He said that he came from Germany, but he didn't look it, for Germany
is a beautiful country, and he was far removed from even a suggestion
of beauty. Had he said he had just arrived from "No Man's Land," it
would have been easily accredited. For a German, even his accent and
grammatical construction were unsatisfactory. He did not begin his
sentences in the middle and talk both ways at once, after the well
established custom of Americanized Teutons. In the stress of his
excitement he expressed himself concisely and clearly.
He was seated in the Charity House awaiting the investigation of the
social workers. He held his head in his hands, while his body convulsed
frequently, and tears were in his eyes.
To see a man with unkempt whiskers indulging in a crying spell like a
delicate woman, is almost as humorous as it is pathetic, unless one
knows what the man is crying about. Then, too, the Germans, unlike
the Irish, take their trouble seriously, so that their despair often
creates for them the hell they fear.
Surely it wasn't a German who in the old Bible days sent hired mourners
to go about the street; it was undoubtedly an Irishman whose genius
conceived the idea of paying other men to do his weeping for him.
"Where are you from?" I asked the German.
He surveyed me suspiciously from head to foot, then replied politely
enough: "I am of German parentage and have lived the greater part of my
life in Heidelberg, where my father and grandfather were instructors in
the University."
"When did you arrive in America?" I asked him.
"A few days ago," he answered. "I came from Paris, where I met with
heavy--heavy for me--financial reverses. I attempted to conduct a
business similar to your brokers, who loan money on personal property,
but being unfamiliar with French law, I found I could not legally
enforce payments of the loans I made to the Frenchmen. My entire life
savings--small, it is true--were lost. In disgust I came to America,
and my condition now is worse than ever. I am desperate."
He did not raise his voice, speaking quietly, but his hands were
nervous, and his eyes reminded me of Svengali--fascinating, but
dangerous. My impression was that I had seen safer men locked in
darkened cells and allowed only wooden spoons with which to eat.
"Has the charity association decided to help you?" I asked.
"I fear not," he replied. "They wish me to tell them my father's
address in Germany, as they inform me that they always make thorough
investigations. Several times they asked me my home address, but I
turned them from the point, as I have no intention of adding my burdens
to the burdens my father and mother already have.... Does it seem quite
generous of your social workers to be so insistent?... But, pardon me,
have you not a saying that 'Beggars must not be choosers?'"
I did not reply to his question, as I was thinking what my Reception
Committee--made up of the boys of the Colony--would say to me if I
invited this much-bewhiskered individual to join our Family. For the
instant I forgot the German's troubles in the thought of the troubles
which I was about to take upon myself. I smiled at my approaching
embarrassment. "It is all very well," the boys had cautioned me, "to
hold us responsible for the newly-arrived members, to make certain that
no criminal nor fraud obtains admission to the Family, but you might be
a little more discriminating in your selections, could you not?"
* * * * *
The German was quick to avail himself of my offer to join the Colony;
he would go to Hoboken and get his luggage and join me as soon as
possible. His luggage--he met me an hour later--consisted of a wooden
box too small to be called a trunk, too large to be called a valise.
As we approached the Colony House we passed several of the boys who had
evidently seen us at a distance, for they appeared deeply interested
in the setting sun, their faces turned from us. Finally one fellow
who, like a good Pullman porter, can laugh at you without changing his
facial expression, only if you watch closely you may note that the
muscles at the back of the neck dance in uncontrolled merriment--came
forward and said to us: "A beautiful sunset."
He should have been reprimanded for his impudence, but I simply asked,
"Where?"
"In the west," he explained. Then the boys turned and laughed without
restraint.
"An ordinary sunset and a most ordinary joke," I said, rather icily.
But they continued to laugh, first looking at my companion and then at
me.
"Not so ordinary," said another boy. "If you could see it from where we
are you could understand."
"I understand you only too well," I answered.
Then the two boys who were on the Reception Committee came over to us
and took my German friend in hand. There were no more remarks until we
reached the house and the man himself was quite out of hearing.
"Why did you bring out a man like that?" the cook questioned me soon
after I reached the house, and every one looked up from the evening
paper he was reading anxious to have his little laugh.
But years have taught me somewhat of the ways of men. Did not Moses,
when the children of Israel attempted to entangle him in argument,
make his contention invulnerable by stating, "God spake unto Moses,
saying,----"
After that there wasn't much chance for argument. The best thing they
could do at such a time was to quietly line up in the ranks. And there
is an answer that will always check the hilarity of homeless men and
make them as sympathetic as children.
"Why did you bring him out with you?" the cook repeated.
"Why?" I said, simply, "the man is hungry."
Each boy frowned at the cook and turned back to his reading. And
the cook made no answer, except he served the new-comer with double
portions.
That night the German slept with his bed between the two beds of the
Reception Committee, and I heard nothing from him until they came to
report to me in the morning.
"Father," said one of the committee, "I don't like that old party you
brought out with you yesterday. All night long in his sleep he was
muttering: 'Down with the millionaire; curse the capitalist'--that man
is an anarchist."
A moment later the second member of the committee came in.
"Mr. Floyd, you know that wooden box that 'Whiskers' brought with him?"
he asked, nervously; "I put my ear down to it and listened. I could
hear something inside going tick, tick, tick, as plain as day."
"You are excited," I said. "After breakfast send the man to me."
In my room the German and myself talked a long time.
I asked him about the University of Heidelberg, the influence of
the student in German politics and of the world-wide socialistic
movement--had he ever read the works of Karl Marx, the great Socialist?
No, he never had.
Had he ever read La Salle, the anarchist?
No.
Or, in his travels, had he ever seen that little pamphlet entitled,
"Dynamite as a Revolutionary Agency?"
No.
But despite the denial, it was plain to see that my old German was
the anarchist that my committee had decided him to be. So I sent out
word that the boys should redouble their kindness to their half-crazed
friend. It was an opportunity to try our simple methods upon a man who
felt that the sad old world and its many peoples were as utterly lost
as a man may become who believes that there is no good within himself.
Men who feel themselves to be evil, they work evil.
Hardly had a fortnight passed before our good anarchist caught the
spirit of the place and began to feel that kindly sympathy that dwells
even in the hearts of stranded men. The young men grew really fond of
him.
At night he was the last man to knock at my door to see that everything
had been given attention; in the morning he was the first to ask what I
wished done.
It was a cheery "good night" and a cheery "good morning." After several
months our anarchist succeeded in finding his brother's address in
Philadelphia. The brother offered him a home and a chance to work, so
it was arranged for our friend to go to him.
As he was bidding me "adieu" he said: "When we first met, you
asked me if I had read any anarchistic writings, and I answered
you untruthfully. I have read the authors you mentioned, and in my
desperation I do not know to what extreme I might not have gone, for I
had lost faith in all men.
"But to see these young men at the Colony, forgetful of their own
troubles, trying to help me to a renewal of courage, gave me a clearer
viewpoint of life--the blood I see now in my dreams is not that of the
capitalist done to death by a communistic mob--it is the blood of the
gentle Christ, who said:
"'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.'"
[Illustration: MAIN BUILDING FROM THE BUNGALOW]