"I never done anything like that!" cried Peter wildly. "I didn't
even know for sure."

"Tell that to the jury!" sneered Guffey. "Why, they've even been to
that Shoemaker Smithers, and they'll put his wife on the stand to
prove you a sneak thief, and tell how she kicked you out. And all
because you couldn't hold your mouth as I told you to!"

Peter burst into tears. He fell down on his knees, pleading that he
hadn't meant any harm; he hadn't had any idea that he was not
supposed to talk about his past life; he hadn't realized what a
witness was, or what he was supposed to do. All he had been told was
to keep quiet about the Goober case, and he had kept quiet. So Peter
sobbed and pleaded--but in vain. Guffey ordered him back to the
hole, declaring his intention to prove that Peter was the one who
had thrown the bomb, and that Peter, instead of Jim Goober, had been
the head and front of the conspiracy. Hadn't Peter signed a
confession that he had helped to make the bomb?






Section 11





Again Peter did not know how long he lay shivering in the black
dungeon. He only knew that they brought him bread and water three
times, before Guffey came again and summoned him forth. Peter now
sat huddled into a chair, twisting his trembling hands together,
while the chief detective of the Traction Trust explained to him his
new program. Peter was permanently ruined as a witness in the case.
The labor conspirators had raised huge sums for their defense; they
had all the labor unions of the city, and in fact of the entire
country behind them, and they were hiring spies and informers, and
trying to find out all they could about the prosecution, the
evidence it had collected and the moves it was preparing. Guffey did
not say that he had been afraid to kick Peter out because of the
possibility that Peter might go over to the Goober side and tell all
he knew; but Peter guessed this while he sat listening to Guffey's
explanation, and realized with a thrill of excitement that at last
he had really got a hold upon the ladder of prosperity. Not in vain
had his finger been almost broken and his wrist almost dislocated!

"Now," said Guffey, "here's my idea: As a witness you're on the bum,
but as a spy, you're it. They know that you blabbed, and that I know
it; they know I've had you in the hole. So now what I want to do is
to make a martyr of you. D'you see?"

Peter nodded; yes, he saw. It was his specialty, seeing things like
that.

"You're an honest witness, you understand? I tried to get you to
lie, and you wouldn't, so now you go over to the other side, and
they take you in, and you find out all you can, and from time to
time you meet somebody as I'll arrange it, and send me word what
you've learned. You get me?"

"I get you," said Peter, eagerly. No words could portray his relief.
He had a real job now! He was going to be a sleuth, like Guffey
himself.

"Now," said Guffey, "the first thing I want to know is, who's
blabbing in this jail; we can't do anything but they get tipped off.
I've got witnesses that I want kept hidden, and I don't dare put
them here for fear of the Goober crowd. I want to know who are the
traitors. I want to know a lot of things that I'll tell you from
time to time. I want you to get next to these Reds, and learn about
their ideas, so you can talk their lingo.

"Sure," said Peter. He could not help smiling a little. He was
supposed to be a "Red" already, to have been one of their leading
conspirators. But Guffey had abandoned that pretence--or perhaps had
forgotten about it!

It was really an easy job that Peter had set before him. He did not
have to pretend to be anything different from what he was. He would
call himself a victim of circumstances, and would be honestly
indignant against those who had sought to use him in a frame-up
against Jim Goober. The rest would follow naturally. He would get
the confidence of the labor people, and Guffey would tell him what
to do next.

"We'll put you in one of the cells of this jail," said the chief
detective, "and we'll pretend to give you a `third degree.' You'll
holler and make a fuss, and say you won't tell, and finally we'll
give up and kick you out. And then all you have to do is just hang
around. They'll come after you, or I miss my guess."

So the little comedy was arranged and played thru. Guffey took Peter
by the collar and led him out into the main part of the jail, and
locked him in one of a row of open cells. He grabbed Peter by the
wrist and pretended to twist it, and Peter pretended to protest. He
did not have to draw on his imagination; he knew how it felt, and
how he was supposed to act, and he acted. He sobbed and screamed,
and again and again he vowed that he had told the truth, that he
knew nothing else than what he had told, and that nothing could make
him tell any more. Guffey left him there until late the next
afternoon, and then came again, and took him by the collar, and led
him out to the steps of the jail, and gave him a parting kick.

Peter was free! What a wonderful sensation--freedom! God! Had there
ever been anything like it? He wanted to shout and howl with joy.
But instead he staggered along the street, and sank down upon a
stone coping, sobbing, with his head clasped in his hands, waiting
for something to happen. And sure enough, it happened. Perhaps an
hour passed, when he was touched lightly on the shoulder. "Comrade,"
said a soft voice, and Peter, looking between his fingers, saw the
skirts of a girl. A folded slip of paper was pressed into his hand
and the soft voice said: "Come to this address." The girl walked on,
and Peter's heart leaped with excitement. Peter was a sleuth at
last!






Section 12





Peter waited until after dark, in order to indulge his sense of the
romantic; also he flattered his self-importance by looking carefully
about him as he walked down the street. He did not know just who
would be shadowing him, but Peter wanted to be sleuthy.

Also he had a bit of genuine anxiety. He had told the truth when he
said to Guffey that he didn't know what a "Red" was; but since then
he had been making in quiries, and now he knew. A "Red" was a fellow
who sympathized with labor unions and with strikes; who wanted to
murder the rich and divide their property, and believed that the
quickest way to do the dividing was by means of dynamite. All "Reds"
made bombs, and carried concealed weapons, and perhaps secret
poisons--who could tell? And now Peter was going among them, he was
going to become one of them! It was almost too interesting, for a
fellow who aimed above everything to be comfortable. Something in
him whispered, "Why not skip; get out of town and be done with it?"
But then he thought of the rewards and honors that Guffey had
promised him. Also there was the spirit of curiosity; he might skip
at any time, but first he would like to know a bit more about being
a "dick."

He came to the number which had been given him, a tiny bungalow in a
poor neighborhood, and rang the doorbell. It was answered by a girl,
and at a glance Peter saw that it was the girl who had spoken to
him. She did not wait for him to announce himself, but cried
impulsively, "Mr. Gudge! Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" She added,
"Comrade!"--just as if Peter were a well-known friend. And then,
"But _are_ you a comrade?"

"How do you mean?" asked Peter.

"You're not a Socialist? Well, we'll make one of you." She brought
him in and showed him to a chair, saying, "I know what they did to
you; and you stood out against them! Oh, you were wonderful!
Wonderful!"

Peter was at a loss what to say. There was in this girl's voice a
note of affection, as well as of admiration; and Peter in his hard
life had had little experience with emotions of this sort. Peter had
watched the gushings and excitements of girls who were seeking
flirtations; but this girl's attitude he felt at once was not
flirtatious. Her voice tho soft, was just a trifle too solemn for a
young girl; her deep-set, wistful grey eyes rested on Peter with the
solicitude of a mother whose child has just escaped a danger.

She called: "Sadie, here's Mr. Gudge." And there entered another
girl, older, taller, but thin and pale like her sister. Jennie and
Sadie Todd were their names, Peter learned; the older was a
stenographer, and supported the family. The two girls were in a
state of intense concern. They started to question Peter about his
experiences, but he had only talked for a minute or two before the
elder went to the telephone. There were various people who must see
Peter at once, important people who were to be notified as soon as
he turned up. She spent some time at the phone, and the people she
talked with must have phoned to others, because for the next hour or
two there was a constant stream of visitors coming in, and Peter had
to tell his story over and over again.

The first to come was a giant of a man with tight-set mouth and so
powerful a voice that it frightened Peter. He was not surprised to
learn that this man was the leader of one of the most radical of the
city's big labor unions, the seamen's. Yes, he was a "Red," all
right; he corresponded to Peter's imaginings--a grim, dangerous man,
to be pictured like Samson, seizing the pillars of society and
pulling them down upon his head. "They've got you scared, my boy,"
he said, noting Peter's hesitating answers to his questions. "Well,
they've had me scared for forty-five years, but I've never let them
know it yet." Then, in order to cheer Peter up and strengthen his
nerves, he told how he, a runaway seaman, had been hunted thru the
Everglades of Florida with bloodhounds, and tied to a tree and
beaten into insensibility.

Then came David Andrews, whom Peter had heard of as one of the
lawyers in the Goober case, a tall, distinguished-looking man with
keen, alert features. What was such a man doing among these
outcasts? Peter decided that he must be one of the shrewd ones who
made money out of inciting the discontented. Then came a young girl,
frail and sensitive, slightly crippled. As she crossed the room to
shake his hand tears rolled down her cheeks, and Peter stood
embarrassed, wondering if she had just lost a near relative, and
what was he to say about it. From her first words he gathered, to
his great consternation, that she had been moved to tears by the
story of what he himself had endured.

Ada Ruth was a poet, and this was a new type for Peter; after much
groping in his mind he set her down for one of the dupes of the
movement--a poor little sentimental child, with no idea of the
wickedness by which she was surrounded. With her came a Quaker boy
with pale, ascetic face and black locks which he had to shake back
from his eyes every now and then; he wore a Windsor tie, and a black
felt hat, and other marks of eccentricity and from his speeches
Peter gathered that he was ready to blow up all the governments of
the world in the interests of Pacificism. The same was true of
McCormick, an I. W. W. leader who had just served sixty days in
jail, a silent young Irishman with drawn lips and restless black
eyes, who made Peter uneasy by watching him closely and saying
scarcely a word.






Section 13





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!"






Section 14





The respectable newspapers of American City of course did not waste
their space upon fantastic accusations brought by radicals, charging
the police authorities with using torture upon witnesses. But there
was a Socialist paper published every week in American City, and
this paper had a long account of Peter's experiences on the front
page, together with his picture. Also there were three labor papers
which carried the story, and the Goober Defense Committee prepared a
circular about it and mailed out thousands of copies all over the
country. This circular was written by Donald Gordon, the Quaker boy.
He brought Peter a proof of it, to make sure that he had got all the
details right, and Peter read it, and really could not help being
thrilled to discover what a hero he was. Peter had not said anything
about his early career, and whoever among the Goober Defense
Committee had learned those details chose to be diplomatically
silent. Peter smiled to himself as he thought about that. They were
foxy, these people! They were playing their hand for all it was
worth--and Peter admired them for that. In Donald Gordon's narrative
Peter appeared as a poor workingman; and Peter grinned. He was used
to the word "working," but when he talked about "working people," he
meant something different from what these Socialists meant.

The story went out, and of course all sorts of people wanted to meet
Peter, and came to the home of the Todd girls. So Peter settled down
to his job of finding out all he could about these visitors, their
names and occupations, their relations to the radical movement.
Guffey had advised him not to make notes, for fear of detection, but
Peter could not carry all this in his head, so he would retire to
his room and make minute notes on slips of paper, and carefully sew
these up in the lining of his coat, with a thrill of mystery.

Except for this note-taking, however, Peter's sleuthing was easy
work, for these people all seemed eager to talk about what they were
doing; sometimes it frightened Peter--they were so open and defiant!
Not merely did they express their ideas to one another and to him,
they were expressing them on public platforms, and in their
publications, in pamphlets and in leaflets--what they called
"literature." Peter had had no idea their "movement" was so
widespread or so powerful. He had expected to unearth a secret
conspiracy, and perhaps a dynamite-bomb or two; instead of which,
apparently, he was unearthing a volcano!

However, Peter did the best he could. He got the names and details
about some forty or fifty people of all classes; obscure workingmen
and women, Jewish tailors, Russian and Italian cigar-workers,
American-born machinists and printers; also some "parlor
Reds"--large, immaculate and shining ladies who came rolling up to
the little bungalow in large, immaculate and shining automobiles,
and left their uniformed chauffeurs outside for hours at a time
while they listened to Peter's story of his "third degree." One
benevolent lady with a flowing gray veil, who wafted a sweet perfume
about the room, suggested that Peter might be in need, and pressed a
twenty dollar bill into his hand. Peter, thrilled, but also
bewildered, got a new sense of the wonders of this thing called "the
movement," and decided that when Guffey got thru with him he might
turn into a "Red" in earnest for a while.

Meantime he settled down to make himself comfortable with the Todd
sisters. Sadie went off to her work before eight o'clock every
morning, and that was before Peter got up; but Jennie stayed at
home, and fixed his breakfast, and opened the door for his visitors,
and in general played the hostess for him. She was a confirmed
invalid; twice a week she went off to a doctor to have something
done to her spine, and the balance of the time she was supposed to
be resting, but Peter very seldom saw her doing this. She was always
addressing circulars, or writing letters for the "cause," or going
off to sell literature and take up collections at meetings. When she
was not so employed, she was arguing with somebody--frequently with
Peter--trying to make him think as she did.

Poor kid, she was all wrought up over the notions she had got about
the wrongs of the working classes. She gave herself no peace about
it, day or night, and this, of course, was a bore to Peter, who
wanted peace above all things. Over in Europe millions of men were
organized in armies, engaged in slaughtering one another. That, of
course, was, very terrible, but what was the good of thinking about
it? There was no way to stop it, and it certainly wasn't Peter's
fault. But this poor, deluded child was acting all the time as if
she were to blame for this European conflict, and had the job of
bringing it to a close. The tears would come into her deep-set grey
eyes, and her soft chin would quiver with pain whenever she talked
about it; and it seemed to Peter she was talking about it all the
time. It was her idea that the war must be stopped by uprisings on
the part of the working people in Europe. Apparently she thought
this might be hastened if the working people of American City would
rise up and set an example!






Section 15





Jennie talked about this plan quite openly; she would put a red
ribbon in her hair, and pin a red badge on her bosom, and go into
meeting-places and sell little pamphlets with red covers. So, of
course, it would be Peter's duty to report her to the head of the
secret service of the Traction Trust. Peter regretted this, and was
ashamed of having to do it; she was a nice little girl, and pretty,
too, and a fellow might have had some fun with her if she had not
been in such a hysterical state. He would sit and look at her, as
she sat bent over her typewriter. She had soft, fluffy hair, the
color of twilight, and even white teeth, and a faint flush that came
and went in her cheeks--yes, she would not be bad looking at all, if
only she would straighten up, and spend a little time on her looks,
as other girls did.

But no, she was always in a tension, and the devil of it was, she
was trying to get Peter into the same state. She was absolutely
determined that Peter must get wrought up over the wrongs of the
working classes. She took it for granted that he would, when he was
instructed. She would tell him harrowing stories, and it was his
duty to be duly harrowed; he must be continually acting an emotional
part. She would give him some of her "literature" to read, and then
she would pin him down and make sure that he had read it. He knew
how to read--Pericles Priam had seen to that, because he wanted him
to attend to the printing of his circulars and his advertisements in
the country newspapers where he was traveling. So now Peter was
penned in a corner and compelled to fix his attention upon "The A.
B. C. of Socialism," or "Capital and Proletariat," or "The Path to
Power."

Peter told himself that it was part of his job to acquire this
information. He was going to be a "Red," and he must learn their
lingo; but he found it awfully tiresome, full of long technical
words which he had never heard before. Why couldn't these fellows at
least talk American? He had known that there were Socialists, and
also "Arnychists," as he called them, and he thought they were all
alike. But now he learned, not merely about Socialists and
"Arnychists," but about State Socialists and Communist Anarchists,
and Communist Syndicalists and Syndicalist Anarchists and Socialist
Syndicalists, and Reformist Socialists and Guild Socialists, to say
nothing about Single Taxers and Liberals and Progressives and
numerous other varieties, whom he had to meet and classify and
listen to respectfully and sympathetically. Each particular group
insisted upon the distinctions which made it different, and each
insisted that it had the really, truly truth; and Peter became
desperately bored with their everlasting talk--how much more simple
to lump them all together, as did Guffey and McGivney, calling them
all "Reds!"

Peter had got it clearly fixed in his mind that what these "Reds"
wanted was to divide up the property of the rich. Everyone he had
questioned about them had said this. But now he learned that this
wasn't it exactly. What they wanted was to have the State take over
the industries, or to have the labor unions do it, or to have the
working people in general do it. They pointed to the post office and
the army and the navy, as examples of how the State could run
things. Wasn't that all right? demanded Jennie. And Peter said Yes,
that was all right; but hidden back in Peter's soul all the time was
a whisper that it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. There was
a sucker born every minute, and you might be sure that no matter how
they fixed it up, there would always be some that would find it easy
to live off the rest. This poor kid, for example, who was ready to
throw herself away for any fool notion, or for anybody that came
along and told her a hard-luck story--would there ever be a state of
society in which she wouldn't be a juicy morsel to be gobbled up by
some fellow with a normal appetite?

She was alone in the house all day with Peter, and she got to seem
more and more pretty as he got to know her better. Also it was
evident that she liked Peter more and more as Peter played his game.
Peter revealed himself as deeply sympathetic, and a quick convert to
the cause; he saw everything that Jennie explained to him, he was
horrified at the horrible stories, he was ready to help her end the
European war by starting a revolution among the working people of
American City. Also, he told her about himself, and awakened her
sympathy for his harsh life, his twenty years of privation and
servitude; and when she wept over this, Peter liked it. It was fine,
somehow, to have her so sorry for him; it helped to compensate him
for the boredom of hearing her be sorry for the whole working class.

Peter didn't know whether Jennie had learned about his bad record,
but he took no chances--he told her everything, and thus took the
sting out of it. Yes, he had been trapped into evil ways, but it
wasn't his fault, he hadn't known any better, he had been a pitiful
victim of circumstances. He told how he had been starved and driven
about and beaten by "Old Man" Drubb, and the tears glistened in
Jennie's grey eyes and stole down her cheeks. He told about
loneliness and heartsickness and misery in the orphan asylum. And
how could he, poor lad, realize that it was wrong to help Pericles
Priam sell his Peerless Pain Paralyzer? How could he know whether
the medicine was any good or not--he didn't even know now, as a
matter of fact. As for the Temple of Jimjambo, all that Peter had
done was to wash dishes and work as a kitchen slave, as in any hotel
or restaurant.

It was a story easy to fix up, and especially easy because the first
article in the creed of Socialist Jennie was that economic
circumstances were to blame for human frailties. That opened the
door for all varieties of grafters, and made the child such an easy
mark that Peter would have been ashamed to make a victim of her, had
it not been that she happened to stand in the path of his higher
purposes--and also that she happened to be young, only seventeen,
with tender grey eyes, and tempting, sweet lips, alone there in the
house all day.






Section 16





Peter's adventures in love had so far been pretty much of a piece
with the rest of his life experiences; there had been hopes, and
wonderful dreams, but very few realizations. Peter knew a lot about
such matters; in the orphan asylum there were few vicious practices
which he did not witness, few obscene imaginings with which he was
not made familiar. Also, Pericles Priam had been a man like the
traditional sailor, with a girl in every port; and generally in
these towns and villages there had been no place for Peter to go
save where Pericles went, so Peter had been the witness of many of
his master's amours and the recipient of his confidences. But none
of these girls and women had paid any attention to Peter. Peter was
only a "kid"; and when he grew up and was no longer a kid, but a
youth tormented with sharp desires, they still paid no attention to
him--why should they? Peter was nothing; he had no position, no
money, no charms; he was frail and undersized, his teeth were
crooked, and one shoulder higher than the other. What could he
expect from women and girls but laughter and rebuffs?

Then Peter moved on to the Temple of Jimjambo, and there a
devastating experience befell him--he tumbled head over heels and
agonizingly in love. There was a chambermaid in the institution, a
radiant creature from the Emerald Isles with hair like sunrise and
cheeks like apples, and a laugh that shook the dish-pans on the
kitchen walls. She laughed at Peter, she laughed at the major-domo,
she laughed at all the men in the place who tried to catch her round
the waist. Once or twice a month perhaps she would let them succeed,
just to keep them interested, and to keep herself in practice.

The only one she really favored was the laundry deliveryman, and
Peter soon realized why. This laundry fellow had the use of an
automobile on Sundays, and Nell would dress herself up to kill, and
roll away in state with him. He would spend all his week's earnings
entertaining her at the beach; Peter knew, because she would tell
the whole establishment on Monday morning. "Gee, but I had a swell
time!" she would say; and would count the ice-creams and the
merry-go-rounds and the whirly-gigs and all the whang-doodle things.
She would tell about the tattooed men and the five-legged calf and
the woman who was half man, and all the while she would make the
dishpans rattle.

Yes, she was a marvelous creature, and Peter suddenly realized that
his ultimate desire in life was to possess a "swell lady-friend"
like Nell. He realized that there was one essential prerequisite,
and that was money. None of them would look at you without money.
Nell had gone out with him only once, and that was upon the savings
of six months, and Peter had not been able to conceal the effort it
cost him to spend it all. So he had been set down as a "tight-wad,"
and had made no headway.

Nell had disappeared, along with everybody else when the police
raided the Temple. Peter never knew what had become of her, but the
old longings still haunted him, and he would find himself
imagining--suppose the police had got her; suppose she were in jail,
and he with his new "pull" were able to get her out, and carry her
away and keep her hid from the laundry man!

These were dreams; but meantime here was reality, here was a new
world. Peter had settled down in the home of the Todd sisters; and
what was their attitude toward these awful mysteries of love?






Section 17





It had been arranged with Guffey that at the end of a week Peter was
to have a secret meeting with one of the chief detective's men. So
Peter told the girls that he was tired of being a prisoner in the
house and must get some fresh air.

"Oh please, Mr. Gudge, don't take such a chance!" cried Sadie, her
thin, anxious face suddenly growing more anxious and thin. "Don't
you know this house is being watched? They are just hoping to catch
you out alone. It would be the last of you."

"I'm not so important as that," said Peter; but she insisted that he
was, and Peter was pleased, in spite of his boredom, he liked to
hear her insist upon his importance.

"Oh!" she cried. "Don't you know yet how much depends on you as a
witness for the Goober defense? This case is of concern to millions
of people all over the world! It is a test case, Mr. Gudge--are they
to be allowed to murder the leaders of the working class without a
struggle? No, we must show them that there is a great movement, a
world-wide awakening of the workers, a struggle for freedom for the
wage slaves--"

But Peter could stand no more of this. "All right," he said,
suddenly interrupting Sadie's eloquence. "I suppose it's my duty to
stay, even if I die of consumption, being shut up without any fresh
air." He would play the martyr; which was not so hard, for he was
one, and looked like one, with his thin, one-sided little figure,
and his shabby clothes. Both Sadie and Jennie gazed at him with
admiration, and sighed with relief.

But later on, Peter thought of an idea. He could go out at night, he
told Sadie, and slip out the back way, so that no one would see him;
he would not go into crowds or brightly lighted streets, so there
would be no chance of his being recognized. There was a fellow he
absolutely had to see, who owed him some money; it was way over on
the other side of the city--that was why he rejected Jennie's offer
to accompany him.

So that evening Peter climbed a back fence and stole thru a
neighbor's chicken-yard and got away. He had a fine time ducking and
dodging in the crowds, making sure that no one was trailing him to
his secret rendezvous--no "Red" who might chance to be suspicious of
his "comradeship." It was in the "American House," an obscure hotel,
and Peter was to take the elevator to the fourth floor, without
speaking to any one, and to tap three times on the door of Room 427.
Peter did so, and the door opened, and he slipped in, and there he
met Jerry McGivney, with the face of a rat.

"Well, what have you got?" demanded McGivney; and Peter sat down
and started to tell. With eager fingers he undid the amateur sewing
in the lining of his coat, and pulled out his notes with the names
and descriptions of people who had come to see him.

McGivney glanced over them quickly. "Jesus!" he said, "What's the
good of all this?"

"Well, but they're Reds!" exclaimed Peter.

"I know," said the other, "but what of that? We can go hear them
spout at meetings any night. We got membership lists of these
different organizations. But what about the Goober case?"

"Well," said Peter, "they're agitating about it all the time;
they've been printing stuff about me."

"Sure, we know that," said McGivney. "And the hell of a fine story
you gave them; you must have enjoyed hearing yourself talk. But what
good does that do us?"

"But what do you want to know?" cried Peter, in dismay.

"We want to know their secret plans," said the other. "We want to
know what they're doing to get our witnesses; we want to know who it
is that is selling us out, who's the spy in the jail. Didn't you
find that out?"

"N-no," said Peter. "Nobody said anything about it."

"Good God!" said the detective. "D'you expect them to bring you
things on a silver tray?" He began turning over Peter's notes
again, and finally threw them on the bed in disgust. He began
questioning Peter, and Peter's dismay turned to despair. He had not
got a single thing that McGivney wanted. His whole week of
"sleuthing" had been wasted!

The detective did not mince words. "It's plain that you're a boob,"
he said. "But such as you are, we've got to do the best we can with
you. Now, put your mind on it and get it straight: we know who these
Reds are, and we know what they're teaching; we can't send 'em to
jail for that. What we want you to find out is the name of their
spy, and who are their witnesses in the Goober case, and what
they're going to say."

"But how can I find out things like that?" cried Peter.

"You've got to use your wits," said McGivney. "But I'll give you one
tip; get yourself a girl."

"A girl?" cried Peter, in wonder.

"Sure thing," said the other. "That's the way we always work. Guffey
says there's just three times when people tell their secrets: The
first is when they're drunk, and the second is when they're in
love--"

Then McGivney stopped. Peter, who wanted to complete his education,
inquired, "And the third?"

"The third is when they're both drunk and in love," was the reply.
And Peter was silent, smitten with admiration. This business of
sleuthing was revealing itself as more complicated and more
fascinating all the time.

"Ain't you seen any girl you fancy in that crowd?" demanded the
other.

"Well--it might be--" said Peter, shyly.

"It ought to be easy," continued the detective. "Them Reds are all
free lovers, you know."

"Free lovers!" exclaimed Peter. "How do you mean?"

"Didn't you know about that?" laughed the other.

Peter sat staring at him. All the women that Peter had ever known or
heard of took money for their love. They either took it directly, or
they took it in the form of automobile rides and flowers and candy
and tickets to the whang-doodle things. Could it be that there were
women who did not take money in either form, but whose love was
entirely free?

The detective assured him that such was the case. "They boast about
it," said he. "They think it's right." And to Peter that seemed the
most shocking thing he had yet heard about the Reds.

To be sure, when he thought it over, he could see that it had some
redeeming points; it was decidedly convenient from the point of view
of the man; it was so much money in his pocket. If women chose to be
that silly--and Peter found himself suddenly thinking about little
Jennie Todd. Yes, she would be that silly, it was plain to see. She
gave away everything she had; so of course she would be a "free
lover!"

Peter went away from his rendezvous with McGivney, thrilling with a
new and wonderful idea. You couldn't have got him to give up his job
now. This sleuthing business was the real thing!

It was late when Peter got home, but the two girls were sitting up
for him, and their relief at his safe return was evident. He noticed
that Jennie's face expressed deeper concern than her sister's, and
this gave him a sudden new emotion. Jennie's breath came and went
more swiftly because he had entered the room; and this affected his
own breath in the same way. He had a swift impulse towards her, an
entirely unselfish desire to reassure her and relieve her anxiety;
but with an instinctive understanding of the sex game which he had
not before known he possessed, he checked this impulse and turned
instead to the older sister, assuring her that nobody had followed
him. He told an elaborate story, prepared on the way; he had worked
for ten days for a fellow at sawing wood--hard work, you bet, and
then the fellow had tried to get out of paying him! Peter had caught
him at his home that evening, and had succeeded in getting five
dollars out of him, and a promise of a few dollars more every week.
That was to cover future visits to McGivney.






Section 18





Peter lay awake a good part of the night, thinking over this new
job--that of getting himself a girl. He realized that for some time
he had been falling in love with little Jennie; but be wanted to be
sane and practical, he wanted to use his mind in choosing a girl. He
was after information, first of all. And who had the most to give
him? He thought of Miss Nebbins, who was secretary to Andrews, the
lawyer; she would surely know more secrets than anyone else; but
then, Miss Nebbins was an old maid, who wore spectacles and
broad-toed shoes, and was evidently out of the question for
love-making. Then he thought of Miss Standish, a tall, blond beauty
who worked in an insurance office and belonged to the Socialist
Party. She was a "swell dresser," and Peter would have been glad to
have something like that to show off to McGivney and the rest of
Guffey's men; but with the best efforts of his self-esteem, Peter
could not imagine himself persuading Miss Standish to look at him.
There was a Miss Yankovich, one of the real Reds, who trained with
the I. W. W.; but she was a Jewess, with sharp, black eyes that
clearly indicated a temper, and frightened Peter. Also, he had a
suspicion that she was interested in McCormick--tho of course with
these "free lovers" you could never tell.

But one girl Peter was quite sure about, and that was little Jennie;
he didn't know if Jennie knew many secrets, but surely she could
find some out for him. Once he got her for his own, he could use her
to question others. And so Peter began to picture what love with
Jennie would be like. She wasn't exactly what you would call
"swell," but there was something about her that made him sure he
needn't be ashamed of her. With some new clothes she would be
pretty, and she had grand manners--she had not shown the least fear
of the rich ladies who came to the house in their automobiles; also
she knew an awful lot for a girl--even if most of what she knew
wasn't so!

Peter lost no time in setting to work at his new job. In the papers
next morning appeared the usual details from Flanders; thousands of
men being shot to pieces almost every hour of the day and night, a
million men on each side locked in a ferocious combat that had
lasted for weeks, that might last for months. And sentimental little
Jennie sat there with brimming eyes, talking about it while Peter
ate his oatmeal and thin milk. And Peter talked about it too; how
wicked it was, and how they must stop it, he and Jennie together. He
agreed with her now; he was a Socialist, he called her "Comrade,"
and told her she had converted him. Her eyes lighted up with joy, as
if she had really done something to end the war.

They were sitting on the sofa, looking at the paper, and they were
alone in the house. Peter suddenly looked up from the reading and
said, very much embarrassed, "But Comrade Jennie--"

"Yes," she said, and looked at him with her frank grey eyes. Peter
was shy, truly a little frightened, this kind of detective business
being new to him.

"Comrade Jennie," he said, "I--I--don't know just how to say it, but
I'm afraid I'm falling a little in love."

Jennie drew back her hands, and Peter heard her breath come quickly.
"Oh, Mr. Gudge!" she exclaimed.

"I--I don't know--" stammered Peter. "I hope you won't mind."

"Oh, don't let's do that!" she cried.

"Why not, Comrade Jennie?" And he added, "I don't know as I can
help it."

"Oh, we were having such a happy time, Mr. Gudge! I thought we were
going to work for the cause!"

"Well, but it won't interfere--"

"Oh, but it does, it does; it makes people unhappy!"

"Then--" and Peter's voice trembled--"then you don't care the least
bit for me, Comrade Jennie?"

She hesitated a moment. "I don't know," she said. "I hadn't
thought--"

And Peter's heart gave a leap inside him. It was the first time that
any girl had ever had to hesitate in answering that question for
Peter. Something prompted him--just as if he had been doing this
kind of "sleuthing" all his life. He reached over, and very gently
took her hand. "You do care just a little for me?" he whispered.

"Oh, Comrade Gudge," she answered, and Peter said, "Call me `Peter.'
Please, please do."

"Comrade Peter," she said, and there was a little catch in her
throat, and Peter, looking at her, saw that her eyes were cast down.

"I know I'm not very much to love," he pleaded. "I'm poor and
obscure--I'm not good looking--"

"Oh, it isn't that!" she cried, "Oh, no, no! Why should I think
about such things? You are a comrade!"

Peter had known, of course, just how she would take this line of
talk. "Nobody has ever loved me," he said, sadly. "Nobody cares
anything about you, when you are poor, and have nothing to offer--"

"I tell you, that isn't it!" she insisted. "Please don't think that!
You are a hero. You have sacrificed for the cause, and you are going
on and become a leader."

"I hope so," said Peter, modestly. "But then, what is it, Comrade
Jennie? Why don't you care for me?"

She looked up at him, and their eyes met, and with a little sob in
her voice she answered, "I'm not well, Comrade Peter. I'm of no use;
it would be wicked for me to marry."

Somewhere back in the depths of Peter, where his inner self was
crouching, it was as if a sudden douche of ice-cold water were let
down on him. "Marry!" Who had said anything about marrying? Peter's
reaction fitted the stock-phrase of the comic papers: "This is so
sudden!"

But Peter was too clever to reveal such dismay. He humored little
Jennie, saying, "We don't have to marry right away. I could wait, if
only I knew that you cared for me; and some day, when you get
well--"

She shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid I'll never get really well.
And besides, neither of us have any money, Comrade Peter."

Ah, there it was! Money, always money! This "free love" was nothing
but a dream.

"I could get a job," said Peter--just like any other tame and
conventional wooer.

"But you couldn't earn enough for two of us," protested the girl;
and suddenly she sprang up. "Oh, Comrade Peter, let's not fall in
love with each other! Let's not make ourselves unhappy, let's work
for the cause! Promise me that you will!"

Peter promised; but of course he had no remotest intention of
keeping the promise. He was not only a detective, he was a man--and
in both capacities he wanted Comrade Jennie. He had all the rest of
the day, and over the addressing of envelopes which he undertook
with her, he would now and then steal love-glances; and Jennie knew
now what these looks meant, and the faint flush would creep over her
cheeks and down into her neck and throat. She was really very pretty
when she was falling in love, and Peter found his new job the most
delightful one of his lifetime. He watched carefully, and noted the
signs, and was sure he was making no mistake; before Sadie came back
at supper-time he had his arms about Comrade Jennie, and was
pressing kisses upon the lovely white throat; and Comrade Jennie was
sobbing softly, and her pleading with him to stop had grown faint
and unconvincing.






Section 19





There was the question of Sadie to be settled. There was a certain
severe look that sometimes came about Sadie's lips, and that caused
Peter to feel absolutely certain that Comrade Sadie had no sympathy
with "free love," and very little sympathy with any love save her
own for Jennie. She had nursed her "little sister" and tended her
like a mother for many years; she took the food out of her mouth to
give to Jennie--and Jennie in turn gave it to any wandering agitator
who came along and hung around until mealtime. Peter didn't want
Sadie to know what had been going on in her absence, and yet he was
afraid to suggest to Jennie that she should deceive her sister.

He managed it very tactfully. Jennie began pleading again: "We ought
not to do this, Comrade Peter!" And so Peter agreed, perhaps they
oughtn't, and they wouldn't any more. So Jennie put her hair in
order, and straightened her blouse, and her lover could see that she
wasn't going to tell Sadie.

And the next day they were kissing again and agreeing again that
they mustn't do it; and so once more Jennie didn't tell Sadie.
Before long Peter had managed to whisper the suggestion that their
love was their own affair, and they ought not to tell anybody for
the present; they would keep the delicious secret, and it would do
no one any harm. Jennie had read somewhere about a woman poet by the
name of Mrs. Browning, who had been an invalid all her life, and
whose health had been completely restored by a great and wonderful
love. Such a love had now come to her; only Sadie might not
understand, Sadie might think they did not know each other well
enough, and that they ought to wait. They knew, of course, that they
really did know each other perfectly, so there was no reason for
uncertainty or fear. Peter managed deftly to put these suggestions
into Jennie's mind as if they were her own.

And all the time he was making ardent love to her; all day long,
while he was helping her address envelopes and mail out circulars
for the Goober Defense Committee. He really did work hard; he didn't
mind working, when he had Jennie at the table beside him, and could
reach over and hold her hand every now and then, or catch her in his
arms and murmur passionate words. Delicious thrills and raptures
possessed him; his hopes would rise like a flood-tide--but then,
alas, only to ebb again! He would get so far, and every time it
would be as if he had run into a stone wall. No farther!

Peter realized that McGivney's "free love" talk had been a cruel
mistake. Little Jennie was like all the other women--her love wasn't
going to be "free." Little Jennie wanted a husband, and every time
you kissed her, she began right away to talk about marriage, and you
dared not hint at anything else because you knew it would spoil
everything. So Peter was thrown back upon devices older than the
teachings of any "Reds." He went after little Jennie, not in the way
of "free lovers," but in the way of a man alone in the house with a
girl of seventeen, and wishing to seduce her. He vowed that he loved
her with an overwhelming and eternal love. He vowed that he would
get a job and take care of her. And then he let her discover that he
was suffering torments; he could not live without her. He played
upon her sympathy, he played upon her childish innocence, he played
upon that pitiful, weak sentimentality which caused her to believe
in pacifism and altruism and socialism and all the other "isms" that
were jumbled up in her head.