They continued to come, one at a time or in groups; old women and
young women, old men and young men, fanatics and dreamers, agitators
who could hardly open their mouths without some white-hot words
escaping, revealing a blaze of passion smouldering in the deeps of
them. Peter became more and more uneasy, realizing that he was
actually in the midst of all the most dangerous “Reds” of American
City. They it was whom our law-abiding citizens dreaded, who were
the objects of more concern to the police than all the plain,
everyday burglars and bandits. Peter now could see the reason--he
had not dreamed that such angry and hate-tormented people existed in
the world. Such people would be capable of anything! He sat, with
his restless eyes wandering from one face to another. Which one of
this crowd had helped to set off the bomb? And would they boast
about it to him this evening?
Peter half expected this; but then again, he wondered. They were
such strange criminals! They called him “Comrade”; and they spoke
with that same affection that had so bewildered him in little
Jennie. Was this just a ruse to get his confidence, or did these
people really think that they loved him--Peter Gudge, a stranger and
a secret enemy? Peter had been at great pains to fool them; but they
seemed to him so easy to fool that his pains were wasted. He
despised them for this, and all the while he listened to them he was
saying to himself, “The poor nuts!”
They had come to hear his story, and they plied him with questions,
and made him tell over and over again every detail. Peter, of
course, had been carefully instructed; he was not to mention the
elaborate confession he had been made to sign; that would be giving
too dangerous a weapon to these enemies of law and order. He must
tell as brief a story as possible; how he had happened to be near
the scene of the explosion, and how the police had tried to force
him to admit that he knew something about the case. Peter told this,
according to orders; but he had not been prepared for the minute
questioning to which he was subjected by Andrews, the lawyer, aided
by old John Durand, the leader of the seamen. They wanted to know
everything that had been done to him, and who had done it, and how
and when and where and why. Peter had a sense of the dramatic, and
enjoyed being the center of attention and admiration, even tho it
was from a roomful of criminal “Reds.” So he told all the
picturesque details of how Guffey had twisted his wrist and shut him
in a dungeon; the memory of the pain was still poignant, and came
out of him now, with a realism that would have moved a colder group.
So pretty soon here were all these women sobbing and raging. Little
Ada Ruth became inspired, and began reciting a poem--or was she
composing it right here, before his eyes? She seemed entranced with
indignation. It was something about the workers arising--the outcry
of a mob--
“No further patience with a heedless foe--
Get off our backs, or else to hell you go!”
Peter listened, and thought to himself, “The poor nut!” And then
Donald Gordon, the Quaker boy, took the floor, and began shaking his
long black locks, and composing a speech, it seemed. And Peter
listened, and thought again, “The poor nut!” Then another man, the
editor of a labor journal, revealed the fact that he was composing
an editorial; he knew Guffey, and was going to publish Guffey’s
picture, and brand him as an “Inquisitionist.” He asked for Peter’s
picture, and Peter agreed to have one taken, and to be headlined as
“The Inquisitionist’s Victim.” Peter had no idea what the long word
meant; but he assented, and thought again, “The poor nut!” All of
them were “nuts”--taking other people’s troubles with such
excitement!
But Peter was frightened, too; he couldn’t altogether enjoy being a
hero, in this vivid and startling fashion; having his name and fame
spread from one end of the country to the other, so that organized
labor might know the methods which the great traction interests of
American City were employing to send a well-known labor leader to
the gallows! The thing seemed to grow and grow before Peter’s
frightened eyes. Peter, the ant, felt the earth shaking, and got a
sudden sense of the mountain size of the mighty giants who were
stamping in combat over his head. Peter wondered, had Guffey
realized what a stir his story would make, what a powerful weapon he
was giving to his enemies? What could Guffey expect to get from
Peter, to compensate for this damage to his own case? Peter, as he
listened to the stormy oratory in the crowded little room, found
himself thinking again and again of running away. He had never seen
anything like the rage into which these people worked themselves,
the terrible things they said, the denunciations, not merely of the
police of American City, but of the courts and the newspapers, the
churches and the colleges, everything that seemed respectable and
sacred to law-abiding citizens like Peter Gudge.
Peter’s fright became apparent. But why shouldn’t he be frightened?
Andrews, the lawyer, offered to take him away and hide him, lest the
opposition should try to make way with him. Peter would be a most
important witness for the Goober defense, and they must take good
care of him. But Peter recovered his self-possession, and took up
his noble role. No, he would take his chances with the rest of them,
he was not too much afraid.
Sadie Todd, the stenographer, rewarded him for his heroism. They had
a spare bedroom in their little home, and if Peter cared to stay
with them for a while, they would try to make him comfortable. Peter
accepted this invitation, and at a late hour in the evening the
gathering broke up. The various groups of “Reds” went their way,
their hands clenched and their faces portraying a grim resolve to
make out of Peter’s story a means of lashing discontented labor to
new frenzies of excitement. The men clasped Peter’s hand cordially;
the ladies gazed at him with soulful eyes, and whispered their
admiration for his brave course, their hope, indeed their
conviction, that he would stand by the truth to the end, and would
study their ideas and join their “movement.” All the while Peter
watched them, and continued saying to himself: “The poor nuts!”