Both men were in deadly earnest, Hugo not quite willing to adopt the
Russian's almost effeminate delicacy, yet eager to talk to him, or to
someone like him--someone who was more than a great self-centred wheel
in the progress of the nation. Hugo yielded a little further. "Yet that
is my purpose. And I am not altogether impotent. There are things I can
do--" He got up from the table and stretched himself with a feline
grace.
"Such as?"
"I was thinking of your two compatriots who were recently given such
wretched justice. Suppose they were liberated by force. What then?"
"Ah! You are an independent communist?"
"Not even that. Just a friend of progress."
"So. A dreamer. One of the few who have wealth. And you have a plan to
free these men?"
Hugo shrugged. "I merely speculated on the possible outcome of such a
thing; assume that they were snatched from prison and hidden beyond the
law."
Skorvsky meditated. "It would be a great victory for the cause, of
course. A splendid lift to its morale."
"The cause of Bolshevism?"
"A higher and a different cause. I cannot explain it briefly. Perhaps I
cannot explain it at all. But the old world of empires is crumbled.
Democracy is at its farcical height. The new world is not yet manifest.
I shall be direct. What is your plan, Mr. Danner?"
"I couldn't tell you. Anyway, you would not believe it. But I could
guarantee to deliver those two men anywhere in the country within a few
days without leaving a trace of how it was done. What do you think of
that, Skorvsky?"
"I think you are a dangerous and a valuable man."
"Not many people do." Hugo's eyes were moody. "I have been thinking
about it for a long time. Nothing that I can remember has happened
during my life that gives me a greater feeling of understanding than the
imprisonment and sentencing of those men. I know poignantly the glances
that are given them, the stupidity of the police and the courts, the
horror-stricken attitude of those who condemn them without knowledge of
the truth or a desire for such knowledge." He buried his face in his
hands and then looked up quickly. "I know all that passionately and
intensely. I know the blind fury to which it all gives birth. I hate it.
I detest it. Selfishness, stupidity, malice. I know the fear it
engenders--a dreadful and a justified fear. I've felt it. Very little in
this world avails against it. You'll forgive so much sentiment,
Skorvsky?"
"It makes us brothers." The Russian spoke with force and simplicity.
"You, too--"
Hugo crossed the room restlessly. "I don't know. I am always losing my
grip. I came to Washington with a purpose and I cannot screw myself to
it unremittingly. These men seem--"
Skorvsky was thinking. "Your plan for them. What assistance would you
need?"
"None."
"None!"
"Why should I need help? I--never mind. I need none."
"You have your own organization?"
"There is no one but me."
Skorvsky shook his head. "I cannot--and yet--looking at you--I believe
you can. I shall tell you. You will come with me to-night and meet my
friends--those who are working earnestly for a new America, an America
ruled by intelligence alone. Few outsiders enter our councils. We are
all--nearly all--foreigners. Yet we are more American than the Maine
fisherman, the Minnesota farmer. Behind us is a party that grows apace.
This incident in New Jersey has added to it, as does every dense mumble
of Congress, every scandalous metropolitan investigation. I shall
telephone."
Hugo allowed himself to be conducted half-dubiously. But what he found
was superficially, at least, what he had dreamed for himself. The house
to which he was taken was pretentious; the people in its salon were
amiable and educated; there was no sign of the red flag, the ragged
reformer, the anarchist. The women were gracious; the men witty. As he
talked to them, one by one, he began to believe that here was the
nucleus around which he could construct his imaginary empire. He became
interested; he expanded.
It was late in the night when Skorvsky raised his voice slightly, so
that everyone would listen, and made an announcement: "Friends, I have
had the honour to introduce Mr. Danner to you. Now I have the greater
honour of telling you his purpose and pledge. To-morrow night he will go
to New Jersey"--the silence became absolute--"and two nights later he
will bring to us in person from their cells Davidoff and Pletzky."
A quick, pregnant pause was followed by excitement. They took Hugo by
the hand, some of them applauded, one or two cheered, they shouldered
near him, they asked questions and expressed doubts. It was broad
daylight before they dispersed. Hugo walked to his house, listening to a
long rhapsody from Skorvsky.
"We will make you a great man if you succeed," Skorvsky said.
"Good-night, comrade."
"Good-night." Hugo went into the hall and up to his bedroom. He sat on
his bed. A dullness overcame him. He had never been patronized quite in
the same way as he had that night; it exerted at once a corrosive and a
lethargic influence. He undressed slowly, dropping his shoes on the
floor. Splendid people they were, he thought. A smaller voice suggested
to him that he did not really care to go to New Jersey for the
prisoners. They would be hard to locate. There would be a sensation and
a mystery again. Still, he had found a purpose.
His telephone rang. He reached automatically from the bed. The room was
bright with sunshine, which meant that it was late in the day. His brain
took reluctant hold on consciousness. "Hello?"
"Hello? Danner, my friend--"
"Oh, hello, Skorvsky--"
"May I come up? It is important."
"Sure. I'm still in bed. But come on."
Hugo was under the shower bath when his visitor arrived. He invited
Skorvsky to share his breakfast, but was impatiently refused. "Things
have happened since last night, Comrade Danner. For one, I saw the
chief."
"Chief?"
"You have not met him as yet. We conferred about your scheme. He--I
regret to say--opposed it."
Hugo nodded. "I'm not surprised. I'll tell you what to do. You take me
to him--and I'll prove conclusively that it will be successful. Then,
perhaps, he will agree to sanction it. Every time I think of those two
poor devils--snatched from a mob--waiting there in the dark for the
electric chair--it makes my blood boil."
"Quite," Skorvsky agreed. "But you do not understand. It is not that he
doubts your ability--if you failed it would not be important. He fears
you might accomplish it. I assured him you would. I have faith in you."
"He's afraid I would do it? That doesn't make sense, Skorvsky."
"It does, I regret to say." His expressive face stirred with discomfort.
"We were too hasty, too precipitate. I see his reason now. We cannot
afford as a group to be branded as jail-breakers."
"That's--weak," Hugo said.
Skorvsky cleared his throat. "There are other matters. Since Davidoff
and Pletzky were jailed, the party has grown by leaps and bounds. Money
has poured in--"
"Ah," Hugo said softly, "money."
Skorvsky raged. "Go ahead. Be sarcastic. To free those men would cost us
a million dollars, perhaps."
"Too bad."
"With a million--the million their electrocution will bring from the
outraged--we can accomplish more than saving two paltry lives. We must
be hard, we must think ahead."
"In thinking ahead, Skorvsky, do you not think of the closing of a
switch and the burning of human flesh?"
"For every cause there must be martyrs. Their names will live
eternally."
"And they themselves--?"
"Bah! You are impractical."
"Perhaps." Hugo ate a slice of toast with outward calm. "I was hoping
for a government that--did not weigh people against dollars--"
"Nor do we!"
"No?"
Skorvsky leaped to his feet. "Fool! Dreamer! Preposterous idealist! I
must be going."