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dent of his class in '95, he was "Greenway of Yale."

Then he graduated and became machinist's helper in the Duquesne furnaces of the Carnegie Steel Company, for which he was recompensed to the extent of a dollar thirty-two a day.

"It's the first few years out of college that show what a man's made of," he said to me with the epigrammatic terseness of one who acts rather than talks. "He has to learn that he must pay for all he gets, and a high price at that. The only thing that will save him is enough oldfashioned common sense to appreciate the situation and sit tight."

For three years he "sat tight," and by sheer tenacity and energy won recognition as a man who got results.

"But," he remarked grimly, "superintendents would change, new methods would be introduced, and the whole thing was to begin over again. The greatest value of those three years was learning that the success of a big work depends upon the same men in power sticking to it until it's done."

That the lesson was well learned was evinced a short time ago: An offer was made to Mr. Greenway to begin a big work - who made the offer or what it was has no bearing on the matter. The offer meant much, but it was not accepted.

"It isn't the square thing to do," he said. "I've been with the work I have in hand now from the grass roots of it and it means a setback if I leave. Where you can find a hundred men to begin a thing, you can't find one who will stick by and see it through. I'm going to see this thing through."

It was while Greenway was sweltering in the Duquesne furnaces that the Spanish-American war broke out. Fighting I was in his blood. His father had been a soldier and so had his grandfather, stanch figures in Confederate gray, so Greenway went to San Antonio and enlisted in the Rough Riders, and was soon commissioned a second lieutenant.

That he "did things" at San Juan is to be inferred from the fact that after the battle he was made first lieutenant for gallantry in action, and is thus described by President Roosevelt in his book, "The Rough Riders":

"A strapping fellow, entirely fearless, modest and quiet, with the ability to take care of the men under him so as to bring them to the highest point of soldierly perfection, to be counted upon with absolute certainty in every emergency; not only doing his duty, but always on the watch to find some new duty which he could construe to be his, ready to respond with eagerness to the slightest suggestion of doing something, whether it was dangerous or merely difficult and laborious."

On his return from Cuba with a recommendation from his ever-stanch friend, "the Colonel" for brevet-captaincy on account of gallantry, Greenway after a year in business became assistant superintendent of the Marquette Range mines at Ishpeming, Michigan.

Despite his college course in mining and the "dollar thirty-two a day" earned in the Duquesne furnaces, this position seemed to the Yale idol and San Juan hero about as logical as Sir Joseph Porter's admiralty. Still he "sat tight" and the company began to notice that things were being done.

When it was decided to penetrate the underground wealth of the Mesabi range in northern Minnesota it was seen that the undertaking would be one of vast scope. The board of directors selected Greenway as superintendent. The direc tions given were none too definite: "Get there as quickly as you can, find out what it's like, formulate your plans, and we will see to it that you get the appropriation you need."

In August, 1906, Coleraine became the dot on the map. Twelve shacks clustered about the bunk-house in which the Superintendent lived with his men. The great Canisteo district was opened.

"We must have men,' was Mr. Greenway's first report to the company, "and what is more we must keep them. A man's business is only a part of his life. We must have homes for them or we can't get results."

He proposed that the company itself meet all the demands of public utilities, instead of leaving their fulfillment to the greed of private interests that usually blights the life of a town in the making. The company considered, reconsidered, and then told him to go ahead.

Greenway thought out his town.

A site was chosen on the shore of one of Minnesota's most picturesque lakes and the lots were platted. Mr. Greenway was not looking toward making money for the company from its land, however, and the sales were confined to those who were preparing to make Coleraine their home. A virtual certificate of character, and assurances that buildings of a certain kind and cost would be erected, with improvements made within a specified time, were required of each purchaser.

In disposing of the lots for business ventures, the town builder "reserved to the company" the right to sell liquor and to conduct the games of chance, thereby restricting the two main evils of a frontier town. Gambling has never raised its head in the community, but inasmuch as with foreign workmen to make demands Mr. Greenway realized that prohibition would mean only a clever system of "blind piggery," the edict went forth that one saloon was to be allowed for every five hundred of population provided that it conformed to certain conditions.

First of all it must obey the state law to the letter, not opening in the morning until seven, which is after the men have gone to work, closing at night at eleven, and remaining closed all day Sunday. It is required to be a place of purely commercial, not social nature, even the chairs being removed to prevent lounging about. Whisky only of a standard quality is sold, and a provision is made, and found most effective, for commissions to bartenders on all sales of non-intoxicants.

"It is a very simple scheme and there is nothing particularly ideal about it, he says, "but it works."

Substantial cottages of a quaint type of architecture were erected and it was arranged that the employees of the company could rent them for the reasonable monthly rental of about three per cent of their cost, this rent to be applied on the cost of the home if the householder desired to purchase it.

"The idea was to fix it so that a workman could come to us dead broke," said Mr. Greenway, "and have new heart put into him by a chance to own his home and give his children the advantages he wants for them, from his wages alone."

It is little marvel, perhaps, under the

circumstances, that it is not only in the matter of government of the range that Mr. Greenway is dictator. He is the final court of appeal in all sorts of cases of law and equity. In advice to another, he stated his rule succinctly:

"When a decision in regard to a public matter is to be made, get down to the bare facts as quickly as you can, and then come out so strong for the side you think is right that nobody can have any doubt as to where you stand. When you have to hit in such matters, hit - and hit hard."

It is interesting to note the relations. between the men at work and the "boss."

"It isn't often that men are as tickled to death as we are to see their boss coming around," remarked one of them who has been with "the work" since the first drill was made. "He knows everybody on the job."

The

He knows, moreover, their families, the conditions under which they labor, their hardships, and their temptations. accuracy with which he seems to have taken the measure of each man reveals the reason for the unmistakable language in which a criticism is couched, as well as the quick appreciation of a duty well performed. Although they work under his supervision with the regularity of machines, he never forgets, nor lets them forget, that they are men.

In Mr. Greenway's lexicon there is no such word as "pull." Promotions are based entirely on a man's worth to the work in hand. Yale and Harvard graduates are put to driving stakes to "try them out.

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"If a man can't make good at the bottom, he can't make good at the top,' laconically observes the man who received his training in the Duquesne furnaces. "When you start them in at the lowest rung, you discover the quitters - and a quitter is no good anywhere."

The hold which Mr. Greenway has upon the wills and affections of the humblest of his employees was well demonstrated recently in the general strike on the ranges by the fact that the Canisteo district alone was untroubled.

It was

also a commentary upon his unique influence throughout the region that besieged towns quite out of his district appealed to him in their extremity for advice.

There are no leisure moments in his calendar. Scarce has he reached his bachelor lodge for rest and refreshment than he is likely to be accosted by a distressed small boy who has come to confess his sins and entreat "the boss's" intercession with the stern tyrants at home; or perhaps a woman is waiting to beg him for aid in her domestic matters.

It is the feeling of his responsibility for the way the lives of those in his charge are lived that has brought a touch of white to John C. Greenway's temples and, despite he is but thirty-five, has lined

his face as deeply as many a man a score of years his senior.

Absolutely fearless, the first to go down into a flooded mine when he calls for volunteers, many a time having saved the life of one of his men at the risk of his own, he forestalls any holding back on their part when there is something hazardous to be done. A man of exemplary habits, who inhibits dissipation by example; a tireless worker, this man who does things is of that new type of Americans who can serve corporations and at the same time serve their day and generation.

II.-CHARLES D. CARTER: THE INDIAN IN

NR

CONGRESS

(See portrait on page 6)

BY

H. G. SPAULDING

'O greater interest attaches to any member of the Sixtieth Congress than to Charles D. Carter, the member from the fourth district of Oklahoma, an Indian who has all his life lived among his kinsmen. Carter is a man of great strength of character, and maintains that the Indian will be better off if thrown on his own resources and not watched over and guarded by the federal authorities. He hoped to become a member of the Indian Affairs Committee of the House, where he will advocate the removal of restrictions from the sale of Indian lands except the homesteads of full-bloods and the taxation of all lands held by them. He believes the Indian should assume all the burdens of citizenship, participating as he does in all the benefits.

He has been active in municipal affairs, and at the time of his election to Congress was a member of the city council of his home city, Ardmore, which has made greater civic progress than any city in Indian Territory prior to statehood.

Mr. Carter is a descendant of Nathan Carter, Sr., who was captured when a small boy by the Shawnee Indians at the Lackawanna Valley Massacre, when all

the other members of his family except his sister were killed. Nathan Carter, Sr., was afterward traded to the Cherokees and married a full-blood Cherokee woman. His son, Nathan, Jr., also married a fullblood Cherokee woman, and the son of this marriage, David, married a one-half breed Cherokee woman. David's son, Benjamin Wisnor, was captain in the Confederate army, and married a onefourth blood Chickasaw woman, Serena J. Guy, sister of William M. Guy, chief of the Chickasaws.

Charles D. Carter was the only child of this marriage. He was born in a log cabin near Boggy Depot, near old Fort Towson in the Choctaw nation, on August 16, 1868. Young Carter moved with his father to Mill Creek postoffice and stage stand on the western frontier of the Chickasaw nation in April, 1878. Beginning in October, 1880, he attended a subscription school at a log schoolhouse near Mill Creek for two terms and entered the Chickasaw Manual Training Academy at Tishomingo in October, 1892. He missed two terms while employed on his father's ranch as a cowboy, but finished on June 18, 1887.

As a boy he worked on his father's

ranch and farm as a farmhand, cowboy and bronco buster, and began life as a cowpuncher for Col. Perry Froman at Diamond Z ranch, where the city of Sulphur now stands. In September, 1889, he came to Ardmore, Indian Territory, which has since been his home. He first engaged in a general merchandise store as clerk, bookkeeper, cotton buyer and cotton weigher, remaining three years, when he was appointed auditor of public accounts of the Chickasaw nation, serving two years. He was a member of the Chickasaw council for the term of 1895, superintendent of schools for Chickasaw nation for 1897, and in November, 1900, was appointed mining trustee of Indian Territory by President McKinley, serving four years, but was not an applicant for reappointment. In 1895 he engaged in the fire

insurance business. Mr. Carter was secretary of the first Democratic executive committee of the proposed new State of Oklahoma from June to December, 1906, and was elected to Congress on September 17, 1907.

Mr. Carter gives his nationality as seven-sixteenths Chickasaw and Cherokee Indian, nine-sixteenths Scotch-Irish. He is a man of generous disposition and jovial to a marked degree, and his laugh will soon come to be known throughout the cloakrooms and his stories will always attract a group about him. He has his serious side, and is in a position to do his country a vast amount of good by bringing about a change in the treatment of the red man which will check the steady degeneration of the race which has set in under the paternal care of the government.

III.-ROBERT RUTHERFORD MCCORMICK

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A MATTER OF-FACT YOUNG MAN IN POLITICS
(See portrait on page 7)

BY

WILLIAM HARD

R. BILLY (alias William E.) KENT, of Chicago, who enjoys the unique distinction of being a Humorist as well as an Uplifter, and who once pointed out one of the gravest dangers of Reform by remarking," The problem is, how to uplift the town without getting too good ourselves, addressed his intellect not long ago to a thorough revision of the ancient maxim "Whatever is, is right."

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After long thought in deep retirement he came out with a totally new edition to the following effect:

"Whatever is, is so.'

This is one of the most impregnable apothegms ever composed, and while Mr. McCormick may never have heard of it, it lies at the foundation of his young but extensive career.

Mr. McCormick is a matter-of-fact young man. He takes things as they are. When he leaves them they are better. But, to begin with, he takes them as they

are. He is among those who while they can see no honesty in denying that present institutions are extremely imperfect, can at the same time see no sense in denying that they exist.

Mr. McCormick's conviction with regard to the existence of present institutions is so strong that he is a prominent member of the Cook County, Illinois, Republican Organization. Which is no place for a man who hesitates to associate with facts.

Two years ago, being then twenty-five, going on twenty-six, Mr. McCormick was elected President of the Board of Trustees of the Chicago Sanitary District. This is one of the four or five most important local offices to which a Chicagoan can aspire. But, again, it is no place for a man who is uncomfortable in the same room with a fact. The facts which existed in the Sanitary District were so numerous and so scandalous that young Mr. McCormick must have felt like Alice

in Wonderland when he looked at them. The Sanitary District was then one of the worst public departments in the West. It is now one of the most efficient and one of the most incorruptible. This change has been due partly to other men but mainly to Mr. McCormick, now twenty-seven, going on twenty-eight. It is no small service for a plain, matter-offact young man of his years to have rendered to his city.

Mr. McCormick made a bad enough start as a politician. He came, socially, from the district which is popularly conceded to the control of Mrs. Potter Palmer. His father had been ambassador to Vienna. His grandfather was a brother of the Cyrus McCormick who began making reapers. His mother was a daughter of Joseph Medill, the wareditor of the Chicago Tribune. His uncle was the present editor of the Tribune. He himself had been educated at Ludgrove School, near London, England, afterward at Groton in this country and finally at Yale, where he had acquired the degrees of "6 Alpha Delta Phi" and "Scroll and Key."

These things were not really discreditable to him, when you come to think about it, but they were not exactly political assets in the district just north of the River in Chicago where Mr. McCormick had to get votes when he made his campaign for alderman in the spring of 1904.

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Mr. McCormick also made a bad enough start as a reformer. He came politically from the district controlled by "Unser Fritz" Busse. Unser Fritz" is not notorious as a reformer. Nevertheless he has an eye for real men (e. g., Mr. Brundage who made such a good record as President of the County Board and is now Mr. Busse's corporation counsel), and he backed Mr. McCormick to win.

Mr. McCormick was only twenty-three years old and, beyond palliation, a silkstocking. And the ward, the Twentyfirst, was traditionally and despondently democratic. But Mr. McCormick's first appearance on the streets dissipated all the rumors about his being a parlorornament.

He is six feet four inches tall and always gives one the impression of intending to grow a few inches more before stopping. He doesn't look finished. His

legs and arms are long and sprawly. He is full of the most youthful kind of youthful vigor. He has, generally speaking, the build and stride of an unbroken colt. When he plays polo, which he does every summer, his friends always confidently expect him to mar the season with a broken neck, his own or some one else's. His speech is quick, direct, abrupt. He treats a teamster with the same courtesy as a bank president and a bank president with the same offhandedness as a teamster. He is no respecter of persons. His hair is as unsubdued as the rest of him and waves to the breezes with as much disorder as its shortness will permit. His eyes are gray, wide-open, concealing nothing, but at the same time cool, steady, admitting nothing. His manners are impulsive, unpremeditated, sincere.

Like Mr. Roosevelt, if he lives to be a hundred there will still be something boyish about him.

The voters of the Twenty-first Ward looked at him and voted for him. He was dressed then as now in clothes which looked as if they would have been better if better had been at hand or worse if worse had been available. Tan shoes; blue socks with a white stripe; an easy business suit with a short sack coat; a light blue shirt; a twisted, maltreated red tie; a turn-down collar such was, and is, his usual attire.

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He wore these things not because they looked democratic but because they happened to be close to him when he got up in the morning. He would have worn anything else that was equally convenient. It is a matter of political tradition that on one occasion he lost twenty votes for a legislative measure by appearing at a political conference in polo togs. He wore those togs simply because he happened to have them on. He would just as soon have worn buckskin trousers and a corduroy jacket. His conception of democracy in clothes is that it consists not in dressing like somebody else but in dressing in any way one pleases whenever one wants to.

The voters of the twenty-first ward made Mr. McCormick an alderman in spite of his being a Republican and in spite of his being socially if not temperamentally, silk-stocking. They had looked at him, they had shaken hands

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