour.”

“I’m a miller,” shouted a man in the crowd; “I’d be willing to work if I could get bread, but I’ve got no use for more gold.”

“I have fifty carloads of wheat in warehouses,” a broker said, “and I’d be willing to turn it in and do day’s work for my share of bread to be made from it.”

“Shure, and I’ll be glad the day I could help haul it,” cried an Irish teamster, “but it’s no day’s wages in money I’d work for. It’s a pair of boots I’m wantin’ an some milk for my kid at home.”

“Milk,” cried a dairyman, bitterly. “You could ‘a’ had milk long ago, but not a man can I get to drive a wagon or turn a hand to milk the fifty cows. I’ve had to leave their calves with them ever since this blasted gold fit seized the government.”

“Gold!” roared a laborer, lifting a bag containing his day’s allowance. “Who wants gold? It’s bread we’re starving for,” and with a single jerk he flung the bag into the gutter. The broad twenties rolled and glittered in the sun, and a baby, attracted by the shine, left its mother’s side and picked one up. The rest lay where they had fallen—no one wanted them.