Also Peter discovered that he had once been a caveman, and had hit
his rival over the head with a stone axe and carried off his girl by
the hair. All this he discovered while he stood in the doorway of
the Hotel de Soto grill, and watched Nell, the ex-chambermaid of the
Temple of Jimjambo, doing the turkey-trot and the fox-trot and the
grizzly-bear and the bunny-hug in the arms of a young man with the
face of a bulldog.

Peter stood for a long while in a daze. Nell and the young man sat
down at one of the tables to have a meal, but still Peter stood
watching and trying to figure out what to do. He knew that he must
not speak to her in his present costume; there would be no way to
make her understand that he was only playing a role--that he who
looked like a "dead one" was really a prosperous man of important
affairs, a 100% red-blooded patriot disguised as a proletarian
pacifist. No, he must wait, he must get into his best before he
spoke to her. But meantime, she might go away, and he might not be
able to find her again in this huge city!

After an hour or two he succeeded in figuring out a way, and hurried
upstairs to the writing-room and penned a note:

"Nell: This is your old friend Peter Gudge. I have struck it rich
and have important news for you. Be sure to send word to me. Peter."
To this he added his address, and sealed it in an envelope to "Miss
Nell Doolin."

Then he went out into the lobby, and signalled to one of the
brass-button imps who went about the place calling names in shrill
sing-song; he got this youngster off in a corner and pressed a
dollar bill into his hand. There was a young lady in the grill who
was to have this note at once. It was very important. Would the
brass-button imp do it?

The imp said sure, and Peter stood in the doorway and watched him
walk back and forth thru the aisles of the grill, calling in his
shrill sing-song, "Miss Nell Doolin! Miss Nell Doolin!" He walked
right by the table where Nell sat eating; he sang right into her
face, it seemed to Peter; but she never gave a sign.

Peter did not know what to make of it, but he was bound to get that
note to Nell. So when the imp returned, he pointed her out, and the
imp went again and handed the note to her. Peter saw her take
it--then he darted away; and remembering suddenly that he was
supposed to be on duty, be rushed back to the office and inquired
for Mr. Lackman. To his horror he learned that Mr. Lackman had
returned, paid his bill, and departed with his suitcase to a
destination unknown!






Section 39





Peter had a midnight appointment with McGivney, and now had to go
and admit this humiliating failure. He had done his best, he
declared; he had inquired at the desk, and waited and waited, but
the hotel people had failed to notify him of Lackman's arrival. All
this was strictly true; but it did not pacify McGivney, who was in a
black fury. "It might have been worth thousands of dollars to you!"
he declared. "He's the biggest fish we'll ever get on our hook."

"Won't he come again?" asked grief-stricken Peter.

"No," declared the other. "They'll get him at his home city."

"But won't that do?" asked Peter, naively.

"You damned fool!" was McGivney's response. "We wanted to get him
here, where we could pluck him ourselves."

The rat-faced man hadn't intended to tell Peter so much, but in his
rage he let it out. He and a couple of his friends had planned to
"get something" on this young millionaire, and scare the wits out of
him, with the idea that he would put up a good many thousand dollars
to be let off. Peter might have had his share of this--only he had
been fool enough to let the bird get out of his net!

Peter offered to follow the young man to his home city, and find
some way to lure him back into McGivney's power. After McGivney had
stormed for a while, he decided that this might be possible. He
would talk it over with the others, and let Peter know. But alas,
when Peter picked up an afternoon newspaper next day, he read on the
front page how young Lackman, stepping off the train in his home
city that morning, had been placed under arrest; his school had been
raided, and half a dozen of the teachers were in jail, and a ton of
Red literature had been confiscated, and a swarm of dire
conspiracies against the safety of the country had been laid bare!

Peter read this news, and knew that he was in for another stormy
hour with his boss. But he hardly gave a thought to it, because of
something which had happened a few minutes before, something of so
much greater importance. A messenger had brought him a special
delivery letter, and with thumping heart he had torn it open and
read:

"All right. Meet me in the waiting-room of Guggenheim's Department
Store at two o'clock this afternoon. But for God's sake forget Nell
Doolin. Yours, Edythe Eustace."

So here was Peter dressed in his best clothes, as for his temporary
honeymoon with the grass widow, and on the way to the rendezvous an
hour ahead of time. And here came Nell, also dressed, every garment
so contrived that a single glance would tell the beholder that their
owner was moving in the highest circles, and regardless of expense.
Nell glanced over her shoulder now and then as she talked, and
explained that Ted Crothers, the man with the bulldog face, was a
terror, and it was hard to get away from him, because he had nothing
to do all day.

The waiting-room of a big department-store was not the place Peter
would have selected for the pouring out of his heart; but he had to
make the best of it, so he told Nell that he loved her, that he
would never be able to love anybody else, and that he had made piles
of money now, he was high up on the ladder of prosperity. Nell did
not laugh at him, as she had laughed in the Temple of Jimjambo, for
it was easily to be seen that Peter Gudge was no longer a scullion,
but a man of the world with a fascinating air of mystery. Nell
wanted to know forthwith what was he doing; he answered that he
could not tell, it was a secret of the most desperate import; he was
under oath. These were the days of German spies and bomb-plots, when
kings and kaisers and emperors and tsars were pouring treasures into
America for all kinds of melodramatic purposes; also the days of
government contracts and secret deals, when in the lobbies and
private meeting-places of hotels like the de Soto there were
fortunes made and unmade every hour. So it was easy for Nell to
believe in a real secret, and being a woman, she put all her
faculties upon the job of guessing it.

She did not again ask Peter to tell her; but she let him talk, and
tactfully guided the conversation, and before long she knew that
Peter was intimate with a great many of the most desperate Reds, and
likewise that he knew all about the insides of the Goober case, and
about the great men of American City who had put up a million
dollars for the purpose of hanging Goober, and about the various
ways in which this money had been spent and wires had been pulled to
secure a conviction. Nell put two and two together, and before long
she figured out that the total was four; she suddenly confronted
Peter with this total, and Peter was dumb with consternation, and
broke down and confessed everything, and told Nell all about his
schemes and his achievements and his adventures--omitting only
little Jennie and the grass widow.

He told about the sums he had been making and was expecting to make;
he told about Lackman, and showed Nell the newspaper with pictures
of the young millionaire and his school. "What a handsome fellow!"
said Nell. "It's a shame!"

"How do you mean?" asked Peter, a little puzzled. Could it be that
Nell had any sympathy for these Reds?

"I mean," she answered, "that he'd have been worth more to you than
all the rest put together."

Nell was a woman, and her mind ran to the, practical aspect of
things. "Look here, Peter," she said, "you've been letting those
`dicks' work you. They're getting the swag, and just giving you
tips. What you need is somebody to take care of you."

Peter's heart leaped. "Will you do it?" he cried.

"I've got Ted on my hands," said the girl. "He'd cut my throat, and
yours too, if he knew I was here. But I'll try to get myself free,
and then maybe--I won't promise, but I'll think over your problem,
Peter, and I'll certainly try to help, so that McGivney and Guffey
and those fellows can't play you for a sucker any longer."

She must have time to think it over, she said, and to make inquiries
about the people involved--some of whom apparently she knew. She
would meet Peter again the next day, and in a more private place
than here. She named a spot in the city park which would be easy to
find, and yet sufficiently remote for a quiet conference.






Section 40





Peter had been made so bold by Nell's flattery and what she had said
about his importance, that he did not go back to McGivney to take
his second scolding about the Lackman case. He was getting tired of
McGivney's scoldings; if McGivney didn't like his work, let McGivney
go and be a Red for a while himself. Peter walked the streets all
day and a part of the night, thinking about Nell, and thrilling over
the half promises she had made him.

They met next day in the park. No one was following them, and they
found a solitary place, and Nell let him kiss her several times, and
in between the kisses she unfolded to him a terrifying plan. Peter
had thought that he was something of an intriguer, but his
self-esteem shriveled to nothingness in the presence of the superb
conception which had come to ripeness in the space of twenty-four
hours in the brain of Nell Doolin, alias Edythe Eustace.

Peter had been doing the hard work, and these big fellows had been
using him, handing him a tip now and then, and making fortunes out
of the information he brought them. McGivney had let the cat out of
the bag in this case of Lackman; you might be sure they had been
making money, big money, out of all the other cases. What Peter must
do was to work up something of his own, and get the real money, and
make himself one of the big fellows. Peter had the facts, he knew
the people; he had watched in the Goober case exactly how a
"frame-up" was made, and now he must make one for himself, and one
that would pay. It was a matter of duty to rid the country of all
these Reds; but why should he not have the money as well?

Nell had spent the night figuring over it, trying to pick out the
right person. She had hit on old "Nelse" Ackerman, the banker.
Ackerman was enormously and incredibly wealthy; he was called the
financial king of American City. Also he was old, and Nell happened
to know he was a coward; he was sick in bed just now, and when a man
is sick he is still more of a coward. What Peter must do was to
discover some kind of a bomb-plot against old "Nelse" Ackerman.
Peter might talk up the idea among some of his Reds and get them
interested in it, or he might frame up some letters to be found upon
them, and hide some dynamite in their rooms. When the plot was
discovered, it would make a frightful uproar, needless to say; the
king would hear of it, and of Peter's part as the discoverer of it,
and he would unquestionably reward Peter. Perhaps Peter might
arrange to be retained as a secret agent to protect the king from
the Reds. Thus Peter would be in touch with real money, and might
hire Guffey and McGivney, instead of their hiring him.

If Peter had stood alone, would he have dared so perilous a dream as
this? Or was he a "piker"; a little fellow, the victim of his own
fears and vanities? Anyhow, Peter was not alone; he had Nell, and it
was necessary that he should pose before Nell as a bold and
desperate blade. Just as in the old days in the Temple, it was
necessary that Peter should get plenty of money, in order to take
Nell away from another man. So he said all right, he would go in on
that plan; and proceeded to discuss with Nell the various
personalities he might use.

The most likely was Pat McCormick. "Mac," with his grim, set face
and his silent, secretive habits, fitted perfectly to Peter's
conception of a dynamiter. Also "Mac" was Peter's personal enemy;
"Mac" had just returned from his organizing trip in the oil fields,
and had been denouncing Peter and gossiping about him in the various
radical groups. "Mac" was the most dangerous Red of them all! He
must surely be one of the dynamiters!

Another likely one was Joe Angell, whom Peter had met at a recent
gathering of Ada Ruth's "Anti-conscription League." People made
jokes about this chap's name because he looked the part, with his
bright blue eyes that seemed to have come out of heaven, and his
bright golden hair, and even the memory of dimples in his cheeks.
But when Joe opened his lips, you discovered that he was an angel
from the nether regions. He was the boldest and most defiant of all
the Reds that Peter had yet come upon. He had laughed at Ada Ruth
and her sentimental literary attitude toward the subject of the
draft. It wasn't writing poems and passing resolutions that was
wanted; it wasn't even men who would refuse to put on the uniform,
but men who would take the guns that were offered to them, and drill
themselves, and at the proper time face about and use the guns in
the other direction. Agitating and organizing were all right in
their place, but now, when the government dared challenge the
workers and force them into the army, it was men of action that were
needed in the radical movement.

Joe Angell had been up in the lumber country, and could tell what
was the mood of the real workers, the "huskies" of the timberlands.
Those fellows weren't doing any more talking; they had their secret
committees that were ready to take charge of things as soon as they
had put the capitalists and their governments out of business.
Meantime, if there was a sheriff or prosecuting attorney that got
too gay, they would "bump him off." This was a favorite phrase of
"Blue-eyed Angell." He would use it every half hour or so as he told
about his adventures. "Yes," he would say; "he got gay, but we
bumped him off all right."






Section 41





So Nell and Peter settled down to work out the details of their
"frame-up" on Joe Angell and Pat McCormick. Peter must get a bunch
of them together and get them to talking about bombs and killing
people; and then he must slip a note into the pockets of all who
showed interest, calling them to meet for a real conspiracy. Nell
would write the notes, so that no one could fasten the job onto
Peter. She pulled out a pencil and a little pad from her handbag,
and began: "If you really believe in a bold stroke for the workers'
rights, meet me--" And then she stopped. "Where?"

"In the studios," put in Peter.

And Nell wrote, "In the studios. Is that enough?"

"Room 17." Peter knew that this was the room of Nikitin, a Russian
painter who called himself an Anarchist.

So Nell wrote "Room 17," and after further discussion she added:
"Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock. No names and no talk. Action!"
This time was set because Peter recollected that there was to be a
gathering of the "wobblies" in their headquarters this very evening.
It was to be a business meeting, but of course these fellows never
got together very long without starting the subject of "tactics."
There was a considerable element among them who were dissatisfied
with what they called the "supine attitude" of the organization, and
were always arguing for action. Peter was sure he would be able to
get some of them interested in the idea of a dynamite conspiracy.

As it turned out, Peter had no trouble at all; the subject was
started without his having to put in a word. Were the workers to be
driven like sheep to the slaughter, and the "wobblies" not to make
one move? So asked the "Blue-eyed Angell," vehemently, and added
that if they were going to move, American City was as good a place
as any. He had talked with enough of the rank and file to realize
that they were ready for action; all they needed was a battle-cry
and an organization to guide them.

Henderson, the big lumber-jack, spoke up. That was just the trouble;
you couldn't get an organization for such a purpose. The authorities
would get spies among you, they would find out what you were doing,
and drive you underground.

"Well," cried Joe, "we'll go underground!"

"Yes," agreed the other, "but then your organization goes bust.
Nobody knows who to trust, everybody's accusing the rest of being a
spy."

"Hell!" said Joe Angell. "I've been in jail for the movement, I'll
take my chances of anybody's calling me a spy. What I'm not going to
do is to sit down and see the workers driven to hell, because I'm so
damn careful about my precious organization."

When others objected, Angell rushed on still more vehemently.
Suppose they did fail in a mass-uprising, suppose they were driven
to assassination and terrorism? At least they would teach the
exploiters a lesson, and take a little of the joy out of their
lives.

Peter thought it would be a good idea for him to pose as a
conservative just now. "Do you really think the capitalists would
give up from fear?" he asked.

And the other answered: "You bet I do! I tell you if we'd made it
understood that every congressman who voted this country into war
would be sent to the front trenches, our country would still be at
peace."

"But," put in Peter, deftly, "it ain't the congressmen. It's people
higher up than them."

"You bet," put in Gus, the Swedish sailor. "You bet you! I name you
one dozen big fellows in dis country--you make it clear if we don't
get peace dey all get killed--we get peace all right!"

So Peter had things where he wanted them. "Who are those fellows?"
he asked, and got the crowd arguing over names. Of course they
didn't argue very long before somebody mentioned "Nelse" Ackerman,
who was venomously hated by the Reds because he had put up a hundred
thousand dollars of the Anti-Goober fund. Peter pretended not to
know about Nelse; and Jerry Rudd, a "blanket-stiff" whose head was
still sore from being cracked open in a recent harvesters' strike,
remarked that by Jesus, if they'd put a few fellows like that in the
trenches, there'd be some pacifists in Ameriky sure enough all
right.


It seemed almost as if Joe Angell had come there to back up Peter's
purpose. "What we want," said he, "is a few fellows to fight as hard
for themselves as they fight for the capitalists."

"Yes," assented Henderson, grimly. "We're all so good--we wait till
our masters tell us we can kill."

That was the end of the discussion; but it seemed quite enough to
Peter. He watched his chance, and one by one he managed to slip his
little notes into the coat-pockets of Joe Angell, Jerry Rudd,
Henderson, and Gus, the sailor. And then Peter made his escape,
trembling with excitement. The great dynamite conspiracy was on!
"They must be got rid of!" he was whispering to himself. "They must
be got rid of by any means! It's my duty I'm doing."






Section 42





Peter had an appointment to meet Nell on a street corner at eleven
o'clock that same night, and when she stepped off the street-car,
Peter saw that she was carrying a suit-case. "Did you get your job
done?" she asked quickly, and when Peter answered in the
affirmative, she added: "Here's your bomb!"

Peter's jaw fell. He looked so frightened that she hastened to
reassure him. It wouldn't go off; it was only the makings of a bomb,
three sticks of dynamite and some fuses and part of a clock. The
dynamite was wrapped carefully, and there was no chance of its
exploding--if he didn't drop it! But Peter wasn't much consoled. He
had had no idea that Nell would go so far, or that he would actually
have to handle dynamite. He wondered where and how she had got it,
and wished to God he was out of this thing.

But it was too late now, of course. Said Nell: "You've got to get
this suit-case into the headquarters, and you've got to get it there
without anybody seeing you. They'll be shut up pretty soon, won't
they?"

"We locked up when we left," said Peter.

"And who has the key?"

"Grady, the secretary."

"There's no way you can get it?"

"I can get into the room," said Peter, quickly. "There's a fire
escape, and the window isn't tight. Some of us that know about it
have got in that way when the place was locked."

"All right," said Nell. "We'll wait a bit; we mustn't take chances
of anyone coming back."

They started to stroll along the street, Nell still carrying the
suit-case, as if distrusting the state of Peter's nerves, Meantime
she explained, "I've got two pieces of paper that we've got to plant
in the room. One's to be torn up and thrown into the trash-basket.
It's supposed to be part of a letter about some big plan that's to
be pulled off, and it's signed `Mac.' That's for McCormick, of
course. I had to type it, not having any sample of his handwriting.
The other piece is a drawing; there's no marks to show what it is,
but of course the police'll soon find out. It's a plan of old
Ackerman's home, and there's a cross mark showing his
sleeping-porch. Now, what we want to do is to fix this on McCormick.
Is there anything in the room that belongs to him?"

Peter thought, and at last remembered that in the bookshelves were
some books which had been donated by McCormick, and which had his
name written in. That was the trick! exclaimed Nell. They would hide
the paper in one of these books, and when the police made a thorough
search they would find it. Nell asked what was in these books, and
Peter thought, and remembered that one was a book on sabotage. "Put
the paper in that," said Nell. "When the police find it, the
newspapers'll print the whole book."

Peter's knees were trembling so that he could hardly walk, but he
kept reminding himself that he was a "he-man," a 100% American, and
that in these times of war every patriot must do his part. His part
was to help rid the country of these Reds, and he must not flinch.
They made their way to the old building in which the I. W. W.
headquarters were located, and Peter climbed up on the fence and
swung over to the fire-escape, and Nell very carefully handed the
suit-case to him, and Peter opened the damaged window and slipped
into the room.

He knew just where the cupboard was, and quickly stored the
suit-case in the corner, and piled some odds and ends of stuff in
front of it, and threw an old piece of canvas over it. He took out
of his right-hand pocket a typewritten letter, and tore it into
small pieces and threw them into the trash-basket. Then he took out
of his left-hand pocket the other paper, with the drawing of
Ackerman's house. He went to the bookcase and with shaking fingers
struck a match, picked out the little redbound book entitled
"Sabotage," and stuck the paper inside, and put the book back in
place. Then he climbed out on the fire-escape and dropped to the
ground, jumped over the fence, and hurried down the alley to where
Nell was waiting for him.

"It's for my country!" he was whispering to himself.






Section 43





The job was now complete, except for getting McCormick to the
rendezvous next morning. Nell had prepared and would mail in the
postoffice a special delivery letter addressed to McCormick's home.
This would be delivered about seven o'clock in the morning, and
inside was a typewritten note, as follows:

"Mac: Come to Room 17 of the studios at eight in the morning. Very
important. Our plan is all ready, my part is done. Joe."

Nell figured that McCormick would take this to be a message from
Angell. He wouldn't know what it was about, but he'd be all the more
certain to come and find out. The essential thing was that the raid
by the detectives must occur the very minute the conspirators got
together, for as soon as they compared notes they would become
suspicious, and might scatter at once. McGivney must have his men
ready; he must be notified and have plenty of time to get them
ready.

But there was a serious objection to this--if McGivney had time, he
would demand a talk with Peter, and Nell was sure that Peter
couldn't stand a cross-questioning at McGivney's hands. Peter,
needless to say, agreed with her; his heart threatened to collapse
at the thought of such an ordeal. What Peter really wanted to do was
to quit the whole thing right there and then; but he dared not say
so, he dared not face the withering scorn of his confederate. Peter
clenched his hands and set his teeth, and when he passed a street
light he turned his face away, so that Nell might not read the
humiliating terror written there. But Nell read it all the same;
Nell believed that she was dealing with a quivering, pasty-faced
coward, and proceeded on that basis; she worked out the plans, she
gave Peter his orders, and she stuck by him to see that he carried
them out.

Peter had McGivney's home telephone number, which he was only
supposed to use in the most desperate emergency. He was to use it
now, and tell McGivney that he had just caught some members of the
I. W. W., with Pat McCormick as their leader, preparing to blow up
some people with dynamite bombs. They had some bombs in a suit-case
in their headquarters, and were just starting out with other bombs
in their pockets. Peter must follow them, otherwise he would lose
them, and some crime might be committed before he could interfere.
McGivney must have his agents ready with automobiles to swoop down
upon any place that Peter indicated. Peter would follow up the
conspirators, and phone McGivney again at the first opportunity he
could find.

Nell was especially insistent that when Peter spoke to McGivney he
must have only a moment to spare, no time for questions, and he must
not stop to answer any. He must be in a state of trembling
excitement; and Peter was sure that would be very easy! He rehearsed
over to Nell every word he must say, and just how he was to cut
short the conversation and hang up the receiver. Then he went into
an all night drug-store just around the corner from the
headquarters, and from a telephone booth called McGivney's home.

It was an apartment house, and after some delay Peter heard the
voice of his employer, surly with sleep. But Peter waked him up
quickly. "Mr. McGivney, there's a dynamite plot!"

"_What_?"

"I. W. W. They've got bombs in a suit-case! They're starting off to
blow somebody up tonight."

"By God! What do you mean? Who?"

"I dunno yet. I only heard part of it, and I've got to go. They're
starting, I've got to follow them. I may lose them and it'll be too
late. You hear me, I've got to follow them!"

"I hear you. What do you want me to do?"

"I'll phone you again the first chance I get. You have your men
ready, a dozen of them! Have automobiles, so you can come quick. You
get me?"

"Yes, but--"

"I can't talk any more, I may lose them, I haven't a second! You be
at your phone, and have your men ready--everything ready. You get
me?"

"Yes, but listen, man! You sure you're not mistaken?"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure!" cried Peter, his voice mounting in excitement.
"They've got the dynamite, I tell you--everything! It's a man named
Nelse."

"Nelse what?"

"The man they're going to kill. I've got to go now, you get ready.
Good-bye!" And Peter hung up the receiver. He had got so excited
over the part he was playing that he sprang up and ran out of the
drug-store, as if he really had to catch up with some I. W. W.
conspirators carrying a dynamite bomb!

But there was Nell, and they strolled down the street again. They
came to a small park, and sat on one of the benches, because Peter's
legs would no longer hold him up. Nell walked about to make sure
there was no one on any of the other benches; then she came back and
rehearsed the next scene with Peter. They must go over it most
carefully, because before long the time was coming when Peter
wouldn't have Nell to coach him, and must be prepared to stand on
his own legs. Peter knew that, and his legs failed him. He wanted to
back down, and declare that he couldn't go ahead with it; he wanted
to go to McGivney and confess everything. Nell divined what was
going on in his soul, and wished to save him the humiliation of
having it known. She sat close to him on the bench, and put her hand
on his as she talked to him, and presently Peter felt a magic thrill
stealing over him. He ventured to put his arm about Nell, to get
still more of this delicious sensation; and Nell permitted the
embraces, for the first time she even encouraged them. Peter was a
hero now, he was undertaking a bold and desperate venture; he was
going to put it thru like a man, and win Nell's real admiration.
"Our country's at war!" she exclaimed. "And these devils are
stopping it!"

So pretty soon Peter was ready to face the whole world; Peter was
ready to go himself and blow up the king of American City with a
dynamite bomb! In that mood he stayed thru the small hours of the
morning, sitting on the bench clasping his girl in his arms, and
wishing she would give a little more time to heeding his
love-making, and less to making him recite his lessons.






Section 44





So the day began to break and the birds to sing. The sun rose on
Peter's face gray with exhaustion and the Irish apples in Nell's
cheeks badly faded. But the time for action had come, and Peter went
off to watch McCormick's home until seven o'clock, when the special
delivery letter was due to arrive.

It came on time, and Peter saw McCormick come out of the house and
set forth in the direction of the studios. It was too early for the
meeting, so Peter figured that he would stop to get his breakfast;
and sure enough "Mac" turned into, a little dairy lunch, and Peter
hastened to the nearest telephone and called his boss.

"Mr. McGivney," he said, "I lost those fellows last night, but now I
got them again. They decided not to do anything till today. They're
having a meeting this morning and we've a chance to nab them all."

"Where?" demanded McGivney.

"Room seventeen in the studios; but don't let any of your men go
near there, till I make sure the right fellows are in."

"Listen here, Peter Gudge!" cried McGivney. "Is this straight goods?"

"My God!" cried Peter. "What do you take me for? I tell you they've
got loads of dynamite."

"What have they done with it?"

"They've got some in their headquarters. About the rest I dunno.
They carried it off and I lost them last night. But then I found a
note in my pocket--they were inviting me to come in."

"By God!" exclaimed the rat-faced man.

"We've got the whole thing, I tell you! Have you got your men ready?"

"Yes."

"Well then, have them come to the corner of Seventh and Washington
Streets, and you come to Eighth and Washington. Meet me there just
as quick as you can."

"I get you," was the answer, and Peter hung up, and rushed off to
the appointed rendezvous. He was so nervous that he had to sit on
the steps of a building. As time passed and McGivney didn't appear,
wild imaginings began to torment him. Maybe McGivney hadn't
understood him correctly! Or maybe his automobile might break down!
Or his telephone might have got out of order at precisely the
critical moment! He and his men would arrive too late, they would
find the trap sprung, and the prey escaped.

Ten minutes passed, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes. At last an
automobile rushed up the street, and McGivney stepped out, and the
automobile sped on. Peter got McGivney's eye, and then stepped back
into the shelter of a doorway. McGivney followed. "Have you got
them?" he cried.

"I d-d-dunno!" chattered Peter. "They s-s-said they were c-coming at
eight!"

"Let me see that note!" commanded McGivney; so Peter pulled out one
of Nell's notes which he had saved for himself:

"If you really believe in a bold stroke for the workers' rights,
meet me in the studios, Room 17, tomorrow morning at eight o'clock.
No names and no talk. Action!"

"You found that in your pocket?" demanded the other.

"Y-yes, sir."

"And you've no idea who put it there."

"N-no, but I think Joe Angell--"

McGivney looked at his watch. "You've got twenty minutes yet," be
said.

"You got the dicks?" asked Peter.

"A dozen of them. What's your idea now?"

Peter stammered out his suggestions. There was a little grocery
store just across the street from the entrance to the studio
building. Peter would go in there, and pretend to get something to
eat, and would watch thru the window, and the moment he saw the
right men come in, he would hurry out and signal to McGivney, who
would be in a drugstore at the next corner. McGivney must keep out
of sight himself, because the "Reds" knew him as one of Guffey's
agents.

It wasn't necessary to repeat anything twice. McGivney was keyed up
and ready for business, and Peter hurried down the street, and
stepped into the little grocery store without being observed by
anyone. He ordered some crackers and cheese, and seated himself on a
box by the window and pretended to eat. But his hands were trembling
so that he could hardly get the food into his mouth; and this was
just as well, because his mouth was dry with fright, and crackers
and cheese are articles of diet not adapted to such a condition.

He kept his eyes glued on the dingy doorway of the old studio
building, and presently--hurrah!--he saw McCormick coming down the
street! The Irish boy turned into the building, and a couple of
minutes later came Gus the sailor, and before another five minutes
had passed here came Joe Angell and Henderson. They were walking
quickly, absorbed in conversation, and Peter could imagine he heard
them talking about those mysterious notes, and who could be the
writer, and what the devil could they mean?

Peter was now wild with nervousness; he was afraid somebody in the
grocery store would notice him, and he made desperate efforts to eat
the crackers and cheese, and scattered the crumbs all over himself
and over the floor. Should he wait for Jerry Rudd, or should he take
those he had already? He had got up and started for the door, when
he saw the last of his victims coming down the street. Jerry was
walking slowly, and Peter couldn't wait until he got inside. A car
was passing, and Peter took the chance to slip out and bolt for the
drug store. Before he had got half way there McGivney had seen him,
and was on the run to the next corner.

Peter waited only long enough to see a couple of automobiles come
whirling down the street, packed solid with husky detectives. Then
he turned off and hurried down a side street. He managed to get a
couple of blocks away, and then his nerves gave way entirely, and he
sat down on the curbstone and began to cry--just the way little
Jennie had cried when he told her he couldn't marry her! People
stopped to stare at him, and one benevolent old gentleman came up
and tapped him on the shoulder and asked what was the trouble.
Peter, between his tear-stained fingers, gasped: "My m-m-mother
died!" And so they let him alone, and after a while he got up and
hurried off again.






Section 45





Peter was now in a state of utter funk. He knew that he would have
to face McGivney, and he just couldn't do it. All he wanted was
Nell; and Nell, knowing that he would want her, had agreed to be in
the park at half past eight. She had warned him not to talk to a
soul until he had talked to her. Meantime she had gone home and
renewed her Irish roses with French rouge, and restored her energy
with coffee and cigarettes, and now she was waiting for him, smiling
serenely, as fresh as any bird or flower in the park that summer
morning. She asked him in even tones how things had gone, and when
Peter began to stammer that he didn't think he could face McGivney,
she proceeded to build up his courage once more. She let him put his
arms about her, even there in broad daylight; she whispered to him
to get himself together, to be a man, and worthy of her.

What had he to be afraid of, anyway? They hadn't a single thing on
him, and there was no possible way they could get anything. His
hands were clean all the way thru, and all he had to do was to stick
it out; he must make up his mind in advance, that no matter what
happened, he would never break down, he would never vary from the
story he had rehearsed with her. She made him go over the story
again; how on the previous evening, at the gathering in the I. W. W.
headquarters, they had talked about killing Nelse Ackerman as a
means of bringing the war to an end. And after the talk he had heard
Joe Angell whisper to Jerry Rudd that he had the makings of a bomb
already; he had a suit-case full of dynamite stored there in the
closet, and he and Pat McCormick had been planning to pull off
something that very night. Peter had gone out, but had watched
outside, and had seen Angell, Henderson, Rudd and Gus come out.
Peter had noticed that Angell's pockets were stuffed, and had
assumed that they were going to do their dynamiting, so he had
phoned to McGivney from the drug-store. By this phoning he had
missed the crowd, and then he had been ashamed and afraid to tell
McGivney, and had spent the night wandering in the park. But early
in the morning he had found the note, and had understood that it
must have been slipped into his pocket, and that the conspirators
wanted him to come in on their scheme. That was all, except for
three or four sentences or fragments of sentences which Peter had
overheard between Joe Angell and Jerry Rudd. Nell made him learn
these sentences by heart, and she insisted that he must not under
any circumstances try to remember or be persuaded to remember
anything further.

At last Peter was adjudged ready for the ordeal, and went to Room
427 in the American House, and threw himself on the bed. He was so
exhausted that once or twice he dozed; but then he would think of
some new question that McGivney might ask him, and would start into
wakefulness. At last he heard a key turn, and started up. There
entered one of the detectives, a man named Hammett. "Hello, Gudge,"
said he. "The boss wants you to get arrested."

"Arrested!" exclaimed Peter. "Good Lord!" He had a sudden swift
vision of himself shut up in a cell with those Reds, and forced to
listen to "hard luck stories."

"Well," said Hammett, "we're arresting all the Reds, and if we skip
you, they'll be suspicious. You better go somewhere right away and
get caught."

Peter saw the wisdom of this, and after a little thought he chose
the home of Miriam Yankovitch. She was a real Red, and didn't like
him; but if he was arrested in her home, she would have to like him,
and it would tend to make him "solid" with the "left wingers." He
gave the address to Hammett, and added, "You better come as soon as
you can, because she may kick me out of the house."

"That's all right," replied the other, with a laugh. "Tell her the
police are after you, and ask her to hide you."

So Peter hurried over to the Jewish quarter of the city, and knocked
on a door in the top story of a tenement house. The door was opened
by a stout woman with her sleeves rolled up and her arms covered
with soap-suds. Yes, Miriam was in. She was out of a job just now,
said Mrs. Yankovitch. They had fired her because she talked
Socialism. Miriam entered the room, giving the unexpected visitor a
cold stare that said as plain as words: "Jennie Todd!"

But this changed at once when Peter told her that he had been to I.
W. W. headquarters and found the police in charge. They had made a
raid, and claimed to have discovered some kind of plot; fortunately
Peter had seen the crowd outside, and had got away. Miriam took him
into an inside room and asked him a hundred questions which he could
not answer. He knew nothing, except that he had been to a meeting at
headquarters the night before, and this morning he had gone there to
get a book, and had seen the crowd and run.

Half an hour later came a bang on the door, and Peter dived under
the bed. The door was burst open, and he heard angry voices
commanding, and vehement protests from Miriam and her mother. To
judge from the sounds, the men began throwing the furniture this way
and that; suddenly a hand came under the bed, and Peter was grabbed
by the ankle, and hauled forth to confront four policemen in
uniform.

It was an awkward situation, because apparently these policemen
hadn't been told that Peter was a spy; the boobs thought they were
getting a real dynamiter! One grabbed each of Peter's wrists, and
another kept him and Miriam covered with a revolver, while the
fourth proceeded to go thru his pockets, looking for bombs. When
they didn't find any, they seemed vexed, and shook him and hustled
him about, and made clear they would be glad of some pretext to
batter in his head. Peter was careful not to give them such a
pretext; he was frightened and humble, and kept declaring that he
didn't know anything, he hadn't done any harm.

"We'll see about that, young fellow!" said the officer, as he
snapped the handcuffs on Peter's wrists. Then, while one of them
remained on guard with the revolver, the other three proceeded to
ransack the place, pulling out the bureau-drawers and kicking the
contents this way and that, grabbing every scrap of writing they
could find and jamming it into a couple of suit-cases. There were
books with red bindings and terrifying titles, but no bombs, and no
weapons more dangerous than a carving knife and Miriam's tongue. The
girl stood there with her black eyes flashing lightnings, and told
the police exactly what she thought of them. She didn't know what
had happened in the I. W. W. headquarters, but she knew that
whatever it was, it was a frame-up, and she dared them to arrest
her, and almost succeeded in her fierce purpose. However, the police
contented themselves with kicking over the washtub and its contents,
and took their departure, leaving Mrs. Yankovitch screaming in the
midst of a flood.






Section 46





They dragged Peter out thru a swarming tenement crowd, and clapped
him into an automobile, and whirled him away to police headquarters,
where they entered him in due form and put him in a cell. He was
uneasy right away, because he had failed to arrange with Hammett how
long he was to stay locked up. But barely an hour had passed before
a jailer came, and took him to a private room, where he found
himself confronted by McGivney and Hammett, also the Chief of Police
of the city, a deputy district attorney, and last but most important
of all--Guffey. It was the head detective of the Traction Trust who
took Peter in charge.

"Now, Gudge," said he, "what's this job you've been putting up on
us?"

It struck Peter like a blow in the face. His heart went down, his
jaw dropped, he stared like an idiot. Good God!

But he remembered Nell's last solemn words: "Stick it out, Peter;
stick it out!" So he cried: "What do you mean, Mr. Guffey?"

"Sit down in that chair there," said Guffey. "Now, tell us what you
know about this whole business. Begin at the beginning and tell us
everything--every word." So Peter began. He had been at a meeting at
the I. W. W. headquarters the previous evening. There had been a
long talk about the inactivity of the organization, and what could
be done to oppose the draft. Peter detailed the arguments, the
discussion of violence, of dynamite and killing, the mention of
Nelse Ackerman and the other capitalists who were to be put out of
the way. He embellished all this, and exaggerated it greatly--it
being the one place where Nell had said he could do no harm by
exaggerating.

Then he told how after the meeting had broken up he had noticed
several of the men whispering among themselves. By pretending to be
getting a book from the bookcase he had got close to Joe Angell and
Jerry Rudd; he had heard various words and fragments of sentences,
"dynamite," "suit-case in the cupboard," "Nelse," and so on. And
when the crowd went out he noticed that Angell's pockets were
bulging, and assumed that he had the bombs, and that they were going
to do the job. He rushed to the drug-store and phoned McGivney. It
took a long time to get McGivney, and when he had given his message
and run out again, the crowd was out of sight. Peter was in despair,
he was ashamed to confront McGivney, be wandered about the streets
for hours looking for the crowd. He spent the rest of the night in
the park. But then in the morning he discovered the piece of paper
in his pocket, and understood that somebody had slipped it to him,
intending to invite him to the conspiracy; so he had notified
McGivney, and that was all he knew.

McGivney began to cross-question him. He had heard Joe Angell
talking to Jerry Rudd; had he heard him talking to anybody else? Had
he heard any of the others talking? Just what had he heard Joe
Angell say? Peter must repeat every word all over. This time, as
instructed by Nell, he remembered one sentence more, and repeated
this sentence: "Mac put it in the `sab-cat.'" He saw the others
exchange glances. That's just what I heard," said Peter--"just those
words. I couldn't figure out what they meant?"

"Sab-cat?" said the Chief of Police, a burly figure with a brown
moustache and a quid of tobacco tucked in the corner of his mouth.
"That means `sabotage,' don't it?"

"Yes," said the rat-faced man.

"Do you know anything in the office that has to do with sabotage?"
demanded Guffey of Peter.

And Peter thought. "No, I don't," he said.

They talked among themselves for a minute or two. The Chief said
they had got all McCormick's things out of his room, and might find
some clue to the mystery in these. Guffey went to the telephone, and
gave a number with which Peter was familiar--that of I. W. W.
headquarters. "That you, Al?" he said. "We're trying to find if
there's something in those rooms that has to do with sabotage. Have
you found anything--any apparatus or pictures, or writing--anything?"
Evidently the answer was in the negative, for Guffey said: "Go
ahead, look farther; if you get anything, call me at the chief's
office quick. It may give us a lead."

Then Guffey hung up the receiver and turned to Peter. "Now Gudge,"
he said, "that's all your story, is it; that's all you got to tell
us?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well then, you might as well quit your fooling right away. We
understand that you framed this thing up, and we're not going to be
taken in."

Peter stared at Guffey, speechless; and Guffey, for his part, took a
couple of steps toward Peter, his brows gathering into a terrible
frown, and his fists clenched. In a wave of sickening horror Peter
remembered the scenes after the Preparedness Day explosion. Were
they going to put him thru that again?

"We'll have a show-down, Gudge, right here," the head detective
continued. "You tell us all this stuff about Angell--his talk with
Jerry Rudd, and his pockets stuffed with bombs and all the rest of
it--and he denies every word of it."

"But, m-m-my God! Mr. Guffey," gasped Peter. "Of _course_ he'll deny
it!" Peter could hardly believe his ears--that they were taking
seriously the denial of a dynamiter, and quoting it to him!

"Yes, Gudge," responded Guffey, "but you might as well know the
truth now as later--Angell is one of our men; we've had him planted
on these `wobblies' for the last year."

The bottom fell out of Peter's world; Peter went tumbling heels over
head--down, down into infinite abysses of horror and despair. Joe
Angell was a secret agent like himself! The Blue-eyed Angell, who
talked dynamite and assassination at a hundred radical gatherings,
who shocked the boldest revolutionists by his reckless
language--Angell a spy, and Peter had proceeded to plant a
"frame-up" on him!






Section 47





It was all up with Peter. He would go back into the hole! He would
be tortured for the balance of his days! In his ears rang the
shrieks of ten thousand lost souls and the clang of ten thousand
trumpets of doom; and yet, in the midst of all the noise and
confusion, Peter managed somehow to hear the voice of Nell,
whispering over and over again: "Stick it out, Peter; stick it out!"

He flung out his hands and started toward his accuser. "Mr. Guffey,
as God is my witness, I don't know a thing about it but what I've
told you. That's what happened, and if Joe Angell tells you anything
different he's lying."

"But why should he lie?"

"I don't know why; I don't know anything about it!"

Here was where Peter reaped the advantage of his lifelong training
as an intriguer. In the midst of all his fright and his despair,
Peter's subconscious mind was working, thinking of schemes. "Maybe
Angell was framing something up on you! Maybe he was fixing some
plan of his own, and I come along and spoiled it; I sprung it too
soon. But I tell you it's straight goods I've given you." And
Peter's very anguish gave him the vehemence to check Guffey's
certainty. As he rushed on, Peter could read in the eyes of the
detective that he wasn't really as sure as he talked.

"Did you see that suit-case?" he demanded.

"No, I didn't see no suit-case!" answered Peter. "I don't even know
if there was a suit-case. I only know I heard Joe Angell say
`suit-case,' and I heard him say `dynamite.'"

"Did you see anybody writing anything in the place?"

"No, I didn't," said Peter. "But I seen Henderson sitting at the
table working at some papers he had in his pocket, and I seen him
tear something up and throw it into the trash-basket." Peter saw the
others look at one another, and he knew that he was beginning to
make headway.

A moment later came a diversion that helped to save him. The
telephone rang, and the Chief of Police answered and nodded to
Guffey, who came and took the receiver. "A book?" he cried, with
excitement in his tone. "What sort of a plan? Well, tell one of your
men to take the car and bring that book and the plan here to the
chief's office as quick as he can move; don't lose a moment,
everything may depend on it."

And then Guffey turned to the others. "He says they found a book on
sabotage in the book-case, and in it there's some kind of a drawing
of a house. The book has McCormick's name in it."