The Scab.

Maoriland Worker, Volume 3, Issue 82, 4 October 1912, Page 7

The Scab.

"Where did He Come From?"

By A MONOLINE SLAVE.

As a snake wriggling its way across a dusty road leaves a well-defined trail," so the scab, or strike-brenker. leaves his trail across the path of civilisation, the difference being that the trail of the snake is as straight as a tailor's yard compared to that of the scab.

Why the scab, anyway? Of all the earth'e low creatures, he it is who i 9 held in most contempt by humanity at large. Verily his pathway is strewn with rocks in more senses than one. Who loves him r* Nobody. Who respects him? Nobody. Even his wife, for whom he claims he is trying to keep from starvation by "ratting" on another man's job, holds him in silent contempt. He can think up various excuses for his actions, but in her finer instincts and inborn capacity for discerning many t'rings which are far past him, she knows that it is not right; but as he never is steadily employed at any time, knocking around here and thore with half a. dozen trades about a thousand miles from his finger-tips, she holds her peace for her children's sake, wondering each time a knock comes to the door whether it is the groceryman or her lord and master on a shutter. And she doesn't seem to worry much about which it is.

Then there is the employer. The scab thinks his employer will be everlastingly grateful to him for helping him cut of a nasty hole, that when the day's work i* ended he will be invited out for automobile rides or taken into tho boau") of his employer's :>e has rosy visions of rapid advancement till he finally fills a managerial cauir witb numerous slaves at m.s bee ft ai.d call. Then he will tell this "autocratic union bunch" where titer prrper place is. And he works like the day after day, dodging his way to work in the morning and afraid to come out at night, while the boss he fawns upon looks askance at him and wonders, "how much am I going to lose on that fellow before this d d strike is ended?"

And the general populace? Do they not consider him somewhat of a heroP See how the multitudes applaud him. He comes down the street manfully directing the energies of a motor controller on a street car, one hand on the switch and the other on the brake lever. The crowd at the corner hails him with wild manifestations of joy, and in their efforts to acclaim him a popular hero frantically wave their arms urgina him to stop the car. The scab is bashful, and bends down low so the bouquets they toss at him will not hurt his tender hide. But they are so determined to get a look at their idol that a switch is deftly misplaced, and the car takes a shoot to the kerb. He is then hauled out, and so eager are his friends to greet him that they tear the clothes off his back, and he is altogether a sorry spectacle. Still closer friends of the scab's rush up in thf shape of police bulle, and he is rescued

" Held in Most Contempt by Humanity."

and escorted home, tearfully saying to the inevitable reporter, "This is a pretty rotten deal to a man with a wife and family to support."

Since the revolution in industry thousands of women and girls are forced yearly to go out in order to better their conditions, and they do i o with the assurance that not many cf their places will be tilled by those of their own sex. There have been very few women who have descended to the level of the strike-breaker. The employer who has a strike of women on his hands knows he is up against it pretty hard. But with men it is some different. Tho lord of creation, with a face like that of a jackal and a backbone as stiff as a 25 cent horsewhip, sneaks up the alley and into the side door of the head office, crawls to the "boss" and in a subdued voice announces iihat he is willing to "take a position." He'gets it, and in a short time when the real men have won their cause lie gets it again—where Lulu wore the brooch. Where did he come from? Few know. Where does he go when he has outlived his usefulness I' Fewer still are aware, or care. His still "starving wife and family" are probably taking in washing to support themselves, while he dodges his way to the nearest "rat" saloon, where a dog-faced bartender growls at him, "Wid or widout?" He takes his "wid," and goes into blissful unconsciousness. He has this consolation, however: if nrrest-ed, a recital of whore he has worked and of how ho was beaten up by the union men will always win a compassionate look from the benign face of the judge and. a suspended sentence or discharge is all that comes his way.

He is one of Evolution's discards, and of as much use to the progress of humanity and the brotherhood of man as a broken hook to a fisherman. He has no real friends, no real home, no happiness, no self-respect, no hope in this world and less in the next. If an employer ever gives the scab a second thought after a strike is ended and everything running smoothly again, it is one of wonder as to how said scab will get his living, blacklisted as he is in every decent community in the country and shunned by men, women and children everywhere. . When will this creature wake to the fact that the army of strike-breakers he belongs io has no status anywhere? They are simply plodding along in the rear of the colossal armies of the work-ing-class, picking up what few remnants are thrown their way; not hindering much, and nob helping either. But with or without their help, the workers are fast learning to band together in a common cause, and present an impregnable, unbroken front to capitalism —the cruellest curse that has blasted the face of this earth since the captain cried "All ashore I" as the ark drew up to the dock at Mt. Ararat. — "Cotton's Weekly."