Shocked Southbridge

At Southbridge (pop.: 14,000), 57 miles southwest of Boston, the Quinebaug River winds across a county line, draws water from Walker Pond and Globe Brook above the town, then drops 165 ft. There the early settlers of Southbridge built a factory which became Hamilton Woolen Co. The wheels of the little factory had hummed without interruption for 104 years when last month they suddenly stopped. One day last week the town of Southbridge was shocked with the news: "Hamilton Woolen is shut down forever!" Earlier that day a little group of elderly, well-dressed Massachusetts folk met in a room in Boston's Chamber of Commerce Building. Stockholders in Hamilton Woolen, they represented in person or by proxy all but a small fraction of the company's 30,855 shares. A ruddy, kind-faced man with curly black hair got up to speak. He was Richard Lennihan who six years ago quit his job as assistant to Dean Wallace Donham of Harvard Graduate School of Business Administration, persuaded Hamilton Woolen to let him run the company instead of closing down after two years' heavy losses. In a firm clear voice he outlined the facts which had led up to last week's meeting.

A horde of labor agitators had swarmed into Southbridge when the cotton textile strike broke out last September. They surrounded the Hamilton mill, shouting: "Shut this mill or we'll shut it for you." President Lennihan decided to close down until trouble passed. When the mill reopened, he found that a union affiliated with the United/Textile Workers' Union had been formed among some of his 1,000 employes. An incipient strike was headed off by the State Board of Conciliation and Arbitration. Then suddenly the union, by a secret vote and in violation of a pledge to cooperate with the State Board, called its 300 members out on strike.' The factory was picketed, non-union workers were threatened with violence, their homes stoned. Rather than limp along with a crippled staff, the mill closed down, has remained closed ever since. The question before the stockholders was: should the company submit to a closed shop or should it liquidate its assets and go permanently out of business?

A pale, black-haired woolen worker named George La Plante, representing a protective association of Hamilton's non-union labor, jumped to his feet, shouted: "Are we 700 loyal men and women to be sacrificed for the sake of the 300?''

"A bunch of gangsters came in and stirred up all the trouble," echoed another woolen worker.

Stockholder George Grant, Mayor of Southbridge and publisher of the Southbridge Press (weekly) uprose. Shaken with emotion, he pleaded to keep the mill running. "If you close down, these people will be forced out into the world, and won't know where to turn. Forced out into the world--" His voice broke and tears streamed down his cheeks. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he stammered, and sat down.

In deep silence a vote was taken. The result was 26,589-to-815 in favor of liquidating the business of the company, distributing its assets among the stockholders. No one moved or spoke when the announcement was made. Then President Lennihan rose to assure those present that the directors would do their best to prevent a hasty sale of the plant, would try to dispose of it as a unit. That night nearly one-fifth of the people of Southbridge crawled into bed with nothing to look forward to but the dole.

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