Mrs. James was her name, and she was a widow, a grass widow as she
archly mentioned. She was quick and lively, with brilliant white
teeth, and cheeks with the glow of health in them; this glow came
out of a little bottle, but Peter never guessed it. Peter had got
himself a good suit of clothes now, and made bold to spend some
money on the lunch. As it happened, both he and Mrs. James were thru
with the Goober case; both were tired and wanted a change, and
Peter, blushing shyly, suggested that a sojourn at the beach might
be fun. Mrs. James agreed immediately, and the matter was arranged.

Peter had seen enough of the detective business by this time to know
what you can safely do, and what you had better not do. He didn't
travel with his grass widow, he didn't pay her car-fare, nor do
anything else to constitute her a "white slave." He simply went to
the beach and engaged himself a comfortable apartment; and next day,
strolling on the board walk, he happened to meet the widow.

So for a couple of months Peter and Mrs. James set up housekeeping
together. It was a wonderful experience for the former, because Mrs.
James was what is called a "lady," she had rich relatives, and took
pains to let Peter know that she had lived in luxury before her
husband had run away to Paris with a tight-rope walker. She taught
Peter all those worldly arts which one misses when one is brought up
in an orphan asylum, and on the road with a patent medicine vender.
Tactfully, and without hurting his feelings, she taught him how to
hold a knife and fork, and what color tie to select. At the same
time she managed to conduct a propaganda which caused him to regard
himself as the most favored of mankind; he was overwhelmed with
gratitude for every single kiss from the lips of his grass widow. Of
course he could not expect such extraordinary favors of fortune
without paying for them; he had learned by now that there was no
such thing as "free love." So he paid, hand over fist; he not only
paid all the expenses of the unregistered honeymoon, he bought
numerous expensive presents at the lady's tactful suggestion. She
was always so vivacious and affectionate when Peter had given her a
present! Peter lived in a kind of dream, his money seemed to go out
of his pockets without his having to touch it.

Meantime great events were rolling by, unheeded by Peter and his
grass widow who never read the newspapers. For one thing Jim Goober
was convicted and sentenced to die on the gallows, and Jim Goober's
associate, Biddle, was found guilty, and sentenced to prison for
life. Also, America entered the war, and a wave of patriotic
excitement swept like a prairie fire over the country. Peter could
not help hearing about this; his attention was attracted to one
aspect of the matter--Congress was about to pass a conscription act.
And Peter was within the age limit; Peter would almost certainly be
drafted into the army!

No terror that he had ever felt in his life was equal to this
terror. He had tried to forget the horrible pictures of battle and
slaughter, of machine-guns and hand-grenades and torpedoes and
poison gas, with which little Jennie had filled his imagination; but
now these imaginings came crowding back upon him, now for the first
time they concerned him. From that time on his honeymoon was
spoiled. Peter and his grass widow were like a party of picnickers
who are far away in the wilderness, and see a black thunder-storm
come rolling up the sky!

Also, Peter's bank account was running low. Peter had had no
conception how much money you could spend on a grass widow who is a
"swell dresser" and understands what is "proper." He was overwhelmed
with embarrassment; he put off telling Mrs. James until the last
moment--in fact, until he wasn't quite sure whether he had enough
money in bank to meet the last check he had given to the landlady.
Then, realizing that the game was up, he told.

He was surprised to see how charmingly a grass widow of "good
breeding" could take bad tidings. Evidently it wasn't the first time
that Mrs. James had been to the beach. She smiled cheerfully, and
said that it was the jury-box for her once more. She gave Peter her
card, and told him she would be glad to have him call upon her
again--when he had restored his fortunes. She packed up her
suit-case and her new trunk full of Peter's presents, and departed
with the most perfect sweetness and good taste.






Section 31





So there was Peter, down and out once more. But fate was kind to
him. That very day came a letter signed "Two forty-three," which
meant McGivney. "Two forty-three" had some important work for Peter,
so would he please call at once? Peter pawned his last bit of
jewelry for his fare to American City, and met McGivney at the usual
rendezvous.


The purpose of the meeting was quickly explained. America was now at
war, and the time had come when the mouths of these Reds were to be
stopped for good. You could do things in war-time that you couldn't
do in peace-time, and one of the things you were going to do was to
put an end to the agitation against property. Peter licked his lips,
metaphorically speaking. It was something he had many times told
McGivney ought to be done. Pat McCormick especially ought to be put
away for good. These were a dangerous bunch, these Reds, and Mac was
the worst of all. It was every man's duty to help, and what could
Peter do?

McGivney answered that the authorities were making a complete list
of all the radical organizations and their members, getting evidence
preliminary to arrests. Guffey was in charge of the job; as in the
Goober case, the big business interests of the city were going ahead
while the government was still wiping the sleep out of its eyes.
Would Peter take a job spying upon the Reds in American City?

"I can't!" exclaimed Peter. "They're all sore at me because I didn't
testify in the Goober case."

"We can easily fix that up," answered the rat-faced man. "It may
mean a little inconvenience for you. You may have to go to jail for
a few days."

"To jail!" cried Peter, in dismay.

"Yes," said the other, "you'll have to get arrested, and made into a
martyr. Then, you see, they'll all be sure you're straight, and
they'll take you back again and welcome you."

Peter didn't like the idea of going to jail; his memories of the
jail in American City were especially painful. But McGivney
explained that this was a time when men couldn't consider their own
feelings; the country was in danger, public safety must be
protected, and it was up to everybody to make some patriotic
sacrifice. The rich men were all subscribing to liberty bonds; the
poor men were going to give their lives; and what was Peter Gudge
going to give? "Maybe I'll be drafted into the army," Peter
remarked.

"No, you won't--not if you take this job," said McGivney. "We can
fix that. A man like you, who has special abilities, is too precious
to be wasted." Peter decided forthwith that he would accept the
proposition. It was much more sensible to spend a few days in jail
than to spend a few years in the trenches, and maybe the balance of
eternity under the sod of France.

Matters were quickly arranged. Peter took off his good clothes, and
dressed himself as became a workingman, and went into the
eating-room where Donald Gordon, the Quaker boy, always got his
lunch. Peter was quite sure that Donald would be one of the leading
agitators against the draft, and in this he was not mistaken.

Donald was decidedly uncordial in his welcoming of Peter; without
saying a word the young Quaker made Peter aware that he was a
renegade, a coward who had "thrown down" the Goober defense. But
Peter was patient and tactful; he did not try to defend himself, nor
did he ask any questions about Donald and Donald's activities. He
simply announced that he had been studying the subject of
militarism, and had come to a definite point of view. He was a
Socialist and an Internationalist; he considered America's entry
into the war a crime, and he was willing to do his part in agitating
against it. He was going to take his stand as a conscientious
objector; they might send him to jail if they pleased, or even stand
him against a wall and shoot him, but they would never get him to
put on a uniform.

It was impossible for Donald Gordon to hold out against a man who
talked like that; a man who looked him in the eye and expressed his
convictions so simply and honestly. And that evening Peter went to a
meeting of Local American City of the Socialist Party, and renewed
his acquaintance with all the comrades. He didn't make a speech or
do anything conspicuous, but simply got into the spirit of things;
and next day he managed to meet some of the members, and whenever
and wherever he was asked, he expressed his convictions as a
conscientious objector. So before a week had passed Peter found that
he was being tolerated, that nobody was going to denounce him as a
traitor, or kick him out of the room.

At the next weekly meeting of Local American City, Peter ventured to
say a few words. It was a red-hot meeting, at which the war and the
draft were the sole subjects of discussion. There were some Germans
in the local, some Irishmen, and one or two Hindoos; they,
naturally, were all ardent pacifists. Also there were agitators of
what was coming to be called the "left wing"; the group within the
party who considered it too conservative, and were always clamoring
for more radical declarations, for "mass action" and general strikes
and appeals to the proletariat to rise forthwith and break their
chains. These were days of great events; the Russian revolution had
electrified the world, and these comrades of the "left wing" felt
themselves lifted upon pinions of hope.

Peter spoke as one who had been out on the road, meeting the rank
and file; he could speak for the men on the job. What was the use of
opposing the draft here in a hall, where nobody but party members
were present? What was wanted was for them to lift up their voices
on the street, to awaken the people before it was too late! Was
there anybody in this gathering bold enough to organize a street
meeting?

There were some who could not resist this challenge, and in a few
minutes Peter had secured the pledges of half a dozen young
hot-heads, Donald Gordon among them. Before the evening was past it
had been arranged that these would-be-martyrs should hire a truck,
and make their debut on Main Street the very next evening. Old hands
in the movement warned them that they would only get their heads
cracked by the police. But the answer to that was obvious--they
might as well get their heads cracked by the police as get them
blown to pieces by German artillery.






Section 32





Peter reported to McGivney what was planned, and McGivney promised
that the police would be on hand. Peter warned him to be careful and
have the police be gentle; at which McGivney grinned, and answered
that he would see to that.

It was all very simple, and took less than ten minutes of time. The
truck drew up on Main Street, and a young orator stepped forward and
announced to his fellow citizens that the time had come for the
workers to make known their true feelings about the draft. Never
would free Americans permit themselves to be herded into armies and
shipped over seas and be slaughtered for the benefit of
international bankers. Thus far the orator had got, when a policeman
stepped forward and ordered him to shut up. When he refused, the
policeman tapped on the sidewalk with his stick, and a squad of
eight or ten came round the corner, and the orator was informed that
he was under arrest. Another orator stepped forward and took up the
harangue, and when he also had been put under arrest, another, and
another, until the whole six of them, including Peter, were in hand.

The crowd had had no time to work up any interest one way or the
other, A patrol-wagon was waiting, and the orators were bundled in
and driven to the station-house, and next morning they were haled
before a magistrate and sentenced each to fifteen days. As they had
been expecting to get six months, they were a happy bunch of "left
wingers."

And they were still happier when they saw how they were to be
treated in jail. Ordinarily it was the custom of the police to
inflict all possible pain and humiliation upon the Reds. They would
put them in the revolving tank, a huge steel structure of many cells
which was turned round and round by a crank. In order to get into
any cell, the whole tank had to be turned until that particular cell
was opposite the entrance, which meant that everybody in the tank
got a free ride, accompanied by endless groaning and scraping of
rusty machinery; also it meant that nobody got any consecutive
sleep. The tank was dark, too dark to read, even if they had had
books or papers. There was nothing to do save to smoke cigarettes
and shoot craps, and listen to the smutty stories of the criminals,
and plot revenge against society when they got out again. But up in
the new wing of the jail were some cells which were clean and bright
and airy, being only three or four feet from a row of windows. In
these cells they generally put the higher class of criminals--women
who had cut the throats of their sweethearts, and burglars who had
got I away with the swag, and bankers who had plundered whole
communities. But now, to the great surprise of five out of the six
anti-militarists, the entire party was put in one of these big
cells, and allowed the privilege of having reading matter and of
paying for their own food. Under these circumstances martyrdom
became a joke, and the little party settled down to enjoy life. It
never once occurred to them to think of Peter Gudge as the source of
this bounty. They attributed it, as the French say, "to their
beautiful eyes."

There was Donald Gordon, who was the son of a well-to-do business
man, and had been to college, until he was expelled for taking the
doctrines of Christianity too literally and expounding them too
persistently on the college campus. There was a big, brawny
lumber-jack from the North, Jim Henderson by name, who had been
driven out of the camps for the same reason, and had appalling
stories to tell of the cruelties and hardships of the life of a
logger. There was a Swedish sailor by the name of Gus, who had
visited every port in the world, and a young Jewish cigar-worker who
had never been outside of American City, but had travelled even more
widely in his mind.

The sixth man was the strangest character of all to Peter; a shy,
dreamy fellow with eyes so full of pain and a face so altogether
mournful that it hurt to look at him. Duggan was his name, and he
was known in the movement as the "hobo poet." He wrote verses,
endless verses about the lives of society's outcasts; he would get
himself a pencil and paper and sit off in the corner of the cell by
the hour, and the rest of the fellows, respecting his work, would
talk in whispers so as not to disturb him. He wrote all the time
while the others slept, it seemed to Peter. He wrote verses about
the adventures of his fellow-prisoners, and presently he was writing
verses about the jailers, and about other prisoners in this part of
the jail. He would have moods of inspiration, and would make up
topical verses as he went along; then again he would sink back into
his despair, and say that life was hell, and making rhymes about it
was childishness.

There was no part of America that Tom Duggan hadn't visited, no
tragedy of the life of outcasts that he hadn't seen. He was so
saturated with it that he couldn't think of anything else. He would
tell about men who had perished of thirst in the desert, about
miners sealed up for weeks in an exploded mine, about matchmakers
poisoned until their teeth fell out, and their finger nails and even
their eyes. Peter could see no excuse for such morbidness, such
endless harping upon the horrible things of life. It spoiled all his
happiness in the jail--it was worse than little Jennie's talking
about the war!






Section 33





One of Duggan's poems had to do with a poor devil named Slim, who
was a "snow-eater," that is to say, a cocaine victim. This Slim
wandered about the streets of New York in the winter-time without
any shelter, and would get into an office building late in the
afternoon, and hide in one of the lavatories to spend the night. If
he lay down, he would be seen and thrown out, so his only chance was
to sit up; but when he fell asleep, he would fall off the
seat--therefore he carried a rope in his pocket, and would tie
himself in a sitting position.

Now what was the use of a story like that? Peter didn't want to hear
about such people! He wanted to express his disgust; but he knew, of
course, that he must hide it. He laughed as he exclaimed, "Christ
Almighty, Duggan, can't you give us something with a smile? You
don't think it's the job of Socialists to find a cure for the dope
habit, do you? That's sure one thing that ain't caused by the profit
system."

Duggan smiled his bitterest smile. "If there's any misery in the
world today that ain't kept alive by the profit system, I'd like to
see it! D'you think dope sells itself? If there wasn't a profit in
it, would it be sold to any one but doctors? Where'd you get your
Socialism, anyhow?"

So Peter beat a hasty retreat. "Oh, sure, I know all that. But here
you're shut up in jail because you want to change things. Ain't you
got a right to give yourself a rest while you're in?"

The poet looked at him, as solemn as an owl. He shook his head.
"No," he said. "Just because we're fixed up nice and comfortable in
jail, have we got the right to forget the misery of those outside?"

The others laughed; but Duggan did not mean to be funny at all. He
rose slowly to his feet and with his arms outstretched, in the
manner of one offering himself as a sacrifice, he proclaimed:

"While there is a lower class, I am in it.

"While there is a criminal element, I am of it.

"While there is a soul in jail, I am not free."

Then he sat down and buried his face in his hands. The group of
rough fellows sat in solemn silence. Presently Gus, the Swedish
sailor, feeling perhaps that the rebuke to Peter had been too
severe, spoke timidly: "Comrade Gudge, he ban in jail twice
already."

So the poet looked up again. He held out his hand to Peter. "Sure, I
know that!" he said, clasping Peter in the grip of comradeship. And
then he added: "I'll tell you a story with a smile!"

Once upon a time, it appeared, Duggan had been working in a moving
picture studio, where they needed tramps and outcasts and all sorts
of people for crowds. They had been making a "Preparedness" picture,
and wanted to show the agitators and trouble-makers, mobbing the
palace of a banker. They got two hundred bums and hoboes, and took
them in trucks to the palace of a real banker, and on the front lawn
the director made a speech to the crowd, explaining his ideas.
"Now," said he, "remember, the guy that owns this house is the guy
that's got all the wealth that you fellows have produced. You are
down and out, and you know that he's robbed you, so you hate him.
You gather on his lawn and you're going to mob his home; if you can
get hold of him, you're going to tear him to bits for what he's done
to you." So the director went on, until finally Duggan interrupted:
"Say, boss, you don't have to teach us. This is a real palace, and
we're real bums!"

Apparently the others saw the "smile" in this story, for they
chuckled for some time over it. But it only added to Peter's hatred
of these Reds; it made him realize more than ever that they were a
bunch of "sore heads," they were green and yellow with jealousy.
Everybody that had succeeded in the world they hated--just because
they had succeeded! Well, _they_ would never succeed; they could go
on forever with their grouching, but the mass of the workers in
America had a normal attitude toward the big man, who could do
things. They did not want to wreck his palace; they admired him for
having it, and they followed his leadership gladly.

It seemed as if Henderson, the lumber-jack, had read Peter's
thought. "My God!" he said. "What a job it is to make the workers
class-conscious!" He sat on the edge of his cot, with his broad
shoulders bowed and his heavy brows knit in thought over the problem
of how to increase the world's discontent. He told of one camp where
he had worked--so hard and dangerous was the toil that seven men had
given up their lives in the course of one winter. The man who owned
this tract, and was exploiting it, had gotten the land by the
rankest kind of public frauds; there were filthy bunk-houses,
vermin, rotten food, poor wages and incessant abuse. And yet, in the
spring-time, here came the young son of this owner, on a honeymoon
trip with his bride. "And Jesus," said Henderson, "if you could have
seen those stiffs turn out and cheer to split their throats! They
really meant it, you know; they just loved that pair of idle,
good-for-nothing kids!"

Gus, the sailor, spoke up, his broad, good-natured face wearing a
grin which showed where three of his front teeth had been knocked
out with a belaying pin. It was exactly the same with the seamen, he
declared. They never saw the ship-owners, they didn't know even the
names of the people who were getting the profit of their toil, but
they had a crazy loyalty to their ship, Some old tanker would be
sent out to sea on purpose to be sunk, so that the owners might get
the insurance. But the poor A. Bs. would love that old tub so that
they would go down to the bottom with her--or perhaps they would
save her, to the owners great disgust!

Thus, for hours on end, Peter had to sit listening to this ding
donging about the wrongs of the poor and the crimes of the rich.
Here he had been sentenced for fifteen days and nights to listen to
Socialist wrangles! Every one of these fellows had a different idea
of how he wanted the world to be run, and every one had a different
idea of how to bring about the change. Life was an endless struggle
between the haves and the have-nots, and the question of how the
have-nots were to turn out the haves was called "tactics." When you
talked about "tactics" you used long technical terms which made your
conversation unintelligible to a plain, ordinary mortal. It seemed
to Peter that every time he fell asleep it was to the music of
proletariat and surplus value and unearned increment, possibilism
and impossibilism, political action, direct action, mass action, and
the perpetual circle of Syndicalist-Anarchist, Anarchist-Communist,
Communist-Socialist and Socialist-Syndicalist.






Section 34





In company such as this Peter's education for the role of detective
was completed by force, as it were. He listened to everything, and
while he did not dare make any notes, he stored away treasures in
his mind, and when he came out of the jail he was able to give
McGivney a pretty complete picture of the various radical
organizations in American City, and the attitude of each one toward
the war.

Peter found that McGivney's device had worked perfectly. Peter was
now a martyr and a hero; his position as one of the "left wingers"
was definitely established, and anyone who ventured to say a word
against him would be indignantly rebuked. As a matter of fact, no
one desired to say much. Pat McCormick, Peter's enemy, was out on an
organizing trip among the oil workers.

Duggan had apparently taken a fancy to Peter, and took him to meet
some of his friends, who lived in an old, deserted warehouse, which
happened to have skylights in the roof; this constituted each room a
"studio," and various radicals rented the rooms, and lived here a
sort of picnic existence which Peter learned was called "Bohemian."
They were young people, most of them, with one or two old fellows,
derelicts; they wore flannel shirts, and soft ties, or no ties at
all, and their fingers were always smeared with paint. Their life
requirements were simple; all they wanted was an unlimited quantity
of canvas and paint, some cigarettes, and at long intervals a pickle
or some sauer-kraut and a bottle of beer. They would sit all day in
front of an easel, painting the most inconceivable pictures--pink
skies and green-faced women and purple grass and fantastic splurges
of color which they would call anything from "The Woman with a
Mustard Pot" to "A Nude Coming Downstairs." And there would be
others, like Duggan, writing verses all day; pounding away on a
typewriter, if they could manage to rent or borrow one. There were
several who sang, and one who played the flute and caused all the
others to tear their hair. There was a boy fresh from the country,
who declared that he had run away from home because the family sang
hymns all day Sunday, and never sang in tune.

From people such as these you would hear the most revolutionary
utterances; but Peter soon realized that it was mostly just talk
with them. They would work off their frenzies with a few dashes of
paint or some ferocious chords on the piano. The really dangerous
ones were not here; they were hidden away in offices or dens of
their own, where they were prompting strikes and labor agitations,
and preparing incendiary literature to be circulated among the poor.

You met such people in the Socialist local, and in the I. W. W.
headquarters, and in numerous clubs and propaganda societies which
Peter investigated, and to which he was welcomed as a member. In the
Socialist local there was a fierce struggle going on over the war.
What should be the attitude of the party? There was a group, a
comparatively small group, which believed that the interests of
Socialism would best be served by helping the Allies to the
overthrow of the Kaiser. There was another group, larger and still
more determined, which believed that the war was a conspiracy of
allied capitalism to rivet its power upon the world, and this group
wanted the party to stake its existence upon a struggle against
American participation. These two groups contested for the minds of
the rank and file of the members, who seemed to be bewildered by the
magnitude of the issue and the complexity of the arguments. Peter's
orders were to go with the extreme anti-militarists; they were the
ones whose confidence he wished to gain, also they were the
trouble-makers of the movement, and McGivney's instructions were to
make all the trouble possible.

Over at the I. W. W. headquarters was another group whose members
were debating their attitude to the war. Should they call strikes
and try to cripple the leading industries of the country? Or should
they go quietly on with their organization work, certain that in the
end the workers would sicken of the military adventure into which
they were being snared? Some of these "wobblies" were Socialist
party members also, and were active in both gatherings; two of them,
Henderson, the lumber-jack, and Gus Lindstrom, the sailor, had been
in jail with Peter, and had been among his intimates ever since.

Also Peter met the Pacifists; the "Peoples' Council," as they called
themselves. Many of these were religious people, two or three
clergymen, and Donald Gordon, the Quaker, and a varied assortment of
women--sentimental young girls who shrunk from the thought of
bloodshed, and mothers with tear-stained cheeks who did not want
their darlings to be drafted. Peter saw right away that these
mothers had no "conscientious objections." Each mother was thinking
about her own son and about nothing else. Peter was irritated at
this, and took it for his special job to see that those mother's
darlings did their duty.

He attended a gathering of Pacifists in the home of a
school-teacher. They made heart-breaking speeches, and finally
little Ada Ruth, the poetess, got up and wanted to know, was it all
to end in talk, or would they organize and prepare to take some
action against the draft? Would they not at least go out on the
street, get up a parade with banners of protest, and go to jail as
Comrade Peter Gudge had so nobly done?

Comrade Peter was called on for "a few words." Comrade Peter
explained that he was no speaker; after all, actions spoke louder
than words, and he had tried to show what he believed. The others
were made ashamed by this, and decided for a bold stand at once. Ada
Ruth became president and Donald Gordon secretary of the
"Anti-conscription League"--a list of whose charter members was
turned over to McGivney the same evening.






Section 35





All this time the country had been going to war. The huge military
machine was getting under way, the storm of public feeling was
rising. Congress had voted a huge loan, a country-wide machine of
propaganda was being organized, and the oratory of Four Minute Men
was echoing from Maine to California. Peter read the American City
"Times" every morning, and here were speeches of statesmen and
sermons of clergymen, here were cartoons and editorials, all burning
with the fervor's of patriotism. Peter absorbed these, and his soul
became transfigured. Hitherto Peter had been living for himself; but
there comes a time in the life of every man who can use his brain at
all when he realizes that he is not the one thing of importance in
the universe, the one end to be served. Peter very often suffered
from qualms of conscience, waves of doubt as to his own
righteousness. Peter, like every other soul that ever lived, needed
a religion, an ideal.

The Reds had a religion, as you might call it; but this religion had
failed to attract Peter. In the first place it was low; its devotees
were wholly lacking in the graces of life, in prestige, and that
ease which comes with assurance of power. They were noisy in their
fervors, and repelled Peter as much as the Holy Rollers. Also, they
were always harping upon the sordid and painful facts of life; who
but a pervert would listen to "sob stories," when he might have all
the things that are glorious and shining and splendid in the world?

But now here was the religion Peter wanted. These clergymen in their
robes of snow white linen, preaching in churches with golden altars
and stained-glass windows; these statesmen who wore the halo of
fame, and went about with the cheering of thousands in their ears;
these mighty captains of industry whose very names were magic--with
power, when written on pieces of paper, to cause cities to rise in
the desert, and then to fall again beneath a rain of shells and
poison gas; these editors and cartoonists of the American City
"Times," with all their wit and learning--these people all combined
to construct for Peter a religion and an ideal, and to hand it out
to him, ready-made and precisely fitted to his understanding. Peter
would go right on doing the things he had been doing before; but he
would no longer do them in the name of Peter Gudge, the ant, he
would do them in the name of a mighty nation of a hundred and ten
million people, with all its priceless memories of the past and its
infinite hopes for the future; he would do them in the sacred name
of patriotism, and the still more sacred name of democracy.
And--most convenient of circumstances--the big business men of
American City, who had established a secret service bureau with
Guffey in charge of it, would go right on putting up their funds,
and paying Peter fifty dollars a week and expenses while he served
the holy cause!

It was the fashion these days for orators and public men to vie with
one another in expressing the extremes of patriotism, and Peter
would read these phrases, and cherish them; they came to seem a part
of him, he felt as if he had invented them. He became greedy for
more and yet more of this soul-food; and there was always more to be
had--until Peter's soul was become swollen, puffed up as with a
bellows. Peter became a patriot of patriots, a super-patriot; Peter
was a red-blooded American and no mollycoddle; Peter was a
"he-American," a 100% American--and if there could have been such a
thing as a 101% American, Peter would have been that. Peter was so
much of an American that the very sight of a foreigner filled him
with a fighting impulse. As for the Reds--well, Peter groped for
quite a time before he finally came upon a formula which expressed
his feelings. It was a famous clergyman who achieved it for
him--saying that if he could have his way he would take all the
Reds, and put them in a ship of stone with sails of lead, and send
them forth with hell for their destination.

So Peter chafed more and more at his inability to get action. How
much more evidence did the secret service of the Traction Trust
require? Peter would ask this question of McGivney again and again,
and McGivney would answer: "Keep your shirt on. You're getting your
pay every week. What's the matter with you?"

"The matter is, I'm tired of listening to these fellows ranting,"
Peter would say. "I want to stop their mouths."

Yes, Peter had come to take it as a personal affront that these
radicals should go on denouncing the cause which Peter had espoused.
They all thought of Peter as a comrade, they were most friendly to
him; but Peter had the knowledge of how they would regard him when
they knew the real truth, and this imagined contempt burned him like
an acid. Sometimes there would be talk about spies and informers,
and then these people would exhaust their vocabulary of abuse, and
Peter, of course, would apply every word of it to himself and become
wild with anger. He would long to answer back; he was waiting for
the day when he might vindicate himself and his cause by smashing
these Reds in the mouth.






Section 36





"Well," said McGivney one day, "I've got something interesting for
you now. You're going into high society for a while!"

And the rat-faced man explained that there was a young man in a
neighboring city, reputed to be a multi-millionaire, who had written
a book against the war, and was the financial source of much
pacificism and sedition. "These people are spending lots of money
for printing," said McGivney, "and we hear this fellow Lackman is
putting it up. We've learned that he is to be in town tomorrow, and
we want you to find out all about his affairs."

So Peter was to meet a millionaire! Peter had never known one of
these fortunate beings, but he was for them--he had always been for
them. Ever since he had learned to read, he had liked to find
stories about them in the newspapers, with pictures of them and
their palaces. He had read these stories as a child reads fairy
tales. They were his creatures of dreams, belonging to a world above
reality, above pain and inconvenience.

And then in the days when Peter had been a servant in the Temple of
Jimjambo, devoted to the cult of Eleutherinian Exoticism, he had
found hanging in the main assembly room a picture labelled, "Mount
Olympus," showing a dozen gods and goddesses reclining at ease on
silken couches, sipping nectar from golden goblets and gazing down
upon the far-off troubles of the world. Peter would peer from behind
the curtains and see the Chief Magistrian emerging from behind the
seven mystic veils, lifting his rolling voice and in a kind of chant
expounding life to his flock of adoring society ladies. He would
point to the picture and explain those golden, Olympian days when
the Eleutherinian cult had originated. The world had changed much
since then, and for the worse; those who had power must take it as
their task to restore beauty and splendor to the world, and to
develop the gracious possibilities of being.

Peter, of course, hadn't really believed in anything that went on in
the Temple of Jimjambo; and yet he had been awed by its richness,
and by the undoubtedly exclusive character of its worshippers; he
had got the idea definitely fixed in his head that there really had
been a Mount Olympus, and when he tried to imagine the millionaires
and their ways, it was these gods and goddesses, reclining on silken
couches and sipping nectar, that came to his mind!

Now since Peter had come to know the Reds, who wanted to blow up the
palaces of the millionaires, he was more than ever on the side of
his gods and goddesses. His fervors for them increased every time he
heard them assailed; he wanted to meet some of them, and
passionately, yet respectfully, pour out to them his allegiance. A
glow of satisfaction came over him as he pictured himself in some
palace, lounging upon a silken conch and explaining to a millionaire
his understanding of the value of beauty and splendor in the world.

And now he was to meet one; it was to be a part of his job to
cultivate one! True, there was something wrong with this particular
millionaire--he was one of those freaks who for some reason beyond
imagining gave their sympathy to the dynamiters and assassins. Peter
had met "Parlor Reds" at the home of the Todd sisters; the large
shining ladies who came in large shining cars to hear him tell of
his jail experiences. But he hadn't been sure as to whether they
were really millionaires or not, and Sadie, when he had inquired
particularly, had answered vaguely that every one in the radical
movement who could afford an automobile or a dress-suit was called a
millionaire by the newspapers.

But young Lackman was a real millionaire, McGivney positively
assured him; and so Peter was free to admire him in spite of all his
freak ideas, which the rat-faced man explained with intense
amusement. Young Lackman conducted a school for boys, and when one
of the boys did wrong, the teacher would punish himself instead of
the boy! Peter must pretend to be interested in this kind of
"education," said McGivney, and he must learn at least the names of
Lackman's books.

"But will he pay any attention to me?" demanded Peter.

"Sure, he will," said McGivney. "That's the point--you've been in
jail, you've really done something as a pacifist. What you want to
do is to try to interest him in your Anti-conscription League. Tell
him you want to make it into a national organization, you want to
get something done besides talking."

The address of young Lackman was the Hotel de Soto; and as he heard
this, Peter's heart gave a leap. The Hotel de Soto was the Mount
Olympus of American City! Peter had walked by the vast white
structure, and seen the bronze doors swing outward, and the favored
ones of the earth emerging to their magic chariots; but never had it
occurred to him that he might pass thru those bronze doors, and gaze
upon those hidden mysteries!

"Will they let me in?" he asked McGivney, and the other laughed.
"Just walk in as if you owned the place," he said. "Hold up your
head, and pretend you've lived there all your life."

That was easy for McGivney to say, but not so easy for Peter to
imagine. However, he would try it; McGivney must be right, for it
was the same thing Mrs. James had impressed upon him many times. You
must watch what other people did, and practice by yourself, and then
go in and do it as if you had never done anything else. All life was
a gigantic bluff, and you encouraged yourself in your bluffing by
the certainty that everybody else was bluffing just as hard.

At seven o'clock that evening Peter strolled up to the magic bronze
doors, and touched them; and sure enough, the blue-uniformed
guardians drew them back without a word, and the tiny brass-button
imps never even glanced at Peter as he strode up to the desk and
asked for Mr. Lackman.

The haughty clerk passed him on to a still more haughty telephone
operator, who condescended to speak into her trumpet, and then
informed him that Mr. Lackman was out; he had left word that he
would return at eight. Peter was about to go out and wander about
the streets for an hour, when he suddenly remembered that everybody
else was bluffing; so he marched across the lobby and seated himself
in one of the huge leather arm-chairs, big enough to hold three of
him. There he sat, and continued to sit--and nobody said a word!






Section 37





Yes, this was Mount Olympus, and here were the gods: the female ones
in a state of divine semi-nudity, the male ones mostly clad in black
coats with pleated shirt-fronts puffing out. Every time one of them
moved up to the desk Peter would watch and wonder, was this Mr.
Lackman? He might have been able to pick out a millionaire from an
ordinary crowd; but here every male god was got up for the precise
purpose of looking like a millionaire, so Peter's job was an
impossible one.

In front of him across the lobby floor there arose a ten-foot pillar
to a far-distant roof. This pillar was of pale, green-streaked
marble, and Peter's eyes followed it to the top, where it exploded
in a snow-white cloud-burst, full of fascination. There were four
cornucopias, one at each corner, and out of each cornucopia came
tangled ropes of roses, and out of these roses came other ropes,
with what appeared to be apples and leaves, and still more roses,
and still more emerging ropes, spreading in a tangle over the
ceiling. Here and there, in the midst of all this splendor, was the
large, placidly smiling face of a boy angel; four of these placidly
smiling boy angels gazed from the four sides of the snow-white
cloud-burst, and Peter's eye roamed from one to another, fascinated
by the mathematics of this architectural marvel. There were fourteen
columns in a row, and four such rows in the lobby. That made
fifty-six columns in all, or two hundred and twenty-four boy angels'
heads. How many cornucopias and how many roses and how many apples
it meant, defied all calculation. The boy angels' heads were exactly
alike, every head with the same size and quality of smile; and Peter
marvelled--how many days would it take a sculptor to carve the
details of two hundred and twenty-four boy angel smiles?

All over the Hotel de Soto was this same kind of sumptuous
magnificence; and Peter experienced the mental effect which it was
contrived to produce upon him--a sense of bedazzlement and awe, a
realization that those who dwelt in the midst of this splendor were
people to whom money was nothing, who could pour out treasures in a
never-ceasing flood. And everything else about the place was of the
same character, contrived for the same effect--even the gods and the
goddesses! One would sweep by with a tiara of jewels in her hair;
you might amuse yourself by figuring out the number of the jewels,
as you had figured out the number of the boy angels' heads. Or you
might take her gown of black lace, embroidered with golden
butterflies, every one patiently done by hand; you might figure--so
many yards of material, and so many golden butterflies to the yard!
You might count the number of sparkling points upon her jet
slippers, or trace the intricate designs upon her almost transparent
stockings--only there was an inch or two of the stockings which you
could not see.

Peter watched these gorgeous divinities emerge from the elevators,
and sweep their way into the dining-room beyond. Some people might
have been shocked by their costumes; but to Peter, who had the
picture of Mount Olympus in mind, they seemed most proper. It all
depended on the point of view: whether you thought of a goddess as
fully clothed from chin to toes, and proceeded with a pair of shears
to cut away so much of her costume, or whether you imagined the
goddess in a state of nature, and proceeded to put veils of gauze
about her, and a ribbon over each shoulder to hold the veils in
place.

Twice Peter went to the desk, to inquire if Mr. Lackman had come in
yet; but still he had not come; and Peter--growing bolder, like the
fox who spoke to the lion--strolled about the lobby, gazing at the
groups of gods at ease. He had noticed a great balcony around all
four sides of this lobby, the "mezzanine floor," as it was called;
he decided he would see what was up there, and climbed the white
marble stairs, and beheld more rows of chairs and couches, done in
dark grey velvet. Here, evidently, was where the female gods came to
linger, and Peter seated himself as unobtrusively as possible, and
watched.

Directly in front of him sat a divinity, lolling on a velvet couch
with one bare white arm stretched out. It was a large stout arm, and
the possessor was large and stout, with pale golden hair and many
sparkling jewels. Her glance roamed lazily from place to place. It
rested for an instant on Peter, and then moved on, and Peter felt
the comment upon his own insignificance.

Nevertheless, he continued to steal glances now and then, and
presently saw an interesting sight. In her lap this Juno had a
gold-embroidered bag, and she opened it, disclosing a collection of
mysterious apparatus of which she proceeded to make use: first a
little gold hand-mirror, in which she studied her charms; then a
little white powder-puff with which she deftly tapped her nose and
cheeks; then some kind of red pencil with which she proceeded to rub
her lips; then a golden pencil with which she lightly touched her
eyebrows. Then it seemed as if she must have discovered a little
hair which had grown since she left her dressing-room. Peter
couldn't be sure, but she had a little pair of tweezers, and seemed
to pull something out of her chin. She went on with quite an
elaborate and complicated toilet, paying meantime not the slightest
attention to the people passing by.

Peter looked farther, and saw that just as when one person sneezes
or yawns everybody else in the room is irresistibly impelled to
sneeze or yawn, so all these Dianas and Junos and Hebes on the
"mezzanine floor" had suddenly remembered their little gold or
silver hand-mirrors, their powder-puffs and red or golden or black
pencils. One after another, the little vanity-bags came forth, and
Peter, gazing in wonder, thought that Mount Olympus had turned into
a beauty parlor.

Peter rose again and strolled and watched the goddesses, big and
little, old and young, fat and thin, pretty and ugly--and it seemed
to him the fatter and older and uglier they were, the more intently
they gazed into the little hand-mirrors. He watched them with hungry
eyes, for he knew that here he was in the midst of high life, the
real thing, the utmost glory to which man could ever hope to attain,
and he wanted to know all there was to know about it. He strolled
on, innocent and unsuspecting, and the two hundred and twenty-four
white boy angels in the ceiling smiled their bland and placid smiles
at him, and Peter knew no more than they what complications fate had
prepared for him on that mezzanine floor!

On one of the big lounges there sat a girl, a radiant creature from
the Emerald Isles, with hair like sunrise and cheeks like apples.
Peter took one glance at her, and his heart missed three successive
beats, and then, to make up for lost time, began leaping like a
runaway race-horse. He could hardly believe what his eyes told him;
but his eyes insisted, his eyes knew; yes, his eyes had gazed for
hours and hours on end upon that hair like sunrise and those cheeks
like apples. The girl was Nell, the chambermaid of the Temple of
Jimjambo!

She had not looked Peter's way, so there was time for him to start
back and hide himself behind a pillar; there he stood, peering out
and watching her profile, still arguing with his eyes. It couldn't
be Nell; and yet it was! Nell transfigured, Nell translated to
Olympus, turned into a goddess with a pale grey band about her
middle, and a pale grey ribbon over each shoulder to hold it in
place! Nell reclining at ease and chatting vivaciously to a young
man with the face of a bulldog and the dinner-jacket of a magazine
advertisement!

Peter gazed and waited, while his heart went on misbehaving. Peter
learned in those few fearful minutes what real love is, a most
devastating force. Little Jennie was forgotten, Mrs. James, the
grass widow was forgotten, and Peter knew that he had never really
admired but one woman in the world, and that was Nell, the Irish
chambermaid of the Temple of Jimjambo. The poets have seen fit to
represent young love as a mischievous little archer with a sharp and
penetrating arrow, and now Peter understood what they had meant;
that arrow had pierced him thru, and he had to hold on to the column
to keep himself from falling.






Section 38





Presently the couple rose and strolled away to the elevator, and
Peter followed. He did not dare get into the elevator with them, for
he had suddenly become accutely aware of the costume he was wearing
in his role of proletarian anti-militarist! But Peter was certain
that Nell and her escort were not going out of the building, for
they had no hats or wraps; so he went downstairs and hunted thru the
lobby and the dining-room, and then thru the basement, from which he
heard strains of music. Here was another vast room, got up in mystic
oriental fashion, with electric lights hidden in bunches of
imitation flowers on each table. This room was called the "grill,"
and part of it was bare for dancing, and on a little platform sat a
band playing music.

The strangest music that ever assailed human ears! If Peter had
heard it before seeing Nell, he would not have understood it, but
now its weird rhythms fitted exactly to the moods which were
tormenting him. This music would groan, it would rattle and squeak;
it would make noises like swiftly torn canvas, or like a steam siren
in a hurry. It would climb up to the heavens and come banging down
to hell. And every thing with queer, tormenting motions, gliding and
writhing, wriggling, jerking, jumping. Peter would never have known
what to make of such music, if he had not had it here made visible
before his eyes, in the behavior of the half-naked goddesses and the
black-coated gods on this dancing floor. These celestial ones came
sliding across the floor like skaters, they came writhing like
serpents, they came strutting like turkeys, jumping like rabbits,
stalking solemnly like giraffes. They came clamped in one another's
arms like bears trying to hug each other to death; they came
contorting themselves as if they were boa-constrictors trying to
swallow each other. And Peter, watching them and listening to their
music, made a curious discovery about himself. Deeply buried in
Peter's soul were the ghosts of all sorts of animals; Peter had once
been a boa-constrictor, Peter had once been a bear, Peter had once
been a rabbit and a giraffe, a turkey and a fox; and now under the
spell of this weird music these dead creatures came to life in his
soul. So Peter discovered the meaning of "jazz," in all its weirdly
named and incredible varieties.