There was Everett, who had now washed the blood off his face, but
had not been able to put back his lost teeth, nor to heal the
swollen mass that had once been his upper lip and nose. And there
was Korwsky, who was now able to sit up and smile feebly, and two
other men, whose names I did not learn, nursing battered faces.
Carpenter prayed over them all, and they became more cheerful, and
eager to talk about the adventure, each telling over what had
happened to him. I noted that Everett, in spite of what must have
been intense pain, was still faithfully taking down every word the
prophet uttered.

It had been known that Carpenter was to honor this house with his
presence, and the family were all dressed in their best, and had got
together a supper, in spite of hard times and strikes. We had
sandwiches and iced tea and a slice of pie for each of us, and I was
interested to observe that the prophet, tired as he was, liked to
laugh and chat over his food, exactly like any uninspired human
being. He never failed to get the children around him and tell them
stories, and hear their bright laughter.



XLI


But, of course, serious things kept intruding. Karlin the express
driver, had a sick wife, and Carpenter heard about her and insisted
upon going to see her. Apparently there was no end to this business
of the poor being sick. It was a new thing to me--this world
swarming with dirty and miserable and distracted people. Of course,
I had known about "the poor," but always either in the abstract, or
else as an individual, or a family, that one could help. But here
was a new world, thickly peopled, swarming; that was the terrible
part of it--the vastness of it, the thickness of the population in
these regions of "the poor." It was like some sort of delirium; like
being lost in a wilderness, of which the trees were miseries, and
deformities, and pains! I could understand to the full Carpenter's
feeling when he put his hands to his forehead, exclaiming: "There is
so much to do and so few to do it! Pray to God, that he will send
some to help us!"

When he returned from Simon Karlin's, he brought with him the
latter's wife, whom he had healed of a fever; and here was another
of the company whom he insisted upon helping--"Comrade" Abell, one
of the men I had noticed at the meeting last night, and who appeared
to be done up. This man, I learned, was secretary of the Socialist
local of Western City. I had known there were Socialists in the
city, just as I knew there were poor, but I had never seen one, and
was curious about Abell. He was a lawyer; and that might suggest to
you a pertain type of person, brisk and well dressed--but
apparently Socialist lawyers are not true to type. Comrade Abell was
a shy, timid little man, with black hair straggling about his ears,
and sometimes into his eyes. He had a gentle, pathetic face, and his
voice was melancholy and caressing. He was clad in a frock coat of
black broadcloth, which had once been appropriate for Sunday; but I
should judge it had been worn for twenty years, for it was green
about the collar and the cuffs and button-holes.

Comrade Abell's office and also his home were in a second story,
over a grocery-store in this neighborhood, and here also was a
little hall used as a meeting-place by the Socialists. Every
Saturday night Abell and two or three of his friends conducted a
soap-box meeting on Western City Street, and gave away propaganda
leaflets and sold a few pamphlets and books. He had had quite a
supply of literature of all kinds at his office, nearly two thousand
dollars worth, he told Carpenter, but a few months previously the
place had been mobbed. A band of ex-service men, accompanied by a
few police and detectives, had raided it and terrified the wife and
children by breaking down the doors and throwing the contents of
desks and bureaus out on the floor. They had dumped the literature
into a truck and carted it away, and after two or three weeks they
had dumped it back again, having found nothing criminal in it. "But
they ruined it so that it can't be sold!" broke in James,
indignantly. "Most of it was bought on credit, and how can we pay
for it."

James was also a Socialist, it appeared, while Korwsky and his
friend Karlin advocated "industrial action," and these fell to
arguing over "tactics," while Carpenter asked questions, so as to
understand their different points of view. Presently Korwsky was
called out of the room, and came back with an announcement which he
evidently considered grave. John Colver was in the neighborhood, and
wanted to know if Carpenter would meet him.

"Who is John Colver?" asked the prophet. And it was explained that
this was a dangerous agitator, now under sentence of twenty years in
jail, but out on bail pending the appeal of his case to the supreme
court. Colver was a "wobbly," well known as one of their poets. Said
Korwsky, "He tinks you vouldn't like to know him, because if de
spies find it out, dey vould git after you."

"I will meet any man," said Carpenter. "My business is to meet men."
And so in a few minutes the terrible John Colver was escorted into
the room.

Now, every once in a while I had read in the "Times" how another
bunch of these I.W.W's. were put on trial, and how they were
insolent to the judge, and how it was proved they had committed many
crimes, and how they were sentenced to fourteen years in State's
prison under our criminal syndicalism act. Needless to say, I had
never seen one of these desperate men; but I had a quite definite
idea what they looked like--dark and sinister creatures, with
twisted mouths and furtive eyes. I knew that, because I had seen a
couple of moving picture shows in which they figured. But now for
the first time I met one, and behold, he was an open-faced, laughing
lad, with apple cheeks and two most beautiful rows of even white
teeth that gleamed at you!

"Fellow-worker Carpenter!" he cried; and caught the prophet by his
two hands. "You are an old friend of ours, though you may not know
it! We drink a toast to you in our jungles."

"Is that so?" said Carpenter.

"I suppose I really have no right to see you," continued the other,
"because I'm shadowed all the time, and you know my organization is
outlawed."

"Why is it outlawed?"

"Well," said Colver, "they say we burn crops and barns, and drive
copper-nails into fruit-trees, and spikes into sawmill lumber."

"And do you do that?"

Colver laughed his merry laugh. "We do it just as often as you act
for the movies, Fellow-worker Carpenter!"

"I see," said Carpenter. "What do you really do?"

"What we really do is to organize the unskilled workers."

"For what do you organize them?"

"So that they will be able to run the industries when the system of
greed breaks down of its own rottenness."

"I see," said the prophet, and he thought for a moment. "It is a
slave revolt!"

"Exactly," said the other.

"I know what they do to slave revolts, my brother. You are fortunate
if they only send you to prison."

"They do plenty more than that," said Colver. "I will give you our
pamphlet, 'Drops of Blood,' and you may read about some of the
lynching and tarring and feathering and shooting of Mobland." His
eyes twinkled. "That's a dandy name you've hit on! I shall be
surprised if it doesn't stick."

Carpenter went on questioning, bent upon knowing about this outlaw
organization and its members. It was clear before long that he had
taken a fancy to young John Colver. He made him sit beside him, and
asked to hear some of his poetry, and when he found it really vivid
and beautiful, he put his arm about the young poet's shoulders.
Again I found memories of old childhood phrases stirring in my mind.
Had there not once been a disciple named John, who was especially
beloved?



XLII


Presently the young agitator began telling about an investigation he
had been making in the lumber country of the Northwest. He was
writing a pamphlet on the subject of a massacre which had occurred
there. A mob of ex-soldiers had stormed the headquarters of the
"wobblies," and the latter had defended themselves, and killed two
or three of their assailants. A news agency had sent out over the
country a story to the effect that the "wobblies" had made an
unprovoked assault upon the ex-soldiers. "That's what the papers do
to us!" said John Colver. "There have been scores of mobbings as a
result, and just now it may be worth a man's life to be caught
carrying a red card in any of these Western states."

So there was the subject of non-resistance, and I sat and listened
with strangely mingled feelings of sympathy and repulsion, while
this group of rebels of all shades and varieties argued whether it
was really possible for the workers to get free without some kind of
force. Carpenter, it appeared, was the only one in the company who
believed it possible. The gentle Comrade Abell was obliged to admit
that the Socialists, in using political action, were really
resorting to force in a veiled form. They sought to take possession
of the state by voting; but the state was an instrument of force,
and would use force to carry out its will. "You are an anarchist!"
said the Socialist lawyer, addressing Carpenter.

To my surprise Carpenter was not shocked by this.

"If I admit no power but love," said he, "how can I have anything to
do with government?"

More visitors called, and were admitted, and presently the little
room was packed with people, and a regular meeting was in progress.
I heard more strange ideas than I had ever known existed in the
world. I tried not to be offended; but I thought there ought to be
at least a few words said for plain ordinary human beings who carry
no labels, so I ventured now and then to put in a mild
suggestion--for example, that there were quite a few people in the
world who did not love all their neighbors, and could not be
persuaded to love them all at once, and it might be necessary to put
just a little restraint upon them for a time. Again I suggested,
maybe the workers were not yet sufficiently educated to run the
industries, they might need some help from the present masters.
"Just a little more education," I ventured--

And John Colver laughed, the first ugly laugh I had heard from him.
"Education by the masters? Education at the end of a club!"

"My boy," I argued, "I know there are plenty of employers who are
rough, but there are others who are good men, who would like to
change the system, would like to do something, if they knew what it
was. But who will tell them what to do? Take me, for example. I have
a great deal of wealth which I have not earned; but what can I do
about it? What do you say, Mr. Carpenter?"

I turned to him, as the true authority; and the others also turned
to him. He answered, without hesitation: "Sell everything that you
have and give it to the unemployed."

"But," said I, "would that really solve the problem. They would
spend it, and we should be right where we were before."

Said Carpenter: "They are unemployed because you have taken from
them wealth which you have not earned. Give it back to them."

And then, seeing that I was not satisfied, he added: "How hard it is
for a rich man to understand the meaning of social justice! Indeed,
it would be easier for a strike leader to get the truth published in
your 'Times', than for a rich man to understand what the word social
justice means."

The company laughed, and I subsided, and let the wave of
conversation roll by. It was only later that I realized the part I
had just been playing. It had been easy for me to recognize T-S as
St. Peter, but I had not known myself as that rich young man who had
asked for advice, and then rejected it. "When he heard this, he was
very sorrowful; for he was very rich." Yes, I had found my place in
the story!



XLIII


You may believe that next morning my first thought was to get hold
of the "Times" and see what they had done to my prophet. Sure
enough, there he was on the front page, three columns wide, with the
customary streamer head:

MOB OF ANARCHISTS RAID ST. BARTHOLMEW'S

PROPHET AND RAGGED HORDE BREAK UP CHURCH SERVICES

I skimmed over the story quickly; I noted that Carpenter was
represented as having tried to knock down the Reverend Mr.
Simpkinson, and that the prophet's followers had assaulted members
of the congregation. I confess to some relief upon discovering that
my own humble part in the adventure had not been mentioned. I
suspected that my Uncle Timothy must have been busy at the telephone
on Sunday evening! But then I turned to the "Examiner," and alas,
there I was! "A certain rich young man," rising up to protect an
incendiary prophet! I remembered that my Uncle Timothy had had a
violent row with the publisher of the "Examiner" a year or two ago,
over some political appointment!

The "Times" had another editorial, two columns, double leaded.
Yesterday the paper had warned the public what to expect; today it
saw the prophecies justified, and what it now wished to know was,
had Western City a police department, or had it not? "How much
longer do our authorities propose to give rein to this fire-brand
imposter? This prophet of God who rides about town in a broken-down
express-wagon, and consorts with movie actresses and red agitators!
Must the police wait until his seditious doctrines have fanned the
flames of mob violence beyond control? Must they wait until he has
gathered all the others of his ilk, the advocates of lunacy and
assassination about him, and caused an insurrection of class envy
and hate? We call upon the authorities of our city to act and act at
once; to put this wretched mountebank behind bars where he belongs,
and keep him there."

There was another aspect of this matter upon which the "Times" laid
emphasis. After long efforts on the part of the Chamber of Commerce
and other civic organizations, Western City had been selected as the
place for the annual convention of the Mobland Brigade. In three
days this convention would be called to order, and already the
delegates were pouring in by every train. What impression would they
get of law and order in this community? Was this the purpose for
which they had shed their blood in a dreadful war--that their
country might be affronted by the ravings of an impious charlatan?
What had the gold-star mothers of Western City to say to this? What
did the local post of the Mobland Brigade propose to do to save the
fair name of their city? Said the "Times": "If our supine
authorities refuse to meet this emergency, we believe there are
enough 100% Americans still among us to protect the cause of public
decency, and to assert the right of Christian people to worship
their God without interference from the Dictatorship of the Lunatic
Asylum."

Now, I had been so much interested in Carpenter and his adventures
that I had pretty well overlooked this matter of the Mobland Brigade
and its convention. I belong to the Brigade myself, and ought to
have been serving on the committee of arrangements; instead of
which, here I was chasing around trying to save a prophet, who, it
appeared, really wanted to get into trouble! Yes, the Brigade was
coming; and I could foresee what would happen when a bunch of these
wild men encountered Carpenter's express wagon on the street!



XLIV


I swallowed a hasty cup of coffee, and drove in a taxi to the Labor
Temple. Carpenter had said he would be there early in the morning,
to help with the relief work again. I went to the rooms of the
Restaurant Workers, and found that he had not yet arrived. I noticed
a group of half a dozen men standing near the door, and there seemed
something uncordial in the look they gave me. One of them came
toward me, the same who had sought my advice about permitting
Carpenter to speak at the mass meeting. "Good morning," he said; and
then: "I thought you told me this fellow Carpenter was not a red?"

"Well," said I, taken by surprise, "is he?"

"God Almighty!" said the other. "What do you call this?" And he held
up a copy of the "Times." "Going in and shouting in the middle of a
church service, and trying to knock down a clergyman!"

I could not help laughing in the man's face. "So even you labor men
believe what you read in the 'Times'! It happens I was present in
the church myself, and I assure you that Carpenter offered no
resistance, and neither did anyone else in his group. You remember,
I told you he was a man of peace, and that was all I told you."

"Well," said the other, somewhat more mildly, "even so, we can't
stand for this kind of thing. That's no way to accomplish anything.
A whole lot of our members are Catholics, and what will they make of
carryings-on like this? We're trying to persuade people that we're a
law-abiding organization, and that our officials are men of sense."

"I see," said I. "And what do you mean to do about it?"

"We have called a meeting of our executive committee this morning,
and are going to adopt a resolution, making clear to the public that
we knew nothing about this church raid, and that we don't stand for
such things. We would never have permitted this man Carpenter to
speak on our platform, if we had known about his ideas."

I had nothing to say, and I said it. The other was watching me
uneasily. "We hear the man proposes to come back to our relief
kitchen. Is that so?"

"I believe he does; and I suppose you would rather he didn't. Is
that it?" The other admitted that was it, and I laughed. "He has had
his thousand dollars worth of hospitality, I suppose."

"Well, we don't want to hurt his feelings," said the other. "Of
gourse our members are having a hard time, and we were glad to get
the money, but it would be better if our central organization were
to contribute the funds, rather than to have us pay such a price as
this newspaper publicity."

"Then let your committee vote the money, and return it to Mr. T-S,
and also to Mary Magna."

It took the man sometime to figure out a reply to this proposition.
"We have no objection to Mr. T-S coming here," he said, "or Miss
Magna either."

"That is," said I, "so long as they obey the law, and don't get in
bad with the Western City 'Times'!" After a moment I added, "You may
make your mind easy. I will go downstairs and wait for Mr.
Carpenter, and tell him he is not wanted."

And so I left the Labor Temple and walked up and down on the
sidewalk in front. It was really rather unreasonable of me to be
annoyed with this labor man for having voiced the same point of view
of "common sense" which I had been defending to Carpenter's group on
the previous evening. Also, I was obliged to admit to myself that if
I were a labor leader, trying to hold together a group of
half-educated men in the face of public sentiment such as existed in
this city, I might not have the same carefree, laughing attitude
towards life as a certain rich young man whose pockets were stuffed
with unearned increments.

To this mood of tolerance I had brought myself, when I saw a white
robe come round the corner, arm in arm with a frock coat of black
broadcloth. Also there came Everett, looking still more ghastly, his
nose and lip having become purple, and in places green. Also there
was Korwsky, and two other men; Moneta, a young Mexican cigarmaker
out of work, and a man named Hamby, who had turned up on the
previous evening, introducing himself as a pacifist who had been
arrested and beaten up during the war. Somehow he did not conform to
my idea of a pacifist, being a solid and rather stoutish fellow,
with nothing of the idealist about him. But Carpenter took him, as
he took everybody, without question or suspicion.



XLV


I joined the group, and made clear to them, as tactfully as I could,
that they were not wanted inside. Comrade Abell threw up his hands.
"Oh, those labor skates!" he cried. "Those miserable, cowardly,
grafting politicians! Thinking about nothing but keeping themselves
respectable, and holding on to their fat, comfortable salaries!"

"Vell, vat you expect?" cried Korwsky. "You git de verkin' men into
politics, and den you blame dem fer bein' politicians!"

"Nothing was said about returning the money, I suppose?" remarked
Everett, in a bitter tone.

"Something was said," I replied. "I said it. I don't think the money
will be returned."

Then Carpenter spoke. "The money was given to feed the hungry," said
he. "If it is used for that purpose, we can ask no more. And if men
set out to preach a new doctrine, how can they expect to be welcomed
at once? We have chosen to be outcasts, and must not complain. Let
us go to the jail. Perhaps that is the place for us." So the little
group set out in a new direction.

On the way we talked about the labor movement, and what was the
matter with it. Comrade Abell said that Carpenter was right, the
fundamental trouble was that the workers were imbued with the
psychology of their masters. They would strike for this or that
improvement in their condition, and then go to the polls and vote
for the candidates of their masters. But Korwsky was more vehement;
he was an industrial unionist, and thought the present craft unions
worse than nothing.

Little groups of labor aristocrats, seking to benefit themselves at
the expense of the masses, the unorganized, unskilled workers and
the floating population of casual labor! That was why those "skates"
at the Labor Temple has so little enthusiasm for Carpenter and his
doctrine of brotherhood! In this country where every man was trying
to climb up on the face of some other man!

Our little group had come out on Broadway. It attracted a good deal
of attention, and a number of curiosity seekers were beginning to
trail behind us. "We'll get a crowd again, and Carpenter 'll be
making a speech," I thought; and as usual I faced a moral conflict.
Should I stand by, or should I sneak away, and preserve the dignity
of my family?

Suddenly came a sound of music, fifes and drums. It burst on our
ears from round the corner, shrill and lively--"The Girl I Left
Behind Me." Carpenter, who was directly in front of me, stopped
short, and seemed to shrink away from what was coming, until his
back was against the show-window of a department-store, and he could
shrink no further.

It was a company of ex-service men in uniform; one or two hundred,
carrying rifles with fixed bayonets which gleamed in the sunshine.
There were two fifers and two drummers at their head, and also two
flags, one the flag of the Brigade, and the other the flag of
Mobland. I remembered having noted in the morning papers that the
national commander of the brigade was to arrive in town this
morning, and no doubt this was a delegation to do him honor.

The marchers swept down on us, and past us, and I watched the
prophet. His eyes were wide, his whole face expressing anguish. "Oh
God, my Father!" he whispered, and seemed to quiver with each thud
of the tramping feet on the pavement. After the storm had passed, he
stood motionless, the pain still in his face "It is Rome! It is
Rome!" he murmured.

"No," said I, "it is Mobland."

He went on, as if he had not heard me. "Rome! Eternal Rome! Rome
that never dies!" And he turned upon me his startled eyes. "Even the
eagles!"

For a moment I was puzzled; but then I remembered the golden eagle
with wings outspread, that perches on top of our national banner.
"We only use one eagle," I said, somewhat feebly.

To which he answered, "The soul of one eagle is the same as the soul
of two."

Now, I had felt quite certain that Carpenter would not get along
very well with the Brigade, and I was more than ever decided that he
must be got out of the way somehow or other. But meantime, the first
task was to get him away from this crowd which was rapidly
collecting. Already he was in the full tide of a speech. "Those
sharp spears! Can you not see them thrust into the bowels of human
beings? Can you not see them dripping with the blood of your
brothers?"

I whispered to Everett, thinking him one among this company of
enthusiasts who might have a little common sense left. "We had
better get him away from here!" And Everett put his hand gently on
the prophet's shoulder, and said, "The prisoners in the jail are
hoping for us." I took him by the other arm, and we began to lead
him down the street. When we had once got him going, we walked him
faster and faster, until presently the crowd was trailing out into a
string of idlers and curiosity seekers, as before.



XLVI


The party came to the city jail, and knocked for admission. But no
doubt the authorities had taken consultation in the meantime, and
there was no admission for prophets. The party stood on the steps,
baffled and bewildered, a pitiful and pathetic little group.

For my part, I thought it just as well that Carpenter had not got
inside, for I knew what he would find there. It happens that my Aunt
Jennie belongs to a couple of women's clubs, and they have been
making a fuss about our city jail; they have kept on making it for
many years, but apparently without accomplishing anything. The place
was built a generation ago, for a city of perhaps one-tenth our
present size; it is old and musty, and the walls are so badly
cracked that it has been condemned by the building department. It is
so crowded that half a dozen men sometimes sleep on the floor of a
single cell. They are devoured by vermin, and lie in semi-darkness,
some of them shivering with cold and others half suffocated. They
stay there, sometimes for many months unheeded, because the courts
are crowded, and if Comrade Abell's word may be taken in the matter,
every poor man is assumed to be guilty until he is proven innocent.
I have heard Aunt Jennie arguing the matter with considerable
energy. Our banks are housed in palaces, and our Chamber of Commerce
and our Merchants and Manufacturers and our Real Estate Exchange and
all the rest of our boosters have commodious and expensive quarters;
but our prisoners lie in torment, and no one boosts for them.

Did Carpenter know these things? Had the strikers or his little
company of agitators, told him about them? Suddenly he said, "Let us
pray;" and there on the steps of the jail he raised his hands in
invocation, and prayed for all prisoners and captives. And when he
finished, Comrade Abell suddenly lifted his voice and began to sing.
I would not have supposed that so big a voice could have come out of
so frail a body; but I was reminded that Abell had been practicing
on soap-boxes a good part of his life. He was one of these shouting
evangelists--only his gospel was different. He sang:

    Arise, ye pris'ners of starvation!
    Arise, ye wretched of the earth!
    For justice thunders condemnation,
    A better world's in birth.

I think I would have shuddered, even more than I did, if I had known
the name of this song; if I had realized that this group of fanatics
were sounding the dread Internationale on the steps of our city
jail! I suspect that what saved them was the fact that the guardians
of the jail had no more idea what it was than I had!

The group had sung a couple of verses, when the iron-barred doors
were opened, and a policeman stepped out. He addressed Carpenter,
who was not singing. "Tell that bunch of nuts of yours to can the
yowling."

To which Carpenter replied: "I tell you that if these men should
hold their peace, the stones of your jail would immediately cry
out!" And he turned, and looked up and down the streets of the city,
and suddenly I saw that he was weeping. "Oh, Mobland, Mobland! If
you had known even at this time the way of justice! But the way is
hid from your eyes, and you will not see it, and now the hour is
coming, the horrors of the class war are upon you, ruin and
destruction are at hand! Your towers of pride shall fall, your own
children shall destroy you; they shall not leave you one stone upon
another, because you knew not the time for justice when it came."

The doors of the jail opened again, and three or four more policemen
came out, with clubs in their hands. "Get along, now!" they said
roughly, and began poking the prophet and his disciples in the back;
they poked them down the stairs and along the street for a block or
so--until they were sure the ears of the jail inmates would no
longer be troubled by offensive sounds. But still they did not
arrest them, and I marveled, wondering how long it could go on. I
had an uneasy feeling that the longer the climax was postponed, the
more severe it would be.

There was quite a crowd following us now, hoping that something
sensational would happen. And presently a woman saw us, and rushed
into the house, and came out leading a blind man, and appealing to
Carpenter to restore his sight; and when he stopped to do this,
there were a couple of newspaper men, and an operator with a camera,
and more excitement and more crowds! So we started to walk again,
and came to Main Street, which in our city is given up to ten cent
picture-shows, and pawn-brokers, and old clothes shops, and eating-
stands for workingmen. A block or so distant we saw a mass of
people, and something warned me--my heart sank into my boots.
Another mob!



XLVII


There was shouting, and people running from every direction. The
throng would surge back, and a few run from it. "What's the matter?"
I cried to one of these, and the answer was, "They're cleaning out
the reds!" Comrade Abell, who knew the neighborhood, exclaimed in
dismay, "It's Erman's Book Store!"

"Who's doing this?" I asked of another bystander, and the answer
was, "The Brigade! They're cleaning up the city before the
convention!" And Comrade Abell clasped his hands to his forehead,
and wailed in despair, "It's because they've been selling the
'Liberator'! Erman told me last week he'd been warned to stop
selling it!"

Now, I don't know whether or not Carpenter had ever heard of this
radical monthly. But he knew that here was a mob, and people in
trouble, and he shook off the hands which sought to restrain him,
and pushed his way into the throng, which gave way before him,
either from respect or from curiosity. I learned later that some of
the mob had dragged the bookseller and his two clerks out by the
rear entrance, and were beating them pretty severely. But
fortunately Carpenter did not see this. All he saw were a dozen or
so ex-soldiers in uniform carrying armfuls of magazines and books
out into a little square, which was made by the oblique intersection
of two avenues. They were dumping the stuff into a pile, and a man
with a five gallon can was engaged in pouring kerosene over it.

"My friend," said Carpenter, "what is this that you do?"

The other turned upon him and stared. "What the hell you got to do
with it? Get out of the way there!" And to emphasize his words he
slopped a jet of kerosene over the prophet's robes.

Said Carpenter: "Do you know what a book is? One of your poets has
described it as the precious life-blood of a great spirit, embalmed
and preserved to all posterity."

The other laughed scornfully. "Was he talkin' about Bolsheviki
books, you reckon?"

Said Carpenter: "Are you one that should be set to judge books? Have
you read these that you are about to destroy?" And as the other,
paying no attention, knelt down to strike a match and light the
pyre, he cried, in a louder voice: "Behold what a thing is war! You
have been trained to kill your fellow men; the beast has been let
loose in your heart, and he raves within!"

"One of these God-damn pacifists, eh?" cried the ex-soldier; and he
dropped his matches and sprang up with fists clenched. Carpenter
faced him without flinching; there was something so majestic about
him, the man did not strike him, he merely put his spread hand
against the prophet's chest and shoved him violently. "Get back out
of the way!"

I well knew the risk I was taking, but I could not refrain. "Now,
look here, buddy!" I began; and the soldier whirled upon me. "You
one of these Huns, too?"

"I was all through the Argonne," I said quickly. "And I belong to
the Brigade."

"Oh ho! Well, pitch in here, and help carry out this bloody
Arnychist literature!"

I was about to answer, but Carpenter's voice rang out again. He had
turned and stretched out his arms to the crowd, and we both stopped
to listen to his words.

"Shall ye be wolves, or shall ye be men? That is the choice, and ye
have chosen wolfhood. The blood of your brothers is upon your hands,
and murder in your hearts. You have trained your young men to be
killers of their brothers, and now they know only the law of
madness."

There were a dozen ex-doughboys in sound of this discourse, and I
judged they would not stand much of it. Suddenly one of them began
to chant; and the rest took it up, half laughing, half shouting:

    Rough! Tough!
    We're the stuff!
    We want to fight and we can't get enough!

And after that:

    Hail! Hail! The gang's all here!
    We're going to get the Kaiser!

The crowd joined in, and the words of the prophet were completely
drowned out. A moment later I heard a gruff voice behind me. "Make
way here!" There came a policeman, shoving through. "What's all this
about?"

The fellow with the kerosene can spoke up: "Here's this damn
Arnychist prophet been incitin' the crowd and preachin' sedition!
You better take him along, officer, and put him somewhere he'll be
safe, because me and my buddies won't stand no more Bolsheviki
rantin'."

It seemed ludicrous when I looked back upon it; though at the moment
I did not appreciate the funny side. Here was a group of men engaged
in raiding a book-store, beating up the proprietor and his clerks,
and burning a thousand dollars worth of books and magazines on the
public street; but the policeman did not see a bit of that, he had
no idea that any such thing was happening! All he saw was a prophet,
in a white nightgown dripping with kerosene, engaged in denouncing
war! He took him firmly by the arm, saying, "Come along now! I guess
we've heard enough o' this;" and he started to march Carpenter down
the street.

"Take me too!" cried Moneta, the Mexican, beside himself with
excitement; and the policeman grabbed him with the other hand, and
the three set out to march.



XLVIII


I no longer had any impulse to interfere. In truth I was glad to see
the policeman, considering that his worst might be better than the
mob's best. About half the crowd followed us, but the singing died
away, and that gave Comrade Abell his chance. He was walking
directly behind the policeman, and suddenly he raised his voice, and
all the rest of the way to the station-house he provided marching
tunes: first the Internationale, and then the Reg Flag, and then the
Marseillaise:

    Ye sons of toil, awake to glory!
    Hark, hark! What myriads bids you rise!
    Your children, wives, and grand sires hoary--
    Behold their tears and hear their cries!

When we came to the station house, the policeman gave Moneta a shove
and told him to get along; he had not done anything, and was denied
the honor of being arrested. The officer pushed Carpenter through
the door, and bade the rest of us keep out.

Said Abell: "I am an attorney."

"The hell you are!" said the other. "I thought you were an opery
singer."

"I'm a practicing attorney," said Abell, "and I represent the man
you have arrested. I presume I have a right to enter."

"And I am a prospective bondsman," I stated, with sudden
inspiration. "So let me in also."

We entered, and the policeman led his prisoner to the sergeant at
the desk. The latter asked the charge, and was told, "Disturbing the
peace and blocking traffic."

"Now, sergeant," said I, "this is preposterous. All this prisoner
did was to try to stop a mob from destroying property."

"You can tell all that to the magistrate in the morning," said the
sergeant.

"What is the bail?" I demanded.

"You are prepared to put up bail?"

I answered that I was; and then for the first time Carpenter spoke.
"You mean you wish to pay money to secure my release? Let there be
no money paid for me."

"Let me explain, Mr. Carpenter," I pleaded. "You will accomplish
nothing by spending the night in a police cell. You will have no
opportunity to talk with the prisoners. They will keep you by
yourself."

He answered, "My Father will be with me." And gazing into the face
of the sergeant, he demanded, "Do you think you can build a cell to
which my Father cannot come?"

The officer was an old hand, with a fringe of grey hair around his
bald head, and no doubt he had been asked many queer questions in
his day. His response was to inquire the prisoner's name; and when
the prisoner kept haughty silence, he wrote down "John Doe
Carpenter," and proceeded: "Where do you live?"

Said Carpenter: "The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have
nests, but he that espouses the cause of justice has no home in a
world of greed."

So the sergeant wrote: "No address," and nodded to a jailer, who
took the prophet by the arm and led him away through a steel-barred
door.

Abell and I went outside and joined the rest of the group. None of
us knew just what to do--with the exception of Everett, who sat on
the steps with his notebook, and made me repeat to him word for word
what Carpenter had said!



XLIX


Comrade Abell told us where the police-court was located, and we
agreed to be there at nine o'clock next morning. Then I parted from
the rest, and walked until I met a taxi and drove to my rooms.

I felt desolate and forlorn. Nothing in my old life had any interest
for me. This was the afternoon when I usually went to the Athletic
Club to box; but now I found myself wondering, what would Carpenter
say to such imitation fighting? I decided I would stay by myself for
a while, and take a walk and think things over. I had been
dissatisfied with my life for a long time; the glamor had begun to
wear off the excitement of youth, and I had begun to suspect that my
life was idle and vain. Now I knew that it was: and also I knew that
the world was a place of torment and woe.

I returned late in the afternoon, and a few minutes afterwards my
telephone rang, and I discovered that somebody else was dissatisfied
with life.

"Hello, Billy," said the voice of T-S. "I see dat feller Carpenter
is in jail. Vy don't you bail him out?"

"He won't let me," I said.

"Vell, maybe it might be a good ting to leave him in jail a veek,
till dis Brigade convention gits over."

"Funny!" said I. "I had the same idea!"

"Listen," continued the other, "I been feelin' awful bad because I
told dem fellers I didn't know him. D' you suppose he knows I said
dat, Billy?"

"Well," said I, "he knew you were going to say it, so probably he
knows you said it."

"Vell," said T-S, "maybe you laugh at me, but I been tinkin' I tell
dem fellows to go to hell."

"What fellows?"

"De whole damn vorld! Billy, I like dat feller Carpenter! I never
met a feller like him before. You tink he vould let me go to see him
in de jail?"

"I'm sure he'd be glad to see you," I said; "if the jailers didn't
object."

"Sure, I fix de jailers all right!"

"But T-S," I added, "I don't believe he'll sign any contract."

"Contract nuttin'," said T-S. "I shoost vant to see him, Billy. Is
dere anyting I could do fer him?"

I thought for a moment; then I said: "You might do something for one
of his friends, and that's young Everett. He got pretty badly hurt,
and he's sticking at the job of taking down all Carpenter's
speeches. He ought to have a surgeon, and also a first class
stenographer to take turns with him. Have you got another man like
him?"

"I dunno," said T-S. "You don't find a young feller like Matt
Everett everyday."

I started. "What do you say is his name?"

"Matthew," said T-S. "Vy you ask?"

"Nothing," said I; "just a coincidence!"

Our conversation ended with the remark by T-S that he would call up
the station-house and arrange to see Carpenter. Five minutes later
the telephone rang again, and I heard the magnate's voice: "Billy,
dey say he's been bailed out!"

"What?" I cried. "He declared he wouldn't have it done."

"Somebody done it vitout askin' him! De money vas paid, and dey
turned him out!"

"Who did it?"

"Guess!"

"You mean it was you?"

"I vouldn't 'a dared. I only shoost found out about it. Mary Magna
done it, and she's took him avay somevere."

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed; and before my mind's eye flashed another
headline:

FAIR FILM STAR FREES LOVE-CULT PROPHET

I promised to try to find out about the prophet at once. "He won't
get away," I said, "because he doesn't ride in automobiles, and he
and Mary can't walk very far on the street without the newspapers
finding them!"

I took my telephone-book, and looked up the name Abell. It is an
unusual name, and there was only one attorney bearing it. (I was
struck by the fact that the first name of this attorney was Mark.) I
called him on the phone, and heard the familiar gentle voice. Yes,
Comrade Carpenter had just arrived, and Miss Magna was with him.
They were going to have a little party, and they would be glad to
have me come. Yes, Mr. T-S would be welcome, of course. So then I
called up the magnate of the pictures, and not without an inward
smile, conferred on him the gracious permission to spend the evening
at the headquarters of Local Western City of the Socialist Party!



L


When I got to the meeting-place I found that a feast had been
spread. I don't know where the money came from; maybe it was
Bolshevik gold, as the enemy charged, or maybe it was the ill-gotten
gains of a "million dollar movie vamp." Anyhow, there was a table
spread with a couple of cloths that were clean, if ragged, and on
them flowers and fruit. Carpenter was seated at the head of the
table, and I noted to my surprise that he had on a beautiful robe of
snow-white linen, instead of the one he had formerly worn, which was
not only stained with kerosene but filthy with the dust of the
streets. I learned that Mrs. T-S had brought this festal garment--a
simple matter for her, because in movie studios they have wardrobe
rooms where they turn out any sort of costume imaginable.

This robe was so striking that it created a little controversy.
James, the carpenter, who had an ascetic spirit, considered it
necessary to speak plainly, and point out that Mrs. T-S would have
done better to take the money and give it to the poor. But the
prophet answered: "Let this woman alone. She has done a good thing.
The poor you have always with you, but me you have only for a short
time. This woman has helped to make our feast happy, and men will
tell about it in future years."

But that did not satisfy the ascetic James, who retired to his
corner grumbling. "I know, we're going to start a new church--the
same old graft all over again! A man has no business to say a thing
like that. The first thing you know, they'll be taking the widow's
mite to buy silk and velvet dresses for him and golden goblets for
him to drink from! And then, before you know it they'll be setting
him up in stained glass windows, and priests'll be wearing jewelled
robes, and saying it's all right, and quoting his words!" I
perceived that it wasn't so easy for a prophet to manage a bunch of
disciples in these modern days!

The controversy did not seem to trouble Mrs. T-S, who was waddling
about, perfectly happy in the kitchen--doing the things she would
have done all the time, if her husband's social position had not
required her to keep a dozen servants. Also, I noted to my great
astonishment that Mary Magna, instead of taking a place at the
prophet's right hand, according to the prerogative of queens, had
put on a plain apron and was helping "Maw" and Mrs. Abell. More
surprising yet, T-S had seated himself inconspicuously at the foot
of the table, while at the prophet's right hand there sat a convict
with a twenty year jail sentence hanging over him--John Colver, the
"wobbly" poet! Again an ancient phrase learned in childhood came
floating through my mind: "He hath put down the mighty from their
seats, and exalted them of low degree!"

Somehow word had been got to all the little group of agitators of
various shades. There was Korwsky, the secretary of the tailors'
union--whose first name I learned was Luka; also his fellow Russian,
the express-driver,--Simon Karlin, and Tom Moneta, the young Mexican
cigar-maker. There was Matthew Everett, free to be a guest on this
occasion, because T-S had brought along another stenographer. There
was Mark Abell, and another Socialist, a young Irishman named Andy
Lynch, a veteran of the late war who had come home completely cured
of militarism, and was now spending his time distributing Socialist
leaflets, and preaching to the workers wherever he could get two or
three to listen. Also there was Hamby, the pacifist whom I did not
like, and a second I. W. W., brought by Colver--a lad named Philip,
who had recently been indicted by the grand jury, and was at this
moment a fugitive from justice with a price upon his head.

The door of the room was opened, and another man came in; a striking
figure, tall and gaunt, with old and pitifully untidy clothing, and
a half month's growth of beard upon his chin. He wore an old black
hat, frayed at the edges; but under this hat was a face of such
gentleness and sadness that it made you think of Carpenter's own.
Withal, it was a Yankee face--of that lean, stringy kind that we
know so well. The newcomer's eyes fell upon Carpenter, and his face
lighted; he set down an old carpet-bag that he was carrying, and
stretched out his two hands, and went to him. "Carpenter! I've been
looking for you!"

And Carpenter answered, "My brother!" And the two clasped hands, and
I thought to myself with astonishment, "How does Carpenter know this
man?"

Presently I whispered to Abell, "Who is he?" I learned that he was
one I had heard of in the papers--Bartholomew Howard, the
"millionaire hobo;" he was grandson and heir of one of our great
captains of industry, and had taken literally the advice of the
prophet, to sell all that he had and give it to the unemployed. He
traveled over the country, living among the hobos and organizing
them into his Brotherhood. Now you would have thought that he and
Carpenter had known each other all their lives; as I watched them, I
found myself thinking: "Where are the clergy and the pillars of St.
Bartholomew's Church?" There were none of them at this supper-party!



LI


T-S had stopped at a caterer's on his way to the gathering, and had
done his humble best in the form of a strawberry short-cake almost
half as large around as himself; also several bottles of purple
color, with the label of grape juice. When the company gathered at
the table and these bottles were opened, they made a suspicious
noise, and so we all made jokes, as people have the habit of doing
in these days of getting used to prohibition. I noticed that
Carpenter laughed at the jokes, and seemed to enjoy the whole
festivity.

It happened that fate had placed me next to James, so I listened to
more asceticism. "He oughtn't to do things like this! People will
say he likes to eat rich food and to drink. It's bad for the
movement for such things to be said."

"Cheer up, my friend!" I laughed. "Even the Bolsheviks have a feast
now and then, when they can get it."

"You'll see what the newspapers do with this tomorrow," growled the
other; "then you won't think it so funny."

"Forget it!" I said. "There aren't any reporters here."

"No," said he, "but there are spies here, you may be sure. There are
spies everywhere, nowadays. You'll see!"

Presently Carpenter called on some of the company for speeches.
Would Bartholomew tell about the unemployed, what their organization
was doing, and what were their plans? And after that he asked John
Colver, who sat on his right hand, to recite some of his verses.
John and his friend Philip, a blue eyed, freckle-faced lad who
looked as if he might be in high school, told stories about the
adventures of outlaw agitators. For several months these two had
been traveling the country as "blanket stiffs," securing employment
in lumber-camps and mines, gathering the workers secretly in the
woods to listen to the new gospel of deliverance. The employers were
organized on a nation-wide scale everywhere throughout the country,
and the workers with their feeble craft unions were like men using
bows and arrows against machine-guns. There must be One Big Union--
that was the slogan, and if you preached it, you went every hour in
peril of such a fate that you counted fourteen years in jail as
comparatively a happy ending.

Said Carpenter: "It is not such a bad thing for a cause to have its
preachers go to jail."

"Well," said the lad of the blue eyes and the freckled face, "we try
to keep a few outside, to tell what the rest are in for!"

Later on, I remember, John Colver told a funny story about this pal
of his. The story had to do with grape juice instead of with
propaganda, but it appealed to me because it showed the gay spirit
of these lads. The two of them had sought refuge from a storm in a
barn, and there, lying buried in the hay with the rain pouring down
on the roof, they had heard the farmer coming to milk his cows. The
man had evidently just parted from his wife, and there had been a
quarrel; but the farmer hadn't dared to say what he wanted to, so
now he took it out on the cows! "Na! na! na!" he shouted, with
furious vehemence. "That's it! Go on! Nag, nag, nag! Don't stop, or
I might manage to get a word in! Yes, I'm late, of course I'm late
Do you expect me to drive by the clock? Maybe I did forget the
sugar! Maybe I've got nothing on my mind but errands! Whiskey? Maybe
it's whiskey, and maybe it's gin, and maybe it's grape-juice!" The
farmer set down his milk-pail and his lantern, and shook his
clenched fist at the patient cattle. "I'm a man, I am, and I'll have
you understand I'm master in my own house! I'll drink if I feel like
drinking, I'll stop and chat with my neighbors if I feel like
stopping, I'll buy sugar if I remember to buy it, and if you don't
like it, you can buy your own!" And so on--becoming more inspired
with his own eloquence--or maybe with the whiskey, or the gin, or
the grape-juice; until young Philip became so filled with the spirit
of the combat that he popped up out of the hay and shouted, "Good
for you, old man! Stand up for your rights! Don't let her down you!
Hurrah for men!" And the astounded farmer stood staring with his
mouth open, while the two "wobbles" leaped up and fled from the
barn, so convulsed with laughter they hardly noticed the floods of
rain pouring down upon them.