“I ask, why do the police of Mobland put down the mobs of the poor,
and not the mobs of the rich? I ask, who pays the police, and who
pays the mobs.”
“I see! You are some kind of radical!” And with sickness of soul I
saw another headline before my mind's eye:
WEALTHY CLUBMAN AIDS BOLSHEVIK PROPHET
I hastened to break in: “Mr. Carpenter is not a radical; he is a
lover of man.” But then I realized, that did not sound just right.
How the devil was I to describe this man? How came it that all the
phrases of brotherhood and love had come to be tainted with
“radicalism”? I tried again: “He is a friend of peace.”
“Oh, really!” observed the reporter. “A pacifist, hey?” And I
thought: “Damn the hound!” I knew, of course, that he had the rest
of the formula in his head: “Pro-German!” Out loud I said: “He
teaches brotherhood.”
But the hound was not interested in my generalities and evasions.
“Where have you seen mobs of the rich, Mr. Carpenter?”
“I have seen them whirling through the streets in automobiles,
killing the children of the poor.”
“You have seen that?”
“I saw it last night.”
Now, I had inspected our “Times” and our “Examiner” that morning,
and noted that both, in their accounts of the accident, had given
only the name of the chauffeur, and suppressed that of the owner. I
understood what an amount of social and financial pressure that feat
had taken; and here was Carpenter about to spoil it! I laid my hand
on his arm, saying: “My friend, you were a guest in that car. You
are not at liberty to talk about it.”
I expected to be argued with; but Carpenter apparently conceded my
point, for he fell silent. It was the young reporter who spoke. “You
were in an auto accident, I judge? We had only one report of a
death, and that was caused by Mrs. Stebbins' car. Were you in that?”
Then, as neither Carpenter nor I replied, he laughed. “It doesn't
matter, because I couldn't use the story. Mr. Stebbins is one of our
'sacred cows.' Good-day, and thank you.”
He started away; and suddenly all my terror of newspaper publicity
overwhelmed me. I simply could not face the public as guardian of a
Bolshevik! I shouted: “Young man!” And the reporter turned,
respectfully, to listen. “I tell you, Mr. Carpenter is _not_ a
radical! Get that clear!” And to the young man's skeptical
half-smile I exclaimed: “He's a Christian!” At which the reporter
laughed out loud.
XXVII
We got to the Labor Temple, and found the place in a buzz of
excitement, over what had occurred in front of Prince's last night.
I had suspected rough work on the part of the police, and here was
the living evidence--men with bandages over cracked heads, men
pulling open their shirts or pulling up their sleeves to show black
and blue bruises. In the headquarters of the Restaurant Workers we
found a crowd, jabbering in a dozen languages about their troubles;
we learned that there were eight in jail, and several in the
hospital, one not expected to live. All that had been going on,
while we sat at table gluttonizing--and while tears were running
down Carpenter's cheeks!
It seemed to me that every third man in the crowd had one of the
morning's newspapers in his hand--the newspapers which told how a
furious mob of armed ruffians had sought to break its way into
Prince's, and had with difficulty been driven off by the gallant
protectors of the law. A man would read some passage which struck
him as especially false; he would tell what he had seen or done, and
he would crumple the paper in his hand and cry. “The liars! The
dirty liars!”--adding adjectives not suitable for print.
I realized more than ever that I had made a mistake in letting
Carpenter get into this place. It was no resort for anybody who
wanted to be patriotic, or happy about the world. All sorts of
wonderful promises had been made to labor, to persuade it to win the
war; and now labor came with the blank check, duly filled out
according to its fancy--and was in process of being kicked
downstairs. Wages were being “liquidated,” as the phrase had it; and
there was an endless succession of futile strikes, all pitiful
failures. You must understand that Western City is the home of the
“open shop;” the poor devils who went on strike were locked out of
the factories, and slugged off the streets; their organizations were
betrayed by spies, and their policies dedeviled by provocateurs. And
all the mass of misery resulting seemed to have crowded into one
building this bright November morning; pitiful figures, men and
women and even a few children--for some had been turned out of their
homes, and had no place to go; ragged, haggard, and underfed;
weeping, some of them, with pain, or lifting their clenched hands in
a passion of impotent fury. My friend T-S, the king of the movies,
with all his resources, could not have made a more complete picture
of human misery--nor one more fitted to work on the sensitive soul
of a prophet, and persuade him that capitalist America was worse
than imperial Rome.
The arrival of Carpenter attracted no particular attention. The
troubles of these people were too recent for them to be aware of
anything else. All they wanted was some one to tell their troubles
to, and they quickly found that this stranger was available for the
purpose. He asked many questions, and before long had a crowd about
him--as if he were some sort of government commissioner, conducting
an investigation. It was an all day job, apparently; I hung round,
trying to keep myself inconspicuous.
Towards noon came a boy with newspapers, and I bought the early
edition of the “Evening Blare.” Yes, there it was--all the way
across the front page; not even a big fire at the harbor and an
earthquake in Japan had been able to displace it. As I had foreseen,
the reporter had played up the most sensational aspects of the
matter: Carpenter announced himself as a prophet only twenty-four
hours out of God's presence, and proved it by healing the lame and
the halt and the blind--and also by hypnotising everyone he spoke
to, from a wealthy young clubman to a mob of Jewish housewives.
Incidentally he denounced America as “Mobland,” and called it a
country governed by madmen.
I took the paper to him, thinking to teach him a little worldly
prudence. Said I: “You remember, I tried to keep out that stuff
about mobs--”
He took the sheet from my hands and looked at the headlines. I saw
his nostrils dilate, and his eyes flash. “Mobs? This paper is a mob!
It is the worst of your mobs!” And it fell to the floor, and he put
his foot on the flaring print.
Said he: “You talk about mobs--listen to this.” Then, to one of the
group about him: “Tell how they mobbed you!” The man thus addressed,
a little Russian tailor named Korwsky, narrated in his halting
English that he was the secretary of the tailors' union, and they
had a strike, and a few days ago their offices had been raided at
night, the door “jimmed” open and the desk rifled of all the papers
and records. Evidently it had been done by the bosses or their
agents, for nothing had been taken but papers which would be of use
against the strike. “Dey got our members' list,” said Korwsky. “Dey
send people to frighten 'em back to verk! Dey call loans, dey git
girls fired from stores if dey got jobs--dey hound 'em every way!”
The speaker went on to declare that no such job could have been
pulled off without the police knowing; yet they made no move to
arrest the criminals. His voice trembled with indignation; and
Carpenter turned to me.
“You have mobs that come at night, with dark lanterns and burglars'
tools!”
I had noticed among the men talking to Carpenter one who bore a
striking resemblance to him. He was tall and not too well nourished;
but instead of the prophet's robes of white and amethyst, he wore
the clothes of a working-man, a little too short in the sleeves; and
where Carpenter had a soft and silky brown beard, this man had a
skinny Adam's apple that worked up and down. He was something of an
agitator, I judged, and he appeared to have a religious streak. “I
am a Christian,” I heard him say; “but one of the kind that speak
out against injustice. And I can show you Bible texts for it,” he
insisted. “I can prove it by the word of God.”
This man's name was James, and I learned that he was one of the
striking carpenters. The prophet turned to him, and said: “Tell him
your story.” So the other took from his pocket a greasy note-book,
and produced a newspaper clipping, quoting an injunction which Judge
Wollcott had issued against his union. “Read that,” said he; but I
answered that I knew about it. I remember hearing my uncle laughing
over the matter at the dinner-table, saying that “Bobbie” Wollcott
had forbidden the strikers to do everything but sit on air and walk
on water. And now I got another view of “Bobbie,” this time from a
prophet fresh from God. Said the prophet: “Your judges are mobs!”
XXVIII
Soon after the noon-hour, there pushed his way into the crowd a
young man, whom I recognized as one of the secretaries of T-S. He
was looking for me, and told me in a whisper that his employer was
downstairs in his car, and wanted to see Mr. Carpenter and myself
about something important. He did not want to come up, because it
was too conspicuous. Would we come down and take a little drive? I
answered that I should be willing, but I knew Carpenter would
not--he had been in an automobile accident the night before, and had
refused to ride again.
Then, said the secretary, was there some room where we could meet? I
went to one of the officials, and asked for a vacant room where I
could talk about a private matter with a friend. I managed to
separate Carpenter from his crowd and took him to the room, and
presently Everett, the secretary, came with T-S.
The great man shook hands cordially with both of us; then, looking
round to make sure that no one heard us, he began: “Mr. Carpenter, I
told you I vould give a tousand dollars to dese strikers.”
The other's face, which had looked so grey and haggard, was suddenly
illumined as if by his magical halo. “I had forgotten it! There are
so many hungry in there; I have been watching them, wondering when
they would be fed.”
“All right,” said T-S. “Here you are.” And reaching into his pocket,
he produced a wad of new shiny hundred dollar notes, folded
together. “Count 'em.”
Carpenter took the money in his hand. “So this is it!” he said. He
looked at it, as if he were inspecting some strange creature from
the wilds of Patagonia.
“It's de real stuff,” said T-S, with a grin.
“The stuff for which men sell their souls, and women their virtue!
For which you starve and beat and torture one another--”
“Ain't it pretty?” said the magnate, not a bit embarrassed.
The other began reading the writing on the notes--as you may
remember having done in some far-off time of childhood. “Whose
picture is this?” he asked.
“I dunno,” said the magnate. “De Secretary of de Treasury, I
reckon.”
“But,” said the other, “why not your picture, Mr. T-S?”
“Mine?”
“Of course.”
“My picture on de money?”
“Why not? You are the one who makes it, and enables everyone else to
make it.”
It was one of those brand new ideas that come only to geniuses and
children. I could see that T-S had never thought of it before; also,
that he found it interesting to think of. Carpenter went on: “If
your picture was on it, then every one would know what it meant.
People would say: 'Render unto T-S the things that are T-S's.' When
you were paying off your mobs, you would pay them with your own
money, and whenever they spent it, the people would bow to Caesar--I
mean to T-S.”
He said it without the trace of a smile; and T-S had no idea there
was a smile anywhere in the neighborhood. In a business-like tone he
said: “I'll tink about it.” Then he went on: “You give it to de
strikers--”
But Carpenter interrupted: “It was you who were going to give it. I
cannot give nor take money.”
“You mean you von't take it to dem?”
“I couldn't possibly do it, Mr. T-S.”
“But, man--”
“Your promise was that _you_ would come and give it. Now do so.”
“But, Mr. Carpenter, if I vas to do such a ting, it vould cost me a
million dollars. I vould git into a row vit de Merchants' and
Manufacturers' Association, dey vould boycott my business, dey vould
give me a black eye all over de country. You dunno vot you're
askin', Mr. Carpenter.”
“I understand then--you are in business alliance with men who are
starving these people into submission, and you are afraid to help
them? Afraid to feed the poor!” The far-off, wondering look came
again to his face. “The world is organized!” he said, to himself.
“There is a mob of masters! What can I do to save the people?”
T-S was unchanged in his cheerful good-nature. “You give dem a
tousand dollars and you help a lot. Nobody can do it all.”
But Carpenter was not satisfied; he shook his head, sadly. “Please
take this,” he said, and pressed the roll of bills back into the
hands of the astounded magnate!
XXIX
However, T-S had come there to get something that day, and I thought
I knew what it was. He swallowed his consternation, and all the rest
of his emotions. “Now, now, Mr. Carpenter! Ve ain't a-goin' to
quarrel about a ting like dat. Dem fellers is hungry, and de money
vill give dem vun good feed. Ve git somebody to bring it to dem, and
we be friends shoost de same. Billy, maybe you could give it, hey?”
I drew back with a laugh. “You don't get me into your quarrels!”
“Vell,” said T-S--and suddenly he had an inspiration. “I know. I git
Mary Magna to give it! She's a voman!”
Carpenter turned with sudden wonder. “Then women are permitted to
have hearts?”
“Shoost so, Mr. Carpenter! Ha, ha, ha! Ve business fellers--my Gawd,
if you knew vot business is, you'd vunder we got hearts enough to
keep our blood movin'.”
“Business,” said Carpenter, still pondering. “Then it's business--”
“Yes, business--” put in T-S. “Dat's it!” And he lowered his voice,
and looked round once more. “It's time we vas talkin' business now!
Mr. Carpenter, I be frank vit you, I put all my cards on de table. I
seen de papers shoost now, vot vunderful tings you do--healin' de
sick and quellin' de mobs and all dat--and I tink I gotta raise my
offer, Mr. Carpenter. If you sign a contract I got here in my
pocket, I pay you a tousand dollars a veek. Vot you say, my friend?”
Carpenter did not say anything, and so the magnate began to
expatiate upon the artistic triumphs he would achieve. “I make such
a picture fer you as de vorld never seen before. You can do shoost
vot you vant in dat story--all de tings you like to do, and nuttin'
you didn't like. I never said dat to no man before, but I know you
now, Mr. Carpenter, and all I ask you is to heal de sick and quell
de mobs, shoost like today. I pledge you my vord--I put it in de
contract if you say so--I make nuttin' but Bible pictures.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr. T-S, and I thank you for the
compliment; but I fear you will have to get some one else to play my
part.”
Said T-S: “I vant you to tink, Mr. Carpenter, vot it vould mean if
you had a tousand dollars every week. You could feed all de babies
of de strikers. I vouldn't care vot you did--you could feed my own
strikers, ven I git some at Eternal City. A tousand dollars a veek
is an awful pile o' money to have!”
“I know that, my friend.”
“And vot's more, I pay you five tousand cash on de signin' of de
contract. You can go right in now vit dese strikers--maybe you could
beat Prince's vit all dat money!” Then, as Carpenter still shook his
head: “I give you vun more raise, my friend--but dat's de last, you
gotta believe me. I pay you fifteen hunded a veek. I aint ever paid
so much money to a green actor in my life before, and I don't tink
anybody else in de business ever did.”
But still Carpenter shook his head!
“Vould you mind tellin' me vy, Mr. Carpenter?”
“Not at all. You tell me that I may quell mobs for you. But there
are mobs in your business that I could not quell.”
“Vot mobs?”
“Among others, yourself.”
“Me?”
“Yes--you are a mob; a mob of money! You storm the souls of men, and
of women too. It will take a stronger force than I to quell you.”
“I don't git you,” said T-S, helplessly; but then, thinking it over
a bit, he went on: “I guess I'm a vulgar feller, Mr. Carpenter, and
maybe all my pictures ain't vot you call high-brow. But if I had a
man like you to vork vit, I could make vot you call real educational
pictures. You're vot dey call a prophet, you got a message fer de
vorld; vell, vy don't you let me spread it fer you? If you use my
machinery, you can talk to a billion people. Dat's no joke--if dey
is dat many alive, I bring 'em to you; I bring de Japs and de Chinks
and de niggers--de vooly-headed savages vot vould eat your
missionaries if you sent 'em. I offer you de whole vorld, Mr.
Carpenter; and you vould be de boss!”
Carpenter became suddenly grave. “My friend,” said he, “a long time
ago there was a prophet, and he was offered the world. The story is
told us--'Again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high
mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the
glory of them; and saith unto him, All these things will I give
thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.' You recall that story,
Mr. T-S?”
“No,” said T-S, “I ain't vun o' dese litry fellers.” But he realized
that the story was not complimentary to him, and he showed his
chagrin. “I tell you vun ting, Mr. Carpenter, if you vas to know me
better, you vouldn't call me a devil.”
And suddenly the other put his hand on the great man's shoulder. “I
believe that, my friend; I hate the sin but love the sinner--And so,
suppose you come to lunch with me?”
“Lunch?” said T-S, taken aback.
“I went to dinner with you last night. Now you come to lunch with
me.”
“Vere at, Mr. Carpenter?”
Said Carpenter: “When I went with you, I did not ask where.”
Carpenter signed to me and to Everett, the secretary, and the four
of us went out of the room. I was as much mystified as the picture
magnate, but I held my peace, and Carpenter led us to the elevator,
and down to the street. “No,” said he, to T-S, “there is no need to
get into your car. The place is just around the corner.” And he
put his arm in that of the magnate, and led him down the
street--somewhat to the embarrassment of his victim, for there was a
crowd following us. People had read the afternoon papers by now, and
it was no longer possible to walk along unheeded, with a prophet
only twenty-four hours from God, who healed the sick and quelled
mobs before breakfast. But T-S set his teeth and bore it--hoping
this might be the way to land his contract.
XXX
We turned the corner, and soon I saw what was before us, and almost
cried out with glee. It was really too good to be true! Carpenter,
in the course of his talks with strikers, had learned where their
soup-kitchen was located, the relief-headquarters where their
families were being fed; and he now had the sublime audacity to take
the picture magnate to lunch among them!
The place was an empty warehouse, fitted with long tables, and
benches made of planks that were old and full of splinters. Here in
rows of twenty or thirty were seated men and women and children,
mixed together; before each one a bowl of not very thick soup, and a
hunk of bread, and a tin cup full of hot brown liquid, politely
taken for coffee. It was a meal which would have been spurned by any
of the “studio bums” of T-S's mob-scenes; but now T-S was going to
be a good sport, and sit on a splintery plank and eat it!
Nor was that all. As we pushed our way into the place, Carpenter
turned to the magnate, and without a trace of embarrassment, said:
“You understand, Mr. T-S, I have no money. But we must pay--”
“Oh, sure!” said T-S, quickly. “I'll pay!”
“Thank you,” said the other; and he turned to an official of the
union with whom he had got acquainted in the course of the morning.
He introduced us all, not forgetting the secretary, and then said:
“Mr. T-S is the moving picture producer, and wants to have lunch
with you, if you will consent.”
“Oh, sure!” said the official, cordially.
“He will pay for it,” added Carpenter. “He has brought along a
thousand dollars for that purpose.”
T-S started as if some one had struck him; and the official started
too. “WHAT?”
“He will pay a thousand dollars,” declared Carpenter. “It is a fact,
and you may tell the people, if you wish.”
“My Gawd, no!” cried T-S wildly.
But the official did not heed him. He faced the crowd and stretched
out his arms. “Boys! Boys! This is Mr. T-S, the picture producer,
and he's come to lunch with us, and he's going to pay a thousand
dollars for it!”
There was a moment of amazed silence, then a roar from the company.
Men leaped to their feet and yelled. And there stood poor T-S-not
enjoying the ovation!
“Give it to them,” whispered Carpenter; and the magnate, thus held
up, took out the roll of bills, and turned it over to the trembling
official, who leaped onto a chair and waved the miracle before the
crowd. “A thousand dollars! A thousand dollars!” He counted it over
before their eyes and called, louder than ever, “A thousand
dollars!”
Carpenter, followed by T-S and the secretary and myself, went down
the line of tables, shaking hands with many on the way, and being
patted on the back by others. Also T-S shook hands, and was patted.
Seats were found for us, and food was brought--double portions of
it, as if to make the plight of the poor magnate even more absurd! I
watched him out of the corner of my eye; he enjoyed that costly meal
just about as much as Carpenter had enjoyed the one at Prince's last
night!
However, he was game, and spilled no tears into his soup; and
Carpenter ate with honest appetite, having had no breakfast. The
strikers about us ate as if they had missed both breakfast and
supper; they laughed and chatted and made jokes with us--you would
have thought they were celebrating the winning of the strike and the
end of all their troubles. In the midst of the meal I noted two
well-dressed young men by the door, asking questions; I chuckled to
myself, seeing more head-lines--double ones, and extra size:
PROPHET OF GOD VAMPS MOVIE KING MAGNATE OF SCREEN PAYS THOUSAND FOR
LUNCH
But I knew that T-S had never yet paid a thousand dollars without
getting something for it, and I was not surprised when, after he had
gulped down his meal, he turned to his host and, disregarding the
company and the excitement, demanded, “Now, Mr. Carpenter, tell me,
do I git de contract?”
Carpenter had had his jest, and was through with it. He answered,
gravely: “You must understand me, Mr. T-S. You don't want a contract
with me.”
“I don't?”
“If I were to sign it, it would not be a week before you would be
sorry, and would be asking me to release you.”
“Vy is dat, Mr. Carpenter?”
“Because I am going to do things which will make me quite useless to
you in a business way.”
“Dat can't be true, Mr. Carpenter!”
“It is true, and you will realize it soon. I assure you, it won't be
a day before you will be ashamed of having known me.”
T-S was gazing at the speaker, not certain whether this was
something very terrible, or only a polite evasion. “Mr. Carpenter,”
he answered, “if all de vorld vas to give you up, I vouldn't!”
Said Carpenter: “I tell you, before the cock crows again, you will
deny three times that you know me.” And then, without awaiting
response from the amazed T-S, he turned to speak to the man on the
other side of him.
The magnate of the pictures sat silent, evidently frightened. At
last he turned to me and asked, “Vot you tink he meant by dat,
Billy?”
I answered: “I think he meant that you are to play the part of
Peter.”
“Peter? Peter Pan?”
“No; St. Peter, who denied his master.”
“Vell,” said T-S, patiently, “you know, I ain't vun o' dese litry
fellers.”
“I'll tell it to you some time,” I continued. “It's kind of funny.
If he's right, you are going to be the first pope, and sit at the
golden gate, holding the keys of heaven.”
“My Gawd!” said T-S.
“And you've made a record in the movies.” I added. “You've played
Satan and St. Peter, both on the same day! That is 'doubling' with a
vengeance!”
XXXI