that they were not wanted inside. Comrade Abell threw up his hands.
“Oh, those labor skates!” he cried. “Those miserable, cowardly,
grafting politicians! Thinking about nothing but keeping themselves
respectable, and holding on to their fat, comfortable salaries!”
“Vell, vat you expect?” cried Korwsky. “You git de verkin' men into
politics, and den you blame dem fer bein' politicians!”
“Nothing was said about returning the money, I suppose?” remarked
Everett, in a bitter tone.
“Something was said,” I replied. “I said it. I don't think the money
will be returned.”
Then Carpenter spoke. “The money was given to feed the hungry,” said
he. “If it is used for that purpose, we can ask no more. And if men
set out to preach a new doctrine, how can they expect to be welcomed
at once? We have chosen to be outcasts, and must not complain. Let
us go to the jail. Perhaps that is the place for us.” So the little
group set out in a new direction.
On the way we talked about the labor movement, and what was the
matter with it. Comrade Abell said that Carpenter was right, the
fundamental trouble was that the workers were imbued with the
psychology of their masters. They would strike for this or that
improvement in their condition, and then go to the polls and vote
for the candidates of their masters. But Korwsky was more vehement;
he was an industrial unionist, and thought the present craft unions
worse than nothing.
Little groups of labor aristocrats, seking to benefit themselves at
the expense of the masses, the unorganized, unskilled workers and
the floating population of casual labor! That was why those “skates”
at the Labor Temple has so little enthusiasm for Carpenter and his
doctrine of brotherhood! In this country where every man was trying
to climb up on the face of some other man!
Our little group had come out on Broadway. It attracted a good deal
of attention, and a number of curiosity seekers were beginning to
trail behind us. “We'll get a crowd again, and Carpenter 'll be
making a speech,” I thought; and as usual I faced a moral conflict.
Should I stand by, or should I sneak away, and preserve the dignity
of my family?
Suddenly came a sound of music, fifes and drums. It burst on our
ears from round the corner, shrill and lively--“The Girl I Left
Behind Me.” Carpenter, who was directly in front of me, stopped
short, and seemed to shrink away from what was coming, until his
back was against the show-window of a department-store, and he could
shrink no further.
It was a company of ex-service men in uniform; one or two hundred,
carrying rifles with fixed bayonets which gleamed in the sunshine.
There were two fifers and two drummers at their head, and also two
flags, one the flag of the Brigade, and the other the flag of
Mobland. I remembered having noted in the morning papers that the
national commander of the brigade was to arrive in town this
morning, and no doubt this was a delegation to do him honor.
The marchers swept down on us, and past us, and I watched the
prophet. His eyes were wide, his whole face expressing anguish. “Oh
God, my Father!” he whispered, and seemed to quiver with each thud
of the tramping feet on the pavement. After the storm had passed, he
stood motionless, the pain still in his face “It is Rome! It is
Rome!” he murmured.
“No,” said I, “it is Mobland.”
He went on, as if he had not heard me. “Rome! Eternal Rome! Rome
that never dies!” And he turned upon me his startled eyes. “Even the
eagles!”
For a moment I was puzzled; but then I remembered the golden eagle
with wings outspread, that perches on top of our national banner.
“We only use one eagle,” I said, somewhat feebly.
To which he answered, “The soul of one eagle is the same as the soul
of two.”
Now, I had felt quite certain that Carpenter would not get along
very well with the Brigade, and I was more than ever decided that he
must be got out of the way somehow or other. But meantime, the first
task was to get him away from this crowd which was rapidly
collecting. Already he was in the full tide of a speech. “Those
sharp spears! Can you not see them thrust into the bowels of human
beings? Can you not see them dripping with the blood of your
brothers?”
I whispered to Everett, thinking him one among this company of
enthusiasts who might have a little common sense left. “We had
better get him away from here!” And Everett put his hand gently on
the prophet's shoulder, and said, “The prisoners in the jail are
hoping for us.” I took him by the other arm, and we began to lead
him down the street. When we had once got him going, we walked him
faster and faster, until presently the crowd was trailing out into a
string of idlers and curiosity seekers, as before.
XLVI
The party came to the city jail, and knocked for admission. But no
doubt the authorities had taken consultation in the meantime, and
there was no admission for prophets. The party stood on the steps,
baffled and bewildered, a pitiful and pathetic little group.
For my part, I thought it just as well that Carpenter had not got
inside, for I knew what he would find there. It happens that my Aunt
Jennie belongs to a couple of women's clubs, and they have been
making a fuss about our city jail; they have kept on making it for
many years, but apparently without accomplishing anything. The place
was built a generation ago, for a city of perhaps one-tenth our
present size; it is old and musty, and the walls are so badly
cracked that it has been condemned by the building department. It is
so crowded that half a dozen men sometimes sleep on the floor of a
single cell. They are devoured by vermin, and lie in semi-darkness,
some of them shivering with cold and others half suffocated. They
stay there, sometimes for many months unheeded, because the courts
are crowded, and if Comrade Abell's word may be taken in the matter,
every poor man is assumed to be guilty until he is proven innocent.
I have heard Aunt Jennie arguing the matter with considerable
energy. Our banks are housed in palaces, and our Chamber of Commerce
and our Merchants and Manufacturers and our Real Estate Exchange and
all the rest of our boosters have commodious and expensive quarters;
but our prisoners lie in torment, and no one boosts for them.
Did Carpenter know these things? Had the strikers or his little
company of agitators, told him about them? Suddenly he said, “Let us
pray;” and there on the steps of the jail he raised his hands in
invocation, and prayed for all prisoners and captives. And when he
finished, Comrade Abell suddenly lifted his voice and began to sing.
I would not have supposed that so big a voice could have come out of
so frail a body; but I was reminded that Abell had been practicing
on soap-boxes a good part of his life. He was one of these shouting
evangelists--only his gospel was different. He sang:
Arise, ye pris'ners of starvation!
Arise, ye wretched of the earth!
For justice thunders condemnation,
A better world's in birth.
I think I would have shuddered, even more than I did, if I had known
the name of this song; if I had realized that this group of fanatics
were sounding the dread Internationale on the steps of our city
jail! I suspect that what saved them was the fact that the guardians
of the jail had no more idea what it was than I had!
The group had sung a couple of verses, when the iron-barred doors
were opened, and a policeman stepped out. He addressed Carpenter,
who was not singing. “Tell that bunch of nuts of yours to can the
yowling.”
To which Carpenter replied: “I tell you that if these men should
hold their peace, the stones of your jail would immediately cry
out!” And he turned, and looked up and down the streets of the city,
and suddenly I saw that he was weeping. “Oh, Mobland, Mobland! If
you had known even at this time the way of justice! But the way is
hid from your eyes, and you will not see it, and now the hour is
coming, the horrors of the class war are upon you, ruin and
destruction are at hand! Your towers of pride shall fall, your own
children shall destroy you; they shall not leave you one stone upon
another, because you knew not the time for justice when it came.”
The doors of the jail opened again, and three or four more policemen
came out, with clubs in their hands. “Get along, now!” they said
roughly, and began poking the prophet and his disciples in the back;
they poked them down the stairs and along the street for a block or
so--until they were sure the ears of the jail inmates would no
longer be troubled by offensive sounds. But still they did not
arrest them, and I marveled, wondering how long it could go on. I
had an uneasy feeling that the longer the climax was postponed, the
more severe it would be.
There was quite a crowd following us now, hoping that something
sensational would happen. And presently a woman saw us, and rushed
into the house, and came out leading a blind man, and appealing to
Carpenter to restore his sight; and when he stopped to do this,
there were a couple of newspaper men, and an operator with a camera,
and more excitement and more crowds! So we started to walk again,
and came to Main Street, which in our city is given up to ten cent
picture-shows, and pawn-brokers, and old clothes shops, and
eating-stands for workingmen. A block or so distant we saw a mass of
people, and something warned me--my heart sank into my boots.
Another mob!
XLVII
There was shouting, and people running from every direction. The
throng would surge back, and a few run from it. “What's the matter?”
I cried to one of these, and the answer was, “They're cleaning out
the reds!” Comrade Abell, who knew the neighborhood, exclaimed in
dismay, “It's Erman's Book Store!”
“Who's doing this?” I asked of another bystander, and the answer
was, “The Brigade! They're cleaning up the city before the
convention!” And Comrade Abell clasped his hands to his forehead,
and wailed in despair, “It's because they've been selling the
'Liberator'! Erman told me last week he'd been warned to stop
selling it!”
Now, I don't know whether or not Carpenter had ever heard of this
radical monthly. But he knew that here was a mob, and people in
trouble, and he shook off the hands which sought to restrain him,
and pushed his way into the throng, which gave way before him,
either from respect or from curiosity. I learned later that some of
the mob had dragged the bookseller and his two clerks out by the
rear entrance, and were beating them pretty severely. But
fortunately Carpenter did not see this. All he saw were a dozen or
so ex-soldiers in uniform carrying armfuls of magazines and books
out into a little square, which was made by the oblique intersection
of two avenues. They were dumping the stuff into a pile, and a man
with a five gallon can was engaged in pouring kerosene over it.
“My friend,” said Carpenter, “what is this that you do?”
The other turned upon him and stared. “What the hell you got to do
with it? Get out of the way there!” And to emphasize his words he
slopped a jet of kerosene over the prophet's robes.
Said Carpenter: “Do you know what a book is? One of your poets has
described it as the precious life-blood of a great spirit, embalmed
and preserved to all posterity.”
The other laughed scornfully. “Was he talkin' about Bolsheviki
books, you reckon?”
Said Carpenter: “Are you one that should be set to judge books? Have
you read these that you are about to destroy?” And as the other,
paying no attention, knelt down to strike a match and light the
pyre, he cried, in a louder voice: “Behold what a thing is war! You
have been trained to kill your fellow men; the beast has been let
loose in your heart, and he raves within!”
“One of these God-damn pacifists, eh?” cried the ex-soldier; and he
dropped his matches and sprang up with fists clenched. Carpenter
faced him without flinching; there was something so majestic about
him, the man did not strike him, he merely put his spread hand
against the prophet's chest and shoved him violently. “Get back out
of the way!”
I well knew the risk I was taking, but I could not refrain. “Now,
look here, buddy!” I began; and the soldier whirled upon me. “You
one of these Huns, too?”
“I was all through the Argonne,” I said quickly. “And I belong to
the Brigade.”
“Oh ho! Well, pitch in here, and help carry out this bloody
Arnychist literature!”
I was about to answer, but Carpenter's voice rang out again. He had
turned and stretched out his arms to the crowd, and we both stopped
to listen to his words.
“Shall ye be wolves, or shall ye be men? That is the choice, and ye
have chosen wolfhood. The blood of your brothers is upon your hands,
and murder in your hearts. You have trained your young men to be
killers of their brothers, and now they know only the law of
madness.”
There were a dozen ex-doughboys in sound of this discourse, and I
judged they would not stand much of it. Suddenly one of them began
to chant; and the rest took it up, half laughing, half shouting:
Rough! Tough!
We're the stuff!
We want to fight and we can't get enough!
And after that:
Hail! Hail! The gang's all here!
We're going to get the Kaiser!
The crowd joined in, and the words of the prophet were completely
drowned out. A moment later I heard a gruff voice behind me. “Make
way here!” There came a policeman, shoving through. “What's all this
about?”
The fellow with the kerosene can spoke up: “Here's this damn
Arnychist prophet been incitin' the crowd and preachin' sedition!
You better take him along, officer, and put him somewhere he'll be
safe, because me and my buddies won't stand no more Bolsheviki
rantin'.”
It seemed ludicrous when I looked back upon it; though at the moment
I did not appreciate the funny side. Here was a group of men engaged
in raiding a book-store, beating up the proprietor and his clerks,
and burning a thousand dollars worth of books and magazines on the
public street; but the policeman did not see a bit of that, he had
no idea that any such thing was happening! All he saw was a prophet,
in a white nightgown dripping with kerosene, engaged in denouncing
war! He took him firmly by the arm, saying, “Come along now! I guess
we've heard enough o' this;” and he started to march Carpenter down
the street.
“Take me too!” cried Moneta, the Mexican, beside himself with
excitement; and the policeman grabbed him with the other hand, and
the three set out to march.
XLVIII
I no longer had any impulse to interfere. In truth I was glad to see
the policeman, considering that his worst might be better than the
mob's best. About half the crowd followed us, but the singing died
away, and that gave Comrade Abell his chance. He was walking
directly behind the policeman, and suddenly he raised his voice, and
all the rest of the way to the station-house he provided marching
tunes: first the Internationale, and then the Reg Flag, and then the
Marseillaise:
Ye sons of toil, awake to glory!
Hark, hark! What myriads bids you rise!
Your children, wives, and grand sires hoary--
Behold their tears and hear their cries!
When we came to the station house, the policeman gave Moneta a shove
and told him to get along; he had not done anything, and was denied
the honor of being arrested. The officer pushed Carpenter through
the door, and bade the rest of us keep out.
Said Abell: “I am an attorney.”
“The hell you are!” said the other. “I thought you were an opery
singer.”
“I'm a practicing attorney,” said Abell, “and I represent the man
you have arrested. I presume I have a right to enter.”
“And I am a prospective bondsman,” I stated, with sudden
inspiration. “So let me in also.”
We entered, and the policeman led his prisoner to the sergeant at
the desk. The latter asked the charge, and was told, “Disturbing the
peace and blocking traffic.”
“Now, sergeant,” said I, “this is preposterous. All this prisoner
did was to try to stop a mob from destroying property.”
“You can tell all that to the magistrate in the morning,” said the
sergeant.
“What is the bail?” I demanded.
“You are prepared to put up bail?”
I answered that I was; and then for the first time Carpenter spoke.
“You mean you wish to pay money to secure my release? Let there be
no money paid for me.”
“Let me explain, Mr. Carpenter,” I pleaded. “You will accomplish
nothing by spending the night in a police cell. You will have no
opportunity to talk with the prisoners. They will keep you by
yourself.”
He answered, “My Father will be with me.” And gazing into the face
of the sergeant, he demanded, “Do you think you can build a cell to
which my Father cannot come?”
The officer was an old hand, with a fringe of grey hair around his
bald head, and no doubt he had been asked many queer questions in
his day. His response was to inquire the prisoner's name; and when
the prisoner kept haughty silence, he wrote down “John Doe
Carpenter,” and proceeded: “Where do you live?”
Said Carpenter: “The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have
nests, but he that espouses the cause of justice has no home in a
world of greed.”
So the sergeant wrote: “No address,” and nodded to a jailer, who
took the prophet by the arm and led him away through a steel-barred
door.
Abell and I went outside and joined the rest of the group. None of
us knew just what to do--with the exception of Everett, who sat on
the steps with his notebook, and made me repeat to him word for word
what Carpenter had said!
XLIX
Comrade Abell told us where the police-court was located, and we
agreed to be there at nine o'clock next morning. Then I parted from
the rest, and walked until I met a taxi and drove to my rooms.
I felt desolate and forlorn. Nothing in my old life had any interest
for me. This was the afternoon when I usually went to the Athletic
Club to box; but now I found myself wondering, what would Carpenter
say to such imitation fighting? I decided I would stay by myself for
a while, and take a walk and think things over. I had been
dissatisfied with my life for a long time; the glamor had begun to
wear off the excitement of youth, and I had begun to suspect that my
life was idle and vain. Now I knew that it was: and also I knew that
the world was a place of torment and woe.
I returned late in the afternoon, and a few minutes afterwards my
telephone rang, and I discovered that somebody else was dissatisfied
with life.
“Hello, Billy,” said the voice of T-S. “I see dat feller Carpenter
is in jail. Vy don't you bail him out?”
“He won't let me,” I said.
“Vell, maybe it might be a good ting to leave him in jail a veek,
till dis Brigade convention gits over.”
“Funny!” said I. “I had the same idea!”
“Listen,” continued the other, “I been feelin' awful bad because I
told dem fellers I didn't know him. D' you suppose he knows I said
dat, Billy?”
“Well,” said I, “he knew you were going to say it, so probably he
knows you said it.”
“Vell,” said T-S, “maybe you laugh at me, but I been tinkin' I tell
dem fellows to go to hell.”
“What fellows?”
“De whole damn vorld! Billy, I like dat feller Carpenter! I never
met a feller like him before. You tink he vould let me go to see him
in de jail?”
“I'm sure he'd be glad to see you,” I said; “if the jailers didn't
object.”
“Sure, I fix de jailers all right!”
“But T-S,” I added, “I don't believe he'll sign any contract.”
“Contract nuttin',” said T-S. “I shoost vant to see him, Billy. Is
dere anyting I could do fer him?”
I thought for a moment; then I said: “You might do something for one
of his friends, and that's young Everett. He got pretty badly hurt,
and he's sticking at the job of taking down all Carpenter's
speeches. He ought to have a surgeon, and also a first class
stenographer to take turns with him. Have you got another man like
him?”
“I dunno,” said T-S. “You don't find a young feller like Matt
Everett everyday.”
I started. “What do you say is his name?”
“Matthew,” said T-S. “Vy you ask?”
“Nothing,” said I; “just a coincidence!”
Our conversation ended with the remark by T-S that he would call up
the station-house and arrange to see Carpenter. Five minutes later
the telephone rang again, and I heard the magnate's voice: “Billy,
dey say he's been bailed out!”
“What?” I cried. “He declared he wouldn't have it done.”
“Somebody done it vitout askin' him! De money vas paid, and dey
turned him out!”
“Who did it?”
“Guess!”
“You mean it was you?”
“I vouldn't 'a dared. I only shoost found out about it. Mary Magna
done it, and she's took him avay somevere.”
“Good Lord!” I exclaimed; and before my mind's eye flashed another
headline:
FAIR FILM STAR FREES LOVE-CULT PROPHET
I promised to try to find out about the prophet at once. “He won't
get away,” I said, “because he doesn't ride in automobiles, and he
and Mary can't walk very far on the street without the newspapers
finding them!”
I took my telephone-book, and looked up the name Abell. It is an
unusual name, and there was only one attorney bearing it. (I was
struck by the fact that the first name of this attorney was Mark.) I
called him on the phone, and heard the familiar gentle voice. Yes,
Comrade Carpenter had just arrived, and Miss Magna was with him.
They were going to have a little party, and they would be glad to
have me come. Yes, Mr. T-S would be welcome, of course. So then I
called up the magnate of the pictures, and not without an inward
smile, conferred on him the gracious permission to spend the evening
at the headquarters of Local Western City of the Socialist Party!
L
When I got to the meeting-place I found that a feast had been
spread. I don't know where the money came from; maybe it was
Bolshevik gold, as the enemy charged, or maybe it was the ill-gotten
gains of a “million dollar movie vamp.” Anyhow, there was a table
spread with a couple of cloths that were clean, if ragged, and on
them flowers and fruit. Carpenter was seated at the head of the
table, and I noted to my surprise that he had on a beautiful robe of
snow-white linen, instead of the one he had formerly worn, which was
not only stained with kerosene but filthy with the dust of the
streets. I learned that Mrs. T-S had brought this festal garment--a
simple matter for her, because in movie studios they have wardrobe
rooms where they turn out any sort of costume imaginable.
This robe was so striking that it created a little controversy.
James, the carpenter, who had an ascetic spirit, considered it
necessary to speak plainly, and point out that Mrs. T-S would have
done better to take the money and give it to the poor. But the
prophet answered: “Let this woman alone. She has done a good thing.
The poor you have always with you, but me you have only for a short
time. This woman has helped to make our feast happy, and men will
tell about it in future years.”
But that did not satisfy the ascetic James, who retired to his
corner grumbling. “I know, we're going to start a new church--the
same old graft all over again! A man has no business to say a thing
like that. The first thing you know, they'll be taking the widow's
mite to buy silk and velvet dresses for him and golden goblets for
him to drink from! And then, before you know it they'll be setting
him up in stained glass windows, and priests'll be wearing jewelled
robes, and saying it's all right, and quoting his words!” I
perceived that it wasn't so easy for a prophet to manage a bunch of
disciples in these modern days!
The controversy did not seem to trouble Mrs. T-S, who was waddling
about, perfectly happy in the kitchen--doing the things she would
have done all the time, if her husband's social position had not
required her to keep a dozen servants. Also, I noted to my great
astonishment that Mary Magna, instead of taking a place at the
prophet's right hand, according to the prerogative of queens, had
put on a plain apron and was helping “Maw” and Mrs. Abell. More
surprising yet, T-S had seated himself inconspicuously at the foot
of the table, while at the prophet's right hand there sat a convict
with a twenty year jail sentence hanging over him--John Colver, the
“wobbly” poet! Again an ancient phrase learned in childhood came
floating through my mind: “He hath put down the mighty from their
seats, and exalted them of low degree!”