So Nell and Peter settled down to work out the details of their
“frame-up” on Joe Angell and Pat McCormick. Peter must get a bunch
of them together and get them to talking about bombs and killing
people; and then he must slip a note into the pockets of all who
showed interest, calling them to meet for a real conspiracy. Nell
would write the notes, so that no one could fasten the job onto
Peter. She pulled out a pencil and a little pad from her handbag,
and began: “If you really believe in a bold stroke for the workers’
rights, meet me--” And then she stopped. “Where?”
“In the studios,” put in Peter.
And Nell wrote, “In the studios. Is that enough?”
“Room 17.” Peter knew that this was the room of Nikitin, a Russian
painter who called himself an Anarchist.
So Nell wrote “Room 17,” and after further discussion she added:
“Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. No names and no talk. Action!”
This time was set because Peter recollected that there was to be a
gathering of the “wobblies” in their headquarters this very evening.
It was to be a business meeting, but of course these fellows never
got together very long without starting the subject of “tactics.”
There was a considerable element among them who were dissatisfied
with what they called the “supine attitude” of the organization, and
were always arguing for action. Peter was sure he would be able to
get some of them interested in the idea of a dynamite conspiracy.
As it turned out, Peter had no trouble at all; the subject was
started without his having to put in a word. Were the workers to be
driven like sheep to the slaughter, and the “wobblies” not to make
one move? So asked the “Blue-eyed Angell,” vehemently, and added
that if they were going to move, American City was as good a place
as any. He had talked with enough of the rank and file to realize
that they were ready for action; all they needed was a battle-cry
and an organization to guide them.
Henderson, the big lumber-jack, spoke up. That was just the trouble;
you couldn’t get an organization for such a purpose. The authorities
would get spies among you, they would find out what you were doing,
and drive you underground.
“Well,” cried Joe, “we’ll go underground!”
“Yes,” agreed the other, “but then your organization goes bust.
Nobody knows who to trust, everybody’s accusing the rest of being a
spy.”
“Hell!” said Joe Angell. “I’ve been in jail for the movement, I’ll
take my chances of anybody’s calling me a spy. What I’m not going to
do is to sit down and see the workers driven to hell, because I’m so
damn careful about my precious organization.”
When others objected, Angell rushed on still more vehemently.
Suppose they did fail in a mass-uprising, suppose they were driven
to assassination and terrorism? At least they would teach the
exploiters a lesson, and take a little of the joy out of their
lives.
Peter thought it would be a good idea for him to pose as a
conservative just now. “Do you really think the capitalists would
give up from fear?” he asked.
And the other answered: “You bet I do! I tell you if we’d made it
understood that every congressman who voted this country into war
would be sent to the front trenches, our country would still be at
peace.”
“But,” put in Peter, deftly, “it ain’t the congressmen. It’s people
higher up than them.”
“You bet,” put in Gus, the Swedish sailor. “You bet you! I name you
one dozen big fellows in dis country--you make it clear if we don’t
get peace dey all get killed--we get peace all right!”
So Peter had things where he wanted them. “Who are those fellows?”
he asked, and got the crowd arguing over names. Of course they
didn’t argue very long before somebody mentioned “Nelse” Ackerman,
who was venomously hated by the Reds because he had put up a hundred
thousand dollars of the Anti-Goober fund. Peter pretended not to
know about Nelse; and Jerry Rudd, a “blanket-stiff” whose head was
still sore from being cracked open in a recent harvesters’ strike,
remarked that by Jesus, if they’d put a few fellows like that in the
trenches, there’d be some pacifists in Ameriky sure enough all
right.
It seemed almost as if Joe Angell had come there to back up Peter’s
purpose. “What we want,” said he, “is a few fellows to fight as hard
for themselves as they fight for the capitalists.”
“Yes,” assented Henderson, grimly. “We’re all so good--we wait till
our masters tell us we can kill.”
That was the end of the discussion; but it seemed quite enough to
Peter. He watched his chance, and one by one he managed to slip his
little notes into the coat-pockets of Joe Angell, Jerry Rudd,
Henderson, and Gus, the sailor. And then Peter made his escape,
trembling with excitement. The great dynamite conspiracy was on!
“They must be got rid of!” he was whispering to himself. “They must
be got rid of by any means! It’s my duty I’m doing.”