THE REBEL
I
At Southern Pacific University the class lines were tacitly but
effectively drawn, and in the ordinary course of events a man of Bunny’s
wealth, good looks and good manners, would have associated only with the
members of fraternities and sororities. If some Negro boy were to
develop eloquence as a debater, or if some one taking a course in
millinery or plumbing were to display fleetness as a hurdler, the
hurdler might hurdle and the debater might debate, but they would not be
invited to tea-parties or dances, nor be elected to prominence in the
student organizations; such honors were reserved for tall Anglo-Saxons
having regular features, and hair plastered straight back from their
foreheads, and trousers pressed to a knife edge and never worn two days
in succession.
But here was Bunny Ross, persisting in fooling with “dangerous
thoughts,” that made his friends angry. Of course, as anyone would have
foreseen, there were “barbs” and “goats,” anxious to break in where they
were not wanted, and perfectly willing to pretend to think that our
country ought not to intervene in Russia, if by so professing they could
get to know one of the socially élite. So Bunny found himself on talking
terms with various queer fish. For example, there was Peter Nagle, whose
father was president of a “rationalist society,” and who seemed to have
one dominating desire in life—to blurt out in class that what was the
matter with the world was superstition, and that mankind could never
progress until they stopped believing in God. In a university all of
whose faculty were required to be devout Methodists, you can imagine how
popular this made him. Peter looked just as you would expect such a boor
to look, with a large square head and a wide mouth full of teeth, and a
shock of yellow hair which he allowed to straggle round his ears and
drop white specks onto his coat collar—his coat did not match his
trousers, and he brought his lunch to the university tied with a strap!
And then there was Gregor Nikolaieff. Gregor was all right, when you got
to know him, but the trouble was, it was hard to know him, because his
accent was peculiar, and at critical moments in his talk he would forget
the English word. He had jet black hair, and black eyes with a sombre
frown above them—in short, he was the very picture of what the students
called a “Bolsheviki.” As it happened, Gregor’s father had belonged to
one of the revolutionary parties whom the Bolsheviks were now sending to
jail; but how could you explain that to a student body which dumped into
one common garbage-can Socialists and Communists and Syndicalists and
Anarchists, Communist-Anarchists and Anarchist-Syndicalists, Social
Revolutionaries and Social-Democrats, Populists, Progressives,
Single-taxers, Nonpartisan Leaguers, Pacifists, Pragmatists, Altruists,
Vegetarians, Anti-vivisectionists and opponents of capital punishment.
Also there was Rachel Menzies, who belonged to a people that had been
chosen by the Lord, but not by the aforesaid student body. Rachel was
rather good-looking, though in a dark, foreign way; she was short—what
feminine enemies would have called “dumpy”—and made no pretense at
finery, but came to the university in black cotton stockings and a
shirtwaist that did not match her skirt. There was a rumor that her
father worked in a clothing factory, and her brother was pressing
students’ pants for an education.
And here was the discoverer and heir-apparent of the Ross Junior oil
field, letting himself be seen in public with these people, and even
trying to introduce them to his fraternity brothers; excusing himself by
saying that they believed in “free speech.” As if it were not obvious
that they would, having everything to gain and nothing to lose!
Proletarians of all universities unite!
Poor Bunny got it from both sides. “Look here,” said Donald Burns,
president of the sophomore class, “don’t you introduce me to any more of
your Yid fairies.” And then, “Look here,” said Rachel Menzies, “don’t
you introduce me to any more of your male fashion-plates.” Bunny
protested, he had the idea that all kinds of people ought to know one
another; but Rachel informed him that she thought too much of herself.
“Probably you’ve never been snubbed in your life, Mr. Ross, but we Jews
learn the lesson early in our lives—not to go where we aren’t wanted.”
Said Bunny, “But Miss Menzies, if you believe in ideas, you’ve got to
teach people—”
“Thank you,” she said; “I believe in my ideas, but not enough to teach
Donald Burns.”
“But how can you tell?” Bunny protested. “You’re teaching me, and I
don’t belong to the working-class.” He had learned that this girl was a
member of the Socialist party, and it was “class-consciousness,” as well
as Jewish consciousness.
Rachel insisted that Bunny was one person in a million, capable of
believing what was contrary to his economic interests. But Bunny had no
awareness of anything extraordinary about himself. Instead of being a
conspicuous and shining leader, as his high destiny directed, he was
always looking for some one he could lean on, some one who was positive,
and whom he could trust. He found some of this in Henrietta Ashleigh,
who knew exactly what was proper; and he found some more of it in Rachel
Menzies, who knew exactly what was true, and said it with energy and
frankness that were like flashes of lightning in the twilight of
Southern Pacific culture.
The only trouble was, the contradiction between his two authorities; it
appeared almost as if what was true was not proper and what was proper
was not true! For Henrietta considered Rachel an impossible person, and
was cold as a corpse in her presence; while Rachel’s idea of being
insulting was to tell Bunny that it was with Henrietta he really
belonged, his Creator had made him to take her to church.
II
Amid this perplexity, Bunny found comfort in the backing of Billy
George, who was Anglo-Saxon and broad-shouldered, and a senior besides.
Billy assured him he was right, and suggested that they take some steps
to make their ideas understood to the rest of the student body. Why not
organize a little group, the Society for the Study of Russian Problems,
or something of that sort? Bunny should ask Mr. Irving to advise them,
and perhaps join them—it would be much better if they could have the
backing of one of the teachers. So Bunny went to Mr. Irving, who said at
once that he could not give any advice on the subject, for the reason
that it would jeopardize his position to do so; the students would have
to follow their own judgment. The young instructor did add this much,
they ought surely not use the name “Russian,” but take some inoffensive
title, the “Liberal Club,” or the “Social Problems Society.”
Bunny took that advice to the others, meeting in one of the class-rooms
after hours. Billy George said it didn’t seem very “spunky” of Mr.
Irving; whereupon Rachel Menzies flared up, he had no right to hint at
such a thing, they all knew what the teacher’s position was, and he had
a perfect right to keep out of trouble. What business had Mr. George to
be finding fault, when he himself had done nothing publicly?
The other demanded to know what he could do, and the girl was not
backward in suggestions. Why not start a student paper, a little
four-page sheet, once a week or even once a month? It would cost very
little, and would make a hit, they could be sure; look how many people
had wanted to read Mr. Ross’s letter about Siberia! If they printed that
letter they would set the campus on fire. Mr. George could have the
honor of being editor, and Rachel would contribute her share of the
cost. There was obvious irony in that, considering the quantity of iron
pipe which Billy’s father was known to be marketing in Angel City. But
they discussed it gravely, and Billy didn’t think he could take any
responsibility; his old man would pull him out of college, and put him
to work on a bookkeeper’s stool.
Then, automatically, the eyes of the group turned to Bunny. What did he
think? Bunny found his cheeks growing red. He had wanted to explain his
ideas to other people, but had thought of doing it in some dignified
way, privately and quietly. A paper would make such a noise! Rachel
Menzies apparently didn’t mind a noise, but Henrietta would, she would
be horrified by the bare idea. Also there was Dad—the “education
business” would be damned forever by such a venture. So Bunny had to say
no; and Rachel Menzies said that was all right, there were plenty of
excuses, and she didn’t blame anybody for finding the best one, but at
least they had no business criticizing Mr. Irving for lack of courage!
III
Soon after that Bunny read in the paper that the transport “Bennington”
had arrived in San Francisco with two thousand troops from Siberia.
Paul’s unit was listed; so Bunny called up Ruth on the telephone and
told her the news, and said, be sure to let him know as soon as she got
word. Two days later Ruth called him—Paul had arrived at Paradise. It
was a Friday, so Bunny “cut” his afternoon courses, and jumped into his
car. Dad had gone over to Lobos River, to see to a “fishing” job, and so
missed this first meeting.
It was almost twenty months that Paul had been away, and Bunny was keyed
up with eagerness. The first glance gave him a shock, for Paul looked
quite terrible—gaunt and yellow, his khaki jacket hanging loose upon
him. “You’ve been sick!” cried Bunny.
“Yes,” said Paul; “but I’m getting all right now.”
“Paul, tell me what happened!”
“Well, it was no picnic.” And he seemed to think that would satisfy both
his sister and his friend—after a year and a half!
They were over in the cabin on the Rascum tract, where Ruth and Paul had
first begun house-keeping. It was supper-time, and the girl had prepared
a bounteous repast; but Paul wasn’t much on eating just now, he
said—afraid to trust himself with good food. While they sat at table he
told them about Manila, where they had stopped; and about a storm on the
Pacific; but not a word about Siberia!
Of course that wouldn’t do. After the meal they got Paul settled in an
arm-chair, and Bunny said, “Look here, Paul, I’ve been trying to
understand about this Russian business. I’m quarrelling with most
everyone I know about it, and I counted on you for the truth. So please
do tell us about it—just what happened to you.”
Paul sat with his head lying back. His face had always been sombre, a
prominent nose and wide mouth with a tendency to droop at the corners;
haggard as he was, this tendency was accentuated, he looked like a mask
of sorrow. “What happened to me?” he said, in his slow voice; and then
he seemed to raise himself to the effort of recalling it. “I’ll tell you
what happened, son; I was kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped!” The two of them echoed the word together.
“Yes, just that. I thought I went into the army to put down the Kaiser,
but I was kidnapped by some Wall Street bankers, and put to work as a
strike-breaker, a scab.”
Ruth and Bunny could only sit and gaze at Paul, and wait for him to say
what he meant by these strange words.
“You remember our oil strike, Bunny? Those guards the Federation sent up
here—husky fellows, with plenty of guns, and good warm clothes,
rain-coats and water-proof hats and everything. Well, that’s what I’ve
been doing for a year and a half—putting down a strike for Wall Street
bankers. The guards here at Paradise got ten dollars a day, and if they
didn’t like it, they could quit; but I got thirty a month and beans, and
if I tried to quit they’d have shot me. That was the cinch the bankers
had.”
Again there was a pause. Paul had closed his eyes, and he told a part of
his story that way, looking at things he saw inside his mind.
“First thing, the allies took the city of Vladivostok. The strikers had
that city, with a perfectly good government, everything orderly and
fine. They didn’t make much resistance—they were too surprised at our
behavior. We shot a few longshoremen, who tried to defend one building,
and the strikers had a big funeral with a procession; they brought the
red coffins to the American consulate with banners that asked us why we
had shot their people. It happened to be the Fourth of July, and we were
celebrating our revolution; why had we overthrown theirs? Of course we
couldn’t answer; none of us knew why we had done it; but little by
little we began to find out.”
Paul paused, and waited so long that Bunny thought he wasn’t going on.
“Why, Paul?”
“Well, just outside that city, along the railroad track, there were
fields—I guess there must have been ten or twenty acres, piled twenty
feet high with stuff—guns and shells, railroad locomotives, rails and
machinery, motor-trucks—every kind of thing you could think of to help
win a war. Some of it was in cases, and some without even a tarpaulin
over it, just lying there in the rain, and sinking slowly—some of the
heavy stuff two feet down in the mud. There was a hundred million
dollars of it, that had been put off the steamers, intended to be taken
across to Russia; but then the revolution had come, and there it lay.
One of our jobs was to guard it. At first, of course, we thought it
belonged to the government; but then little by little we got the story.
Originally the British government had bought it for the Tsar’s
government, and taken bonds for it. Later, when we came into the war,
the firm of Morgan and Company took over the bonds from the British
government, and these supplies were Morgan’s collateral, and we had
overthrown the Vladivostok government to protect it for him.”
Again there was a pause. “Paul,” said Bunny, anxiously, “do you really
know that?”
Paul laughed, but without any happiness. “Know it?” he said. “Listen,
son. They sent out an expedition, two hundred and eighty men to run the
railroad—every kind of expert, traffic men, telegraphers, linemen,
engineers. They all wore army uniforms, and the lowest man had the rank
of second lieutenant; of course we thought they were part of the army,
like the rest of us. But they got fancy pay, and by God, it wasn’t army
pay, it was checks on a Wall Street bank! I’ve seen dozens of those
checks. It was a private expedition, sent to run the railroad for the
bankers.”
“But why, Paul?”
“I’ve told you—to break the strike. The biggest strike in all
history—the Russian workers against the landlords and the bankers; and
we were to put the workers down, and the landlords and bankers up! Here
and there were bunches of refugees, former officers of the Tsar’s army,
grand dukes and their mistresses, land-owners and their families; they
would get together and call themselves a government, and it was our job
to rush them supplies, and they would print paper money, and hire some
adventurers, and grab a bunch of peasants and ‘conscript’ them, and that
would be an army, and we’d move them on the railroad, and they’d
overthrow another Soviet government, and slaughter a few more hundreds
or thousands of workingmen. That’s been my job for the past year and
half; do you wonder I’m sick?”
“Paul, did you have to kill people?” It was Ruth’s voice of horror.
“No, I don’t think I killed anybody. I was a carpenter, and my only
fights were with the Japs, that were supposed to be our allies. You see,
the Japs were there to grab the country, so they didn’t want either the
‘white’ Russians or the ‘red’ ones to succeed. The first thing they did
was to counterfeit the money of the ‘white’ government; they brought in
billions of fake roubles, and bought everything in sight—banks and
hotels and stores and real estate—they made themselves the capitalists,
and broke the ‘white’ government with their fake money. They resented
our being there, and the fact that we really tried to help the ‘whites;’
they butted in on our job, and there were times when we lined up our
troops and threatened to fire in five minutes if they didn’t move out.
They were always picking on our men; I was fired at three times in the
dark—got one bullet through my hat and another through my shirt.”
Ruth sat there with her hands clasped together and her face white. She
could see those bullets going through Paul’s clothing right now! And be
sure that she was not unlearning any of her dislike for war!
“A lot of our fellows came to hate the Japs,” said Paul; “but I didn’t.
I got a philosophy out of this—the only thing I did get. The ruling
classes in Japan were grabbing half a continent; but all the poor
soldiers were grabbing was pay even poorer than mine. They didn’t know
what they were there for—they, also, had been kidnapped. There were
some that had been to America, and I got to talk with them, and we never
had any trouble in agreeing. That was true of Czecho-Slovaks, and
Germans—every nation I met. I tell you, Bunny, if the private soldiers
could have talked it over, there wouldn’t have been any war. But that is
what is known as treason, and if you try it you’re shot.”
IV
Paul and Bunny talked, that Friday night, and a lot of Saturday and
Sunday, and Paul explained the Russian revolution. There was an easy way
for Bunny to understand it, Paul said; if there was anything that
puzzled him, all he had to do was to remember their oil strike. “Ask
yourself how it would have been at Paradise, and then you know
everything about Russia and Siberia—yes, and Washington and New York
and Angel City. The Petroleum Operator’s Federation, that fought our
strike, they’re exactly the sort of men that sent our army into
Siberia—often they’re the same individuals. I read in the paper
yesterday how a syndicate of oil men in Angel City has got some
concessions in Saghalien. I remember one name, Vernon Roscoe. He’s one
of the big fellows, isn’t he?”
Paul said this seriously, and Bunny and Ruth exchanged a smile. Paul had
been away so long, he had lost track of the oil-game entirely!
Said Paul, “The operators are the same, and so are the strikers. Do you
remember that little Russian Jew, Mandel, a roughneck that was in our
strike? Used to play the balalaika, and sing us songs about Russia—we
wouldn’t let him make speeches, because he was a ‘red.’ Well, by jingo,
I ran into him in Manila, on the way out. He’d been travelling steerage
on a steamer, on the way to Russia, and they found he was a Bolshevik,
and threw him ashore and took away everything he had, even his
balalaika. I loaned him five dollars, and six months later he turned up
at Irkutsk, in a ‘Y’ hut. Lying on a shelf there was a balalaika, and he
said, ‘Why, that’s mine! How did it get here?’ They told him a soldier
had brought it, but didn’t know how to use it. ‘You can have it if you
can play it,’ they said, so he played it all right, sang us the Volga
Boatman, and then the Internationale—only of course nobody knew what it
was. A few days later there were orders to arrest him, but I helped him
get away. Months after that we came on him out in the country, not far
from Omsk; he had been a Soviet commissar, and the Kolchak people had
captured him, and buried him alive, up to his nose, just so that he
could breathe. When we found him the ants had eaten most of his eyes,
but there was still some life in him, his forehead would wrinkle.”
It was while Paul was alone with Bunny that he told this; and the
younger man sat, speechless with horror. “Oh, yes,” said Paul; “that’s
the kind of thing we had to see—and know we were to blame for it. I
could tell you things much worse—I’ve helped to bury a hundred bodies
of people that had been killed, not in battle, just shot down in cold
blood, men and women, children, even babies. I’ve seen a ‘white’ officer
shoot women in the head, one after another; and with our bullets,
brought there by our railway men—I mean our bankers’ railway men. A lot
of our boys went plumb crazy with it. Out of the two thousand that came
off our transport, I doubt if there were ten percent quite normal. I
said that to our surgeon, and he agreed.”
V
All this was so different from what Bunny had been taught that it was
hard for him to adjust his thoughts to it. He would go off and think it
over, and then come back with another string of questions. “Then Paul,
you mean the Bolsheviks aren’t bad people at all!”
Paul answered, “Just apply the rule—remember Paradise! They were
workingmen, like any other workingmen on strike. A lot of them have come
from America—got their training here. I used to meet them and have long
talks—all kinds of fellows, that had been all over this country. They
are people with modern ideas, trying to dig the Russians out of their
ignorance and superstition. They believe in education—I never saw such
people for teaching; everywhere, whatever they were doing, they were
always preaching, having lectures, printing things—why, son, I’ve seen
newspapers printed on old scraps of brown butcher paper, or wrappings
our army had thrown away. I learned Russian pretty well—and it was just
the sort of thing our strikers printed at Paradise, only of course these
people have got farther in their struggle against the bosses, they see
things more clearly than we do.”
Bunny was staring, a little frightened. “Paul! Then you agree with the
Bolsheviks?”
Paul laughed, a grim laugh. “You go up to Frisco and talk with the men
on that transport! That army was Bolshevik to a man—and not only the
privates, but the officers. I guess that’s why they brought us home.
There was mutiny in Archangel, you know—or maybe you don’t.”
“I heard something—”
“Let me tell you, Bunny—I’ve been there, and I know. The Bolsheviks are
the only people in that country that have any faith or any solidarity;
and they’re going to run it, too—mark my words, the Japs will get out,
the same as we did. You can’t beat people that will die for their cause,
the last man and the last woman.”
Said Bunny, timidly, “Then it isn’t true what we’ve been told—I mean
about their nationalizing the women?”
“Oh, my Lord!” said Paul. “Is that the sort of rot you’ve been
thinking?”
“Well, but how can we know what to think?”
Paul laughed. “Come to think of it, I met some women that had been
nationalized by the Bolsheviks—as school-teachers. They taught the men
in their armies to read and write, and made every man swear to teach ten
others what he had learned. I saw a couple of dozen such women in a
cattle-car on the Trans-Siberian railway, without a single blanket,
nothing but blocks of wood for pillows, not even a bucket to serve for a
toilet. They had several cases of Asiatic cholera among them, and they’d
been that way for ten or twelve days—prisoners of war, you understand,
waiting until they got to Irkutsk, where they’d be shot without a trial.
And on the other hand, Bunny—here’s the truth, I was in Siberia
eighteen months, and never saw an atrocity committed by a Bolshevik, and
never met a man in our army that had seen one. I don’t say there weren’t
any; all I say is, I met men that had travelled all over Russia, our
people as well as natives, and the only Bolshevik atrocity that anyone
knew about was the fundamental one of teaching the workers they had a
right to rule the world. You can set this down for a fact about the
Russian revolution, all the way from Vladivostok to Odessa and
Archangel—that where the ‘reds’ did any killing or executing, the
‘whites’ did ten, and a hundred times as much. You never hear about
‘white’ atrocities, because the newspapers don’t report them—they are
too busy telling how Lenin has murdered Trotsky, and Trotsky has thrown
Lenin into jail.”
VI
This meeting with Paul was the most exciting event of Bunny’s life. It
transvaluated all his values; things that had been wicked became
suddenly heroic, while things that had been respectable became suddenly
dull. Bunny, confronting the modern industrial world with its manifold
injustices, had been like a man lost in a tangled forest. But here he
had been taken up in a balloon, and shown the way out of the tangle.
Everything was now simple, plain as a map. The workers were to take over
the industries, and run them for themselves, instead of for the masters.
Thus, with one stroke, the knot of social injustice would be cut!
Bunny had heard of this idea, and it had sounded fantastic and absurd.
But now came Paul to tell him that it had actually been done! A hundred
million people, occupying one-sixth of the earth’s surface, had taken
over their industries, and were running them, and would make a success
of them—if only the organized greed of the world would stand off and
let them alone!
Bunny took Paul in his car, to show him all the field. They investigated
the new refinery, that wonderful work of art. Before them rose a great
building, made entirely of enormous baking-pans set one inside
another—a stack half way to heaven; the angels were making caramels for
the whole world, dainties with a new, patented flavor, and sickish sweet
odors that spread over the hills for miles and frightened the quail
away!
It was twilight, and the white steam that rose from these pans had a
faint violet tinge as it merged with the sky. Electric lights came on,
white and yellow and red, until the place looked like a section of Coney
Island. And this resemblance increased as you drove farther, and came to
a building, long and low, in which forty-four Dutchmen sat hidden
puffing on forty-four pipes, and doing it all in unison, like an
orchestra; the most comical effect you could imagine—forty-four
exhausts all keeping time, quick and
sharp—puff-puff-puff-puff-puff-puff-puff!
Bunny felt his old embarrassment in connection with the Paradise tract;
his title to these vast possessions was not clear, and Paul was bound to
be jealous, realizing how his family had been tricked. But, then, in
swift flashes of revelation, Bunny discovered how completely out of date
these old feelings had become. Nevermore would Paul be jealous for his
lost heritage; never would he consider the claims of the Watkins
family—any more than the claims of the Ross family! The Paradise tract
belonged to the Paradise workers; the beautiful new refinery was a ripe
peach, hanging on a tree and waiting to be picked! All that was needed
was for some one to point this out to the men. If Paul had not been weak
and exhausted, he might have pointed it out that evening, and they could
have taken over the plant, and had it ready for operation under the new
management by morning! All power to the Soviets!
VII
Bunny went back to the university, charged with these electrical new
thoughts; at one moment he would be trembling with excitement, and at
the next he would be frightened to realize what he had been thinking.
Some instinct warned him that the idea of expropriating the industries
of Southern California would stand no chance with his class-mates; so he
contented himself with telling the good tidings about Russia—that the
revolution was not a blind outburst of ferocity, but the birth of a new
social order. Bunny told this; and Peter Nagle received the gospel with
his large mouth wide open; while Gregor Nikolaieff said yes, but why had
they got his cousin in jail; and Rachel Menzies said they had got
thousands of Socialists in jail; and Billy George said, “Let’s get a
group of fellows together and have Paul come and talk to them.”
The rumor spread with magical swiftness through the university, and the
quick imaginations of Bunny’s friends supplied all those details about
which he had been silent. Bunny Ross knew a workingman who was an
out-and-out Bolshevik, and had made Bunny into an out-and-out Bolshevik
too; “the millionaire red” became his future designation. Men and women
gathered round to question and argue with him; the arguments often broke
up with furious word rows, but all the same it was interesting, and they
came back for more. Bunny was made into a centre of Soviet propaganda;
for, when they drove him to the wall with their arguments, what could he
do but go to Paul for more facts, and then come back and hurl them at
his adversaries’ heads? His fraternity brothers sat up half the night
with him, wrangling over his challenge to everything they considered
good.
With rest and home cooking Paul picked up considerably, and in a couple
of weeks came down to Angel City to meet a friend. Bunny joined him, and
had another adventure, in the person of Harry Seager. This man, ten
years older than Paul, was the head of a small business college, who had
put his affairs into a partner’s hands and gone in for “Y work” during
the war. They had sent him to Siberia, to help those two hundred and
eighty railway men whom the bankers were paying. He had travelled up and
down the line, seeing everything there was to see, and now he had
“kicked over the traces,” and was telling the truth about the situation,
in spite of the protests of the “Y” authorities, and the army, and the
state department, and the Merchants’ and Manufacturers’ Association, and
everybody that could put pressure on the head of a business college in
Angel City.
Dad was up to the ears just then in work, on account of some
wild-catting they were planning on the Bandy tract. But Bunny insisted
he must meet Harry Seager, and lured the two of them to lunch, and Paul
also, and before the soup was eaten they had got Dad so stirred up that
he did not eat any more. Of course he was horrified at their story; but
there was no use expecting his mind to work the same as Bunny’s. Dad
couldn’t straighten out all the tangles in the world, and didn’t feel
the impulse to try. What worried him was that the Japs were in Siberia;
and that our diplomacy was so unaware of oil; and most of all, that his
son was falling under the spell of wild and dangerous ideas.
This fellow Seager, for example—a big six-foot Westerner, handsome as a
Viking, and picturesque because of hair turned prematurely grey by his
labors; you couldn’t deny the fellow’s facts, you couldn’t think he was
lying—but good Lord, there was no use being thrown off your base, and
going round the country raising a public disturbance, attacking the
government because it had made a blunder in the confusion of war-time,
and then hadn’t known how to get out.
Bunny dragged his father to a Socialist meeting at which Harry Seager
was to speak. It was in a big hall, with two or three thousand people
packed into it, and Dad thought he had never seen so many dangerous
people in all his life before: foreign faces, dark and sinister,
intense-looking intellectuals with hair over their collars, women with
short hair and big spectacles, workingmen, sullen and dull, or
sharp-faced, bitter—oh, terrible, terrible people! And this man Seager,
lashing them to frenzy! Telling about the “death-train” he had seen on
the Trans-Siberian—more than two thousand men and women packed into
cattle cars, prisoners of the “Whites,” who did not know what to do with
them, but ran the train here and there, shunting it onto sidings for
weeks, while the victims perished of hunger, thirst and disease. And
American troops standing by, feeding such murderers, supplying them with
money, protecting them with guns! Yes, and it was still going on! Right
now Polish troops were invading Russia, wearing American uniforms,
killing Russian workingmen with American ammunition! What did the people
of America have to say?
What the people of America had to say was a roar that sent shivers down
the spine of J. Arnold Ross. He looked about him at this human ocean
tossed by a storm—hands waving, fists clenched, heads bobbing up and
down with excitement; and he knew what it meant—nobody could fool him.
When presently the crowd burst into cheering at the name of Lenin, they
were not cheering for what the Russian Lenin had done, but for what some
American Lenin meant to do. “Hands off Russia!”—that was mere
camouflage; what they meant was, “Hands on Ross Consolidated!”
And then, out of the corner of his eye, Dad stole a glimpse at his son.
Bunny apparently did not feel one particle of his father’s fear! Bunny
was like the rest of the mob, his face shining with excitement. Bunny
was shouting for “Hands off Russia!”—and either he did not know what
this mob meant to do to Ross Consolidated, or else—worse yet—he did
not care!
VIII
The little bunch of “reds” from the university had attended this Seager
meeting, and next day were all a-thrill with it. Most of Bunny’s
fraternity brothers had refused to go; and now they proceeded to
criticize an argument they had not heard! Bunny’s feelings boiled over
as he listened to them. All this rubbish about nationalization of women,
these faked figures concerning millions of victims of Bolshevism! It was
a disgrace to a university that such stuff should pass for knowledge,
and no effort made to contradict it. Bunny voiced this idea to Peter
Nagle, and Peter went home and talked to his father about it, and came
back announcing that he was willing to serve as editor for a student
paper to present the truth.
There was another meeting of the conspirators, and thirty dollars was
quickly subscribed, and it was voted to publish a four-page weekly sheet
of all kinds of truth-telling, to bear the name of “The Investigator.”
It was agreed that the best approach to the Russian problem was Harry
Seager, because he had been a “Y” worker in good standing; therefore
Rachel Menzies was requested to write a two thousand word interview with
Mr. Seager. Another young rebel was to collect facts and rumors
concerning secret payments made out of an alumni fund to bring promising
athletes to Southern Pacific. Bunny, as social light of the crowd, was
assigned the theme of college snobbery, apropos of the fact that a
Hindoo student with high scholarship records had been black-balled for
the “Lit.”
And then Peter Nagle brought up his favorite hobby, in the form of a
poem mildly satirizing God. There was some question as to the wisdom of
bringing in the religious issue, but Peter asserted his prerogatives as
editor; either he was or he wasn’t, and if he was, then he took his
stand upon the Russian formula, “Religion is the opium of the people.”
Billy George backed him up, insisting that the new paper should cover
the whole field of modern thought.
Well, “The Investigator” was written, and edited, and set up into
galleys, and pasted on a “dummy,” and then cut up and pasted
differently. At last it was printed; there lay the sheets, fresh from
the press, soft and damp, like locusts newly emerged from the chrysalis.
Next day they would be dry; and meantime, “Ssh! Not a word!”
How were the papers to be distributed? There had been much discussion.
Bunny, with his lordly ideas, wanted to give them away. But Rachel
brought word from her father, the tailor, who was also literature agent
for Local Angel City of the Socialist party, that the papers must be
sold; people wouldn’t respect them otherwise. “What they pay good money
for they will read,” said Papa Menzies, with proper Jewish insight; and
his daughter added, with proper Socialist fervor, “If we really believe
in our cause, we won’t mind a little ridicule.” It was a call to
martyrdom, and one after another they responded—though not without
qualms.
So, promptly at eight-thirty next morning, the campus in front of the
Assembly building beheld a sight, the like of which had never thrilled
the student body of S. P. U. since the first days of the Methodist
Sunday-school. The discoverer and heir-apparent of the Ross Junior oil
field turned into a newsboy! Standing on a bench, with an armful of
papers, shouting gaily, “The Investigator! First issue of the
Investigator! Five cents a copy!”
Did they buy them? Oh, ask! They crowded around Bunny three deep, he
couldn’t make the change fast enough; as the excitement spread, they
crowded six deep, ten deep—it was a mob, a riot! Everywhere, all over
the campus, men and women, seeing the throng, came running. An accident?
A fight? What was the matter? People who got their copies and drew out
of the crowd, became centres of minor disturbances, others trying to see
over their shoulders, asking questions.
For just about ten minutes this went on; until from the Administration
building there emerged, portly and dignified, with gold nose-glasses and
a roll of fat around his neck—just such a personage as you would meet
in any big real estate office or bank in the city—Reginald T. Squirge,
Ph. D., Dean of Men. Quietly and masterfully he penetrated the throng,
and quietly and masterfully he took charge of the millionaire newsboy,
and conducted him into his private office, still clutching his armful of
papers. “Wait here,” he commanded, and again went out, and returned with
Peter Nagle; a third time he went out, and his prey was Gregor
Nikolaieff; while at his heels came deputy deans, appointed ad hoc,
escorting the other criminals.
How many copies had been sold no one could say; the unsold copies were
stacked in a corner of the Dean’s office, and if they were ever counted
the result was not made known. But enough had been distributed to set
the campus ablaze. “Have you read it?” “Have you got a copy?”—that was
all anybody heard that day. The price of “The Investigator” leaped to
one dollar, and before nightfall some had sold for two or three times
that price.
One reason was that a copy had reached the Angel City “Evening Booster,”
most popular of newspapers, printed in green, five editions per day. The
second edition, on the streets about noon, carried a “streamer head”
across the front page:
RED NEST AT UNIVERSITY!
_Bolshevik Propaganda at S. P. U._
There followed a two-column story, carried over to page fourteen, giving
a lurid account of “The Investigator’s” contents, including the most
startling of the facts about the hiring of athletes for the university,
and the whole text of the satiric poem about God—but alas, only a very
brief hint as to what Harry Seager had told about Siberia. A little
later in the day came the rivals of the “Evening Booster,” the “Evening
Roarer” and the “Evening Howler”; they had been scooped one whole
edition, but they made up for it by a mass of new details, some
collected by telephone, the rest made up in the editorial offices. Said
the “Evening Roarer”:
RED COLLEGE PLOT UNEARTHED
and it went on to tell how the police were seeking Russian agents who
had made use of Southern Pacific students to get their propaganda into
print. The “Evening Howler,” which went in especially for “human
interest stuff,” featured the ring-leader of the conspiracy:
MILLIONAIRE RED IN COLLEGE!
_Son of Oil Magnate Backs Soviets!_
And it scooped its rivals by having a photograph of Bunny, which it had
got by rushing a man to the Ross home, and informing Aunt Emma that
Bunny had just been awarded a prize for the best scholarship record in
ten years. The good lady was so excited, she sent the butler out to the
corner drug-store three times, to see if the “Evening Howler” had
arrived with the story of that prize!
IX
In the ordinary course of events this newspaper excitement would have
lasted thirty-two hours. Next afternoon’s papers would have recorded the
fact that the university authorities had banned “The Investigator,” and
on the following day their streamer-heads would have proclaimed, “Film
Star Divorces Champ,” or “Magnate’s Wife Elopes with Cop.”
But fate had prepared a fantastic torment for the “parlor reds” of S. P.
U. On the morning after their flyer in publicity, it chanced that a
wagon loaded with blasting material, making its way through Wall Street
with customary indifference to municipal ordinances, met with a
collision and exploded. The accident happened in front of the banking
offices of Morgan and Company, and about a dozen people were killed. A
few minutes after the accident, the bankers called in America’s
sleuth-celebrity to solve the mystery; and this able business man,
facing the situation that if it was an accident it was nothing, while if
it was a Bolshevik plot it was several hundred thousand dollars, took
three minutes to look about him, and then pronounced it a plot.
And forthwith throughout the world a horde of spies and informers went
to work, knowing that if he or she could find or invent a clue, it was
fame and fortune for him or her. A wave of witch-hunting swept the
country, and other countries—for two or three years thereafter new
discoveries would be made, and new “revelations” promised, and poor
devils in Polish and Roumanian dungeons would have their arms twisted
out of joint and their testicles macerated, while eager newspaper
readers in New York and Chicago and Angel City waited ravenously for
promised thrills.
As for the Angel City “Evening Booster” and “Evening Howler” and
“Evening Roarer,” the situation confronting them was this: if they could
connect the Bolshevik conspiracy in Southern Pacific University with the
bomb explosion in Wall Street, they would have several hundred dollars’
additional sales; while if they failed to make the connection, they
would lose this amount to some more clever rival. This being the case,
it took the “Evening Howler” about one hour to remember that “The
Investigator” had featured Harry Seager, and to ascertain from the
agents of the American Defense League that at a recent mass-meeting this
Seager had fiercely denounced the firm of Morgan and Company, and
predicted a dire fate for them. So, in its third edition, on the streets
about one o’clock, the “Evening Howler” told the world:
BOMB FORETOLD BY RED AID
_Police Seek Soviet Agent Here_
That was taking a chance, as the headline writer of the “Evening Howler”
would have admitted with a grin; but he knew his business, and sure
enough, before the day was by, a war veteran came into the editorial
office with confirmation. Two days ago he had ridden on a public stage
with Harry Seager, and had got into conversation, and heard the
sentence: “You mark my words and watch the papers, within three days you
will read that the House of Morgan has paid for its crimes in this war.”
It is only fair to the shell-shocked soldier to add that he may have
been sincere in his statement, for it happened that the two men in their
conversation had touched upon the Polish invasion of Russia, then at its
height, and Seager had uttered the sentence, “You mark my words and
watch the papers, within three days you will read that the Poles are
back of where they are now.”
Prior to this incident, the office door of the Seager Business College
had been chewed to a ragged edge by the chisels of detectives and other
patriots breaking their way in at night; but on the night after this
“bomb expose” they used an axe, and when Seager arrived in the morning
he found every desk-drawer in the place, not merely his own, but the
students’, dumped onto the floor, and trampled beneath the hob-nailed
boots of patriotism. They had carted off, not merely Seager’s notes for
his orations, but likewise the typewriting exercises of his
students—and most damaging evidence they afforded, too, for Seager did
not make his students write, “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy
dog,”—no, siree, he gave them revolutionary propaganda that would send
shivers down the spine of any patriot: “All men are created free and
equal,” or, more desperate yet, “Give me liberty or give me death!”
X
Not many in Southern Pacific University seriously believed that their
“student reds” had any responsibility for or even guilty knowledge of
the Wall Street bomb explosion. But they knew that these silly fools had
been misled by sinister men who quite possibly did have part in the
plot, or anyhow were bad enough to have it. Also they knew that the
fools had got the university in for a lot of hideous publicity. So the
fools were badgered and browbeaten on every hand; they were summoned to
the Dean’s office one by one and there racked and cross-questioned—and
not merely by President Cowper and Dean Squirge, but by various stern
gentlemen representing the district attorney and the city prosecutor and
the federal secret service and the patriotic newspapers and the defense
societies and the information service of the once-upon-a-time ambassador
of a no-longer-existing Russian government.
When Bunny Ross realized that this was happening, there was another
explosion. Being a rich man’s son, he was accustomed to having his
rights, and more. So of the first of his questioners he demanded, “Who
are you, and what brings you into this?”
“Now, Ross,” said Dean Squirge, “if there are evil men threatening our
country’s welfare, you certainly do not wish to protect them.”
“It depends on what you mean by evil,” retorted Bunny. “If you mean men
who are trying to tell the truth, I wish to protect them all I can.”
“All we want to know is, what you know about a man called Paul Watkins.”
So there it was; either Bunny must submit to being cross-questioned by
detectives, or else he must have everybody decide that he was hiding
some dark secrets about Paul. Said he: “Paul Watkins is my best friend.
I have known him for seven or eight years. He is the straightest man I
have ever known, bar none. He has come home sick, after a year and a
half in the army in Siberia. He could claim an allowance from the
government if he wasn’t too proud. What he did to me was to tell me what
he saw with his own eyes, and I believe every word of it. And I am going
to tell it to other people, inside the university or out, and no one is
going to stop me.”
So that was that, and Bunny was excused for the present. They would
tackle the less wealthy conspirators—beginning with Peter Nagle, most
guilty of all, because his name had appeared on the paper as editor.
Peter was commanded forthwith to recant his impoliteness to God, and he
swore by God that he wouldn’t; so the “Evening Howler” carried a
two-column head:
STUDENT RED LET OUT
And Peter grinned and said for the rest of the bunch not to worry, he
was going into the plumbing business and get his revenge on society; and
when he had made some money he would publish a paper of his own and kid
the life out of God every week.
And then came the turn of Rachel Menzies. She had been warned by Bunny
as to the secret agents, and had promised to give them a piece of her
mind; but they had a way to break her nerve. Just what had been her
father’s share in this conspiracy? They had ascertained that Papa
Menzies had been born in Poland, and under the new deportation laws it
didn’t matter what you believed or what you had done, they would cancel
your naturalization papers, and grab you and ship you away, leaving your
family behind to starve, if it so happened. You had no trial, and no
recourse of any sort. And furthermore, if a man was dumped into Poland
with the red tag on him these days, no trial was held and no questions
were asked—he was stood against a wall and shot.
So there was Rachel, bursting into tears before these strangers and
declaring that her father was a Socialist and not a Communist—as if
that meant anything to any patriot! Hadn’t the Socialists been opposing
the war right along? And wasn’t it a fact that the country had an
attorney-general who was intriguing to get the nomination for president
at the next Democratic convention, and was basing his claim to that
distinction upon his valiant campaign to put down the red menace?
Rachel telephoned to Bunny, and he hopped into his car and paid a call
on President Alonzo T. Cowper, D.D., Ph.D., LL.D., at that worthy’s
private residence in the evening, contrary to the established etiquette
of the university. He began by stating his own decision—he was willing
to agree to make no more public “propaganda” during his stay in the
university; but he wanted to add this, if the authorities permitted Mr.
Menzies to suffer deportation as punishment for his daughter’s having
written a review of a lecture—then he, Bunny Ross, was going on the
war-path, and use some of his father’s money to blow things wide open
before he quit Southern Pacific.
The reverend doctor’s round clerical face had grown rosy to the roots of
his snow-white hair as he listened to this scarcely veiled blackmail.
“Young man,” said he, “you seem to overlook the fact that the university
authorities have nothing to do with the decisions of the United States
government.”
“Dr. Cowper,” responded the young man, “I learned from my father to go
to headquarters when I want things done. I know that if you tell these
defense idiots that you want this matter dropped, they will drop it. And
I want to say that while I have never met Mr. Menzies, I know his
daughter, and she brought us his ideas at different times, and he
believes in democracy and in educating the people—every bit of advice
he sent us was along that line. He belongs to the right wing group among
the Socialists, and is opposing the Bolsheviks in the movement. You must
know enough about the situation to realize that that is not the sort of
people we are supposed to be deporting.”
It turned out that Dr. Cowper really didn’t know that much, but was
willing to learn. It was rather comical; underneath the indignation he
was officially obliged to feel, the old gentleman had an unholy
curiosity about these strange new ideas that had seduced his prize
millionaire sophomore. So here was Bunny telling him about Paul Watkins,
and about Harry Seager, what sort of people they were, and what they had
seen in Siberia, and what they thought about it, and what Bunny thought.
The doctor asked the most naive and childish questions, but he did try
to understand, and Bunny gave him a complete lecture on Bolshevism
versus Socialism lasting two hours. At the end the prize millionaire
sophomore was sent away with a pat on the back, and the assurance that
Papa Menzies would not be deported so long as he behaved himself; plus a
solemn warning that whereas mature minds such as Dr. Cowper’s were
equipped to deal with these dangerous new thoughts, the immature minds
of the students were not to be trusted with them!
XI
There was an interview to be had with Henrietta Ashleigh. It was not so
painful as Bunny had feared, because she hid her grief under a cloak of
dignity. “I am sorry, Arnold, but I am beginning to fear there is
something in you that enjoys this crude notoriety.” Bunny tried to be
humble and accept this rebuke, but he couldn’t; there was something in
him that was bored by Henrietta’s ideas; and when you are bored, you can
no longer keep up romantic imaginings about a girl.
And then the folks at home! First, Aunt Emma, horrified tearful, and
completely muddled. Bunny had not got that prize after all! Aunt Emma
had somehow got it fixed in her head that there had been a prize, and
that Bunny might have got it if it had not been for the reds. This awful
peril of Bolshevik agents, right in one’s home! Aunt Emma had heard
hair-raising stories from lecturers to her club-ladies, but had never
dreamed that these emissaries of Satan might be seducing her darling
nephew! “Watch out, auntie!” said the nephew. “You may be next!”
And then Bertie. Bertie was just wild! She had been invited to a
house-party of the very desirable Atherton-Stewarts, but now she would
be ashamed to show her face among decent people. That was the way every
time, no sooner did she achieve a social triumph, than Bunny came along
and made one of his stinks. It was the most disgusting thing that could
have happened, it showed his tastes were naturally low. Bertie and Bunny
were quite fond of each other, and called each other violent names with
true brotherly and sisterly frankness.
Finally Dad, who was a perfect brick; never said a word, nor asked a
question, and when Bunny started to explain, he said, “That’s all right,
son, I know just how it happened.” And that was true; he knew Paul and
Harry Seager, he had been inside his boy’s mind. And he knew the tragedy
of life, that each generation has to make its own mistakes.
The uproar died away surprisingly soon. In a few days Bunny’s
class-mates were “joshing” him, it was all a joke. There was only one
serious consequence, that Mr. Daniel Webster Irving received a letter
from President Cowper, advising him in advance, as a matter of courtesy,
that his contract with Southern Pacific University would not be renewed
for next year. The instructor showed it to Bunny, with a dry smile; and
Bunny was enraged, and wanted to blackmail the reverend doctor a second
time. But Mr. Irving said to forget it, there were too many ways to make
life miserable for a teacher who wasn’t wanted. He would file his
references with the employment agencies, and write a lot of letters, and
move on to pastures new. “That is,” he added, “assuming I can get
something. They have a pretty tight organization, and I may find I’m
blacklisted for good.”
“How do you suppose they got on to you, Mr. Irving?”
“It was bound to happen,” said the other. “They have so many spies.”
“But we have been so careful! We’ve never mentioned your name, except
among our own little group!”
“They’ve probably got a spy right among you.”
“A student, you mean?”
“Of course.” And smiling at Bunny’s incredulity, Mr. Irving reached into
his desk and pulled out a mimeographed sheet of paper. “This was handed
to me by a business friend of mine,” he said.
It was one of the weekly bulletins of the “Improve America League,” a
propaganda organization of the business men of Angel City. It explained
how they had their agents at work in colleges and high schools, training
students to watch their teachers and fellow students, and report any
signs of the red menace. The league boasted its fund of a hundred and
sixty thousand dollars a year for the next five years. So here was
another chunk of reality, falling with a dull sickening thud upon the
head of a young idealist! Bunny sat, running over in his mind the
members of the little group. “Who could it be?”
Said Mr. Irving: “Some one who was very ‘red,’ you can be sure. That is
how it works—a man is looking for something to report, and when it’s
too slow making its appearance, he’s tempted to help it along. So the
spy almost always becomes a provocateur. You can tell him by the fact
that he talks a lot and does nothing—he can’t afford to have it said
that he was a leader.”
“By God!” cried Bunny. “He promised to help us sell those papers, and
then he didn’t show up!”
“Who is that?”
“Billy George. We never could be red enough to suit him! He was the
cause of that fool poem of Peter Nagle’s going into the paper. And now
he’s dropped clean out—he wasn’t mentioned in the scandal.”
Mr. Irving smiled. “Well, Ross, you’ve seen the white terror in action!
You’ll find it helps you to understand world history. Fortunately,
you’re rich, so it was just a joke. But don’t forget—if you’d been a
poor Russian Jew in the slums, you’d be in jail now, with ten thousand
dollars bail, and ten or twenty years in state’s prison for your
destiny. If you had happened to live in Poland or Finland or Roumania,
you and all your little bunch would have been buried in one muddy trench
a week ago!”