"I told you once, didn't I?"
"He may return to-day?"
"Maybe."
"I'll wait."
Passers in and out of the offices remembered his shoving a paper
hurriedly into his pocket as they neared.
About an hour later, when the information clerk left for a few minutes,
he rose, and started to open the door marked "Paul Judson: Private."
"Where you going?" an accounting clerk demanded, watching his unusual
movements.
"Mr. Judson wants to see me."
"He isn't there."
He caught the old man roughly by the arm, as he tried to push past.
The enfeebled socialist retreated to the center of the room.
"Give him this," his quavering tones insisted, pushing a piece of paper
into surprised hands.
The clerk looked up hurriedly, some warning of the unexpected, the
dangerous, reaching him. His eyes caught the rusty glint of metal.
He jumped. At the same moment, the roar of the shot rattled the windows,
acrid smoke swirled throughout the room, the old man's legs buckled up.
He fell quietly to the floor; his shoes scraped the flooring once. He
lay still.
The clerk read the note aloud, after the morgue had been phoned, and the
body covered.
"To Paul Judson:
"This act is my punishment, for living on the earth your presence
scars; a just God will punish you in another world.
"This act will bring home to your conscience your responsibility
for murder:
"Murder of twenty-three miners in the mine explosion;
"Murder of John Dawson, and fifty innocent strikers, by the guns of
your gunmen;
"Murder of your guards by your own acts;
"Murder of the bodies, hearts and souls of starving strikers.
Murder of good in all people. Murder of justice in your courts.
"Murder of me, as a warning of what you deserve.
"CHRISTOPHER DUCKWORTH."
"Can you beat it?" the clerk whistled. "A plain nut."
"I seen how crazy he looked," said the information clerk. "Good thing he
didn't miss an' hit you, Courtney."
A little stenographer fainted. One of the telephone operators discussed
it with a chummy runner. "I wouldn't work here now, not if you paid me!
It's awful bad luck."
"Gee, if I was afraid of stiffs!" he said, pityingly.
The scrubwomen grumbled at having to clean up the floor again. "Ought to
be extra pay for this.... Bad enough to clean them floors once."
Paul Judson, returning from Jackson on the morning train, did not learn
about the grim protest until he reached the office.
V