The mass meeting was due for that evening, and Peter read an
indignant editorial in the American City "Times," calling upon the
authorities to suppress it. "Down with the Red Flag!" the editorial
was headed; and Peter couldn't see how any red-blooded, 100%
American could read it, and not be moved to do something.

Peter said that to McGivney, who answered: "We're going to do
something; you wait!" And sure enough, that afternoon the papers
carried the news that the mayor of American City had notified the
owners of the Auditorium that they would be held strictly
responsible under the law for all incendiary and seditious
utterances at this meeting; thereupon, the owners of the Auditorium
had cancelled the contract. Furthermore, the mayor declared that no
crowds should be gathered on the street, and that the police would
be there to see to it, and to protect law and order. Peter hurried
to the rooms of the Peoples' Council, and found the radicals
scurrying about, trying to find some other hall; every now and then
Peter would go to the telephone, and let McGivney know what hall
they were trying to get, and McGivney would communicate with Guffey,
and Guffey would communicate with the secretary of the Chamber of
Commerce, and the owner of this hall would be called up and warned
by the president of the bank which held a mortgage on the hall, or
by the chairman of the board of directors of the Philharmonic
Orchestra which gave concerts there.

So there was no Red mass meeting that night--and none for many a
night thereafter in American City! Guffey's office had got its
German spy story ready, and next morning, here was the entire front
page of the American City "Times" given up to the amazing revelation
that Karl von Stroeme, agent of the German government, and reputed
to be a nephew of the German Vice-chancellor, had been arrested in
American City, posing as a Swedish sewing-machine agent, but in
reality having been occupied in financing the planting of dynamite
bombs in the buildings of the Pioneer Foundry Company, now being
equipped for the manufacture of machine-guns. Three of von Stroeme's
confederates had been nabbed at the same time, and a mass of papers
full of important revelations--not the least important among them
being the fact that only yesterday von Stroeme had been caught
dealing with a German Socialist of the ultra-Red variety, an
official of the Bread and Cake-Makers' Union Number 479, by the name
of Ernst Apfel. The government had a dictagraph record of
conversations in which von Stroeme had contributed one hundred
dollars to the Liberty Defense League, an organization which the
Reds had got up for the purpose of carrying on agitation for the
release of the I. W. W.s arrested in the dynamite plot against the
life of Nelse Ackerman. Moreover it was proven that Apfel had taken
this money and distributed it among several German Reds, who had
turned it in to the defense fund, or used it in paying for circulars
calling for a general strike.

Peter's heart was leaping with excitement; and it leaped even faster
when he had got his breakfast and was walking down Main Street. He
saw crowds gathered, and American flags flying from all the
buildings, just as on the day of the Preparedness parade. It caused
Peter to feet queer spasms of fright; he imagined another bomb, but
he couldn't resist the crowds with their eager faces and contagious
enthusiasm. Presently here came a band, with magnificent martial
music, and here came soldiers marching--tramp, tramp, tramp--line
after line of khaki-clad boys with heavy packs upon their backs and
shiny new rifles. Our boys! Our boys! God bless them!

It was three regiments of the 223rd Division, coming from Camp
Lincoln to be entrained for the war. They might better have been
entrained at the camp, of course, but everyone had been clamoring
for some glimpse of the soldiers, and here they were with their
music and their flags, and their crowds of flushed, excited
admirers--two endless lines of people, wild with patriotic fervor,
shouting, singing, waving hats and handkerchiefs, until the whole
street became a blur, a mad delirium. Peter saw these closely
pressed lines, straight and true, and the legs that moved like
clock-work, and the feet that shook the ground like thunder. He saw
the fresh, boyish faces, grimly set and proud, with eyes fixed
ahead, never turning, even tho they realized that this might be
their last glimpse of their home city, that they might never come
back from this journey. Our boys! Our boys! God bless them! Peter
felt a choking in his throat, and a thrill of gratitude to the boys
who were protecting him and his country; he clenched his hands and
set his teeth, with fresh determination to punish the evil men and
women--draft-dodgers, slackers, pacifists and seditionists--who were
failing to take their part in this glorious emprise.






Section 57





Peter went to the American House and met McGivney, and was put to
work on a job that precisely suited his mood. The time had come for
action, said the rat-faced man. The executive committee of the I. W.
W. local had been drafting an appeal to the main organization for
help, and the executive committee was to meet that evening; Peter
was to get in touch with the secretary, Grady, and find out where
this meeting was to be, and make the suggestion that all the
membership be gathered, and other Reds also. The business men of the
city were going to pull off their big stroke that night, said
McGivney; the younger members of the Chamber of Commerce and the
Merchants' and Manufacturers' Association had got together and
worked out a secret plan, and all they wanted was to have the Reds
collected in one place.

So Peter set out and found Shawn Grady, the young Irish boy who kept
the membership lists and other papers of the organization, in a
place so secret that not even Peter had been able to find them.
Peter brought the latest news about the sufferings of Mac in the
"hole," and how Gus, the sailor, had joined Henderson in the
hospital. He was so eloquent in his indignation that presently Grady
told him about the meeting for that evening, and about the place,
and Peter said they really ought to get some of their friends
together, and work out some way to get their protest literature
distributed quickly, because it was evident they could no longer use
the mails. What was the use of resolutions of executive committees,
when what was wanted was action by the entire membership? Grady said
all right, they would notify the active members and sympathizers,
and he gave Peter the job of telephoning and travelling about town
getting word to a dozen people.

At six o'clock that evening Peter reported the results to McGivney,
and then he got a shock. "You must go to that meeting yourself,"
said the rat-faced man. "You mustn't take any chance of their
suspecting you."

"But, my God!" cried Peter. "What's going to happen there?"

"You don't need to worry about that," answered the other. "I'll see
that you're protected."

The gathering was to take place at the home of Ada Ruth, the
poetess, and McGivney had Peter describe this home to him. Beyond
the living-room was a hallway, and in this hallway was a big clothes
closet. At the first alarm Peter must make for this place. He must
get into the closet, and McGivney would be on hand, and they would
pen Peter up and pretend to club him, but in reality would protect
him from whatever happened to the rest. Peter's knees began to
tremble, and he denounced the idea indignantly; what would happen to
him if anything were to happen to McGivney, or to his automobile,
and were to fail to get there in time? McGivney declared that Peter
need not worry--he was too valuable a man for them to take any
chances with. McGivney would be there, and all Peter would have to
do was to scream and raise a rumpus, and finally fall unconscious,
and McGivney and Hammett and Cummings would carry him out to their
automobile and take him away!

Peter was so frightened that he couldn't eat any dinner, but
wandered about the street talking to himself and screwing up his
courage. He had to stop and look at the American flags, still waving
from the buildings, and read the evening edition of the American
City "Times," in order to work up his patriotic fervor again. As he
set out for the home of the little cripple who wrote pacifist
poetry, he really felt like the soldier boys marching away to war.

Ada Ruth was there, and her mother, a dried-up old lady who knew
nothing about all these dreadful world movements, but whose
pleadings had no effect upon her inspired daughter; also Ada's
cousin, a lean old-maid school teacher, secretary of the Peoples'
Council; also Miriam Yankovitch, and Sadie Todd, and Donald Gordon.
On the way Peter had met Tom Duggan, and the mournful poet revealed
that he had composed a new poem about Mac in the "hole." Immediately
afterwards came Grady, the secretary, his pockets stuffed with his
papers. Grady, a tall, dark-eyed, impulsive-tempered Irish boy, was
what the Socialists called a "Jimmie Higgins," that is, one of the
fellows who did the hard and dreary work of the movement, who were
always on hand no matter what happened, always ready to have some
new responsibility put upon their shoulders. Grady had no use for
the Socialists, being only interested in "industrial action," but he
was willing to be called a "Jimmie Higgins"; he had said that Peter
was one too, and Peter had smiled to himself, thinking that a
"Jimmie Higgins" was about the last thing in the world he ever would
be. Peter was on the way to independence and prosperity, and it did
not occur to him to reflect that he might be a "Jimmie Higgins" to
the "Whites" instead of to the Reds!

Grady now pulled out his papers, and began to talk over with Donald
Gordon the proceedings of the evening. He had had a telegram from
the national headquarters of the I. W. W., promising support, and
his thin, hungry face lighted up with pride as he showed this. Then
he announced that "Bud" Connor was to be present--a well-known
organizer, who had been up in the oil country with McCormick, and
brought news that the workers there were on the verge of a big
strike. Then came Mrs. Jennings, a poor, tormented little woman who
was slowly dying of a cancer, and whose husband was suing her for
divorce because she had given money to the I. W. W. With her, and
helping her along, came "Andy" Adams, a big machinist, who had been
kicked out of his lodge for talking too much "direct action." He
pulled from his pocket a copy of the "Evening Telegraph," and read a
few lines from an editorial, denouncing "direct action" as meaning
dynamiting, which it didn't, of course, and asking how long it would
be before the friends of law and order in American City would use a
little "direct action" of their own.






Section 58





So they gathered, until about thirty were present, and then the
meeting speedily got down to business. It was evident, said Grady,
that the authorities had deliberately framed-up the dynamite
conspiracy, in order to have an excuse for wiping out the I. W. W.
organization; they had closed the hall, and confiscated everything,
typewriters and office furniture and books--including a book on
Sabotage which they had turned over to the editor of the "Evening
Times"! There was a hiss of anger at this. Also, they had taken to
interfering with the mail of the organization; the I. W. W. were
having to get out their literature by express. They were fighting
for their existence, and they must find some way of getting the
truth to people. If anybody had any suggestions to make, now was the
time.

There came one suggestion after another; and meantime Peter sat as
if his chair were full of pins. Why didn't they come--the younger
members of the Chamber of Commerce and the Merchants' and
Manufacturers' Association--and do what they were going to do
without any further delay? Did they expect Peter to sit there all
night, trembling with alarm--and he not having any dinner besides?

Suddenly Peter gave a jump. Outside came a yell, and Donald Gordon,
who was making a speech, stopped suddenly, and the members of the
company stared at one another, and some sprang to their feet. There
were more yells, rising to screams, and some of the company made for
the front doors, and some for the back doors, and yet others for the
windows and the staircase. Peter wasted no time, but dived into the
clothes closet in the hallway back of the living-room, and got into
the farthest corner of this closet, and pulled some of the clothes
on top of him; and then, to make him safer yet, came several other
people piling on top of him.

From his place of refuge he listened to the confusion that reigned.
The place was a bedlam of women's shrieks, and the curses of
fighting men, and the crash of overturning furniture, and of clubs
and monkey-wrenches on human heads. The younger members of the
Chamber of Commerce and the Merchants' and Manufacturers'
Association had come in sufficient force to make sure of their
purpose. There were enough to crowd the room full, and to pack all
the doorways, and two or three to guard each window, and a flying
squadron to keep watch for anybody who jumped from the roof or tried
to hide in the trees of the garden.

Peter cowered, and listened to the furious uproar, and presently he
heard the cries of those on top of him, and realized that they were
being pulled off and clubbed; he felt hands reach down and grab him,
and he cringed and cried in terror; but nothing happened to him, and
presently he glanced up and he saw a man wearing a black mask, but
easily to be recognized as McGivney. Never in all his life had Peter
been gladder to see a human face than he was to see that masked face
of a rat! McGivney had a club in his hand, and was dealing ferocious
blows to the clothes heaped around Peter. Behind McGivney were
Hammett and Cummings, covering the proceedings, and now and then
carefully putting in a blow of their own.

Most of the fighting inside the house and outside came quickly to an
end, because everybody who fought was laid out or overpowered. Then
several of the agents of Guffey, who had been studying these Reds
for a year or two and knew them all, went about picking out the ones
who were especially wanted, and searching them for arms, and then
handcuffing them. One of these men approached Peter, who instantly
fell unconscious, and closed his eyes; then Hammett caught him under
the armpits and Cummings by the feet, and McGivney walked alongside
as a bodyguard, remarking now and then, "We want this fellow, we'll
take care of him."

They carried Peter outside, and in the darkness he opened his eyes
just enough to see that the street was lined with automobiles, and
that the Reds were being loaded aboard. Peter's friends carried him
to one car and drove him away, and then Peter returned to
consciousness, and the four of them sat up and laughed to split
their sides, and slapped one another on the back, and mentioned the
satisfactory things they had seen. Had Hammett noticed that slice
Grady had got over the eyes, and the way the blood had run all over
him? Well, he wanted to be a Red--they had helped him be one--inside
and out! Had McGivney noticed how "Buck" Ellis, one of their men,
had put the nose of the hobo poet out of joint? And young Ogden, son
of the president of the Chamber of Commerce, had certainly managed
to show how he felt about these cattle, the female ones as well as
the males; when that Yankovich slut had slapped his face, he had
caught her by the breasts and nearly twisted them off, and she had
screamed and fainted!

Yes, they had cleaned them out. But that wasn't all of it, they were
going to finish the job tonight, by God! They were going to give
these pacifists a taste of the war, they were going to put an end to
the Red Terror in American City! Peter might go along if he liked
and see the good work; they were going into the country, and it
would be dark, and if he kept a mask on he would be quite safe. And
Peter said yes; his blood was up, he was full of the spirit of the
hunt, he wanted to be in at the death, regardless of everything.






Section 59





The motor purred softly, and the car sped as if upon wings thru the
suburbs of American City, and to the country beyond. There were cars
in front, and other cars behind, a long stream of white lights
flying out into the country. They came to a grove of big pine trees,
which rose two or three feet thick, like church arches, and covered
the ground beneath them with a soft, brown carpet. It was a
well-known picnic place, and here all the cars were gathering by
appointment. Evidently it had all been pre-arranged, with that
efficiency which is the pride of 100% Americans. A man with a black
mask over his face stood in the center of the grove, and shouted his
directions thru a megaphone, and each car as it swept in ranged
itself alongside the next car in a broad circle, more than a hundred
feet across. These cars of the younger members of the Chamber of
Commerce and the Merchants' and Manufacturers' Association were well
behaved--they were accustomed to sliding precisely into place
according to orders of a megaphone man, when receptions were being
given, or when the younger members and their wives and
fiancees, clad in soft silks and satins, came rolling up to
their dinner-parties and dances.

The cars came and came, until there was just room enough for the
last one to slide in. Then at a shouted command, "Number one!" a
group of men stepped out of one of the cars, dragging a handcuffed
prisoner. It was Michael Dubin, the young Jewish tailor who had
spent fifteen days in jail with Peter. Michael was a student and
dreamer, and not used to scenes of violence; also, he belonged to a
race which expresses its emotions, and consequently is offensive to
100% Americans. He screamed and moaned while the masked men
un-handcuffed him, and took off his coat and tore his shirt in the
back. They dragged him to a tree in the center of the ring, a
somewhat smaller tree, just right for his wrists to meet around and
be handcuffed again. There he stood in the blinding glare of thirty
or forty cars, writhing and moaning, while one of the black-masked
men stripped off his coat and got ready for action. He produced a
long black-snake whip, and stood poised for a moment; then in a
booming voice the man with the megaphone shouted, "Go!" and the whip
whistled thru the air and was laid across the back of Michael, and
tore into the flesh so that the blood leaped into sight. There was a
scream of anguish, and the victim began to twist and turn and kick
about as if in his death-throes. Again the whip whistled, and again
you heard the thud as it tore into the flesh, and another red stripe
leaped to view.

Now the younger members of the Chamber of Commerce and the
Merchants' and Manufacturers' Association were in excellent
condition for this evening's labor. They were not pale and thin,
underfed and overworked, as were their prisoners; they were sleek
and rosy, and ashine with health. It was as if long years ago their
fathers had foreseen the Red menace, and the steps that would have
to be taken to preserve 100% Americanism; the fathers had imported a
game which consisted of knocking little white balls around a field
with various styles and sizes of clubs. They had built magnificent
club-houses out here in the suburbs, and had many hundreds of acres
of ground laid out for this game, and would leave their occupations
of merchanting and manufacturing early in the afternoon, in order to
repair to these fields and keep their muscles in condition. They
would hold tournaments, and vie with one another, and tell over the
stories of the mighty strokes which they had made with their clubs,
and of the hundreds of strokes they had made in a single afternoon.
So the man with the black-snake whip was "fit," and didn't need to
stop for breath. Stroke after stroke he laid on, with a splendid
rhythmic motion; he kept it up easily, on and on. Had he forgotten?

Did he think this was a little white ball he was swinging down upon?
He kept on and on, until you could no longer count the welts, until
the whole back of Michael Dubin was a mass of raw and bleeding
flesh. The screams of Michael Dubin died away, and his convulsive
struggling ceased, and his head hung limp, and he sunk lower and
lower upon the tree.

At last the master of ceremonies stepped forward and ordered a halt,
and the man with the whip wiped the sweat from his forehead with his
shirt-sleeve, and the other men unchained the body of Michael Dubin,
and dragged it a few feet to one side and dumped it face downward in
the pine-leaves.

"Number two!" called the master of ceremonies, in a clear,
compelling voice, as if he were calling the figures of a quadrille;
and from another car another set of men emerged, dragging another
prisoner. It was Bert Glikas, a "blanket-stiff" who was a member of
the I. W. W.'s executive committee, and had had two teeth knocked
out in a harvest-strike only a couple of weeks previously. While
they were getting off his coat, he managed to get one hand free, and
he shook it at the spectators behind the white lights of the
automobiles. "God damn you!" he yelled; and so they tied him up, and
a fresh man stepped forward and picked up the whip, and spit on his
hands for good luck, and laid on with a double will; and at every
stroke Glikas yelled a fresh curse; first in English, and then, as
if he were delirious, in some foreign language. But at last his
curses died away, and he too sank insensible, and was unhitched and
dragged away and dumped down beside the first man. "Number three!"
called the master of ceremonies.






Section 60





Now Peter was sitting in the back seat of his car, wearing the mask
which McGivney had given him, a piece of cloth with two holes for
his eyes and another hole for him to breathe thru. Peter hated these
Reds, and wanted them punished, but he was not used to bloody
sights, and was finding this endless thud, thud of the whip on human
flesh rather more than he could stand. Why had he come? This wasn't
his part of the job of saving his country from the Red menace. He
had done his share in pointing out the dangerous ones; he was a man
of brains, not a man of violence. Peter saw that the next victim was
Tom Duggan with his broken and bloody nose, and in spite of himself,
Peter started with dismay. He realized that without intending it he
had become a little fond of Tom Duggan. For all his queerness,
Duggan was loyal, he was a good fellow when you had got underneath
his surly manners. He had never done anything except just to
grumble, and to put his grumbles into verses; they were making a
mistake in whipping him, and for a moment Peter had a crazy impulse
to interfere and tell them so.

The poet never made a sound. Peter got one glimpse of his face in
the blazing white light, and in spite of the fact that it was
smashed and bloody, Peter read Tom Duggan's resolve--he would die
before they would get a moan out of him. Each time the lash fell you
could see a quiver all over his form; but there was never a sound,
and he stood, hugging the tree in a convulsive grip. They lashed him
until the whip was spattering blood all over them, until blood was
running to the ground. They had taken the precaution to bring along
a doctor with a little black case, and he now stepped up and
whispered to the master of ceremonies. They unfastened Duggan, and
broke the grip of his arms about the tree, and dumped him down
beside Glikas.

Next came the turn of Donald Gordon, the Socialist Quaker, which
brought a bit of cheap drama. Donald took his religion seriously; he
was always shouting his anti-war sentiments in the name of Jesus,
which made him especially obnoxious. Now he saw a chance to get off
one of his theatrical stunts; he raised his two manacled hands into
the air as if he were praying, and shouted in piercing tones:
"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!"

A murmur started in the crowd; you could hear it mounting to a roar.
"Blasphemy!" they cried. "Stop his dirty mouth!" It was the same
mouth that had been heard on a hundred platforms, denouncing the war
and those who made money out of the war. They were here now, the men
who had been denounced, the younger members of the Chamber of
Commerce and the Merchants' and Manufacturers' Association, the best
people of the city, those who were saving the country, and charging
no more than the service was worth. So they roared with fury at this
sacreligious upstart. A man whose mask was a joke, because he was so
burly and hearty that everybody in the crowd knew him, took up the
bloody whip. It was Billy Nash, secretary of the "Improve America
League," and the crowd shouted, "Go to it, Billy! Good eye, old
boy!" Donald Gordon might tell God that Billy Nash didn't know what
he was doing, but Billy thought that he knew, and he meant before he
got thru to convince Donald that he knew. It didn't take very long,
because there was nothing much to the young Quaker but voice, and he
fainted at the fourth or fifth stroke, and after the twentieth
stroke the doctor interfered.

Then came the turn of Grady, secretary of the I. W. W., and here a
terrible thing happened. Grady, watching this scene from one of the
cars, had grown desperate, and when they loosed the handcuffs to get
off his coat, he gave a sudden wrench and broke free, striking down
one man after another. He had been brought up in the lumber country,
and his strength was amazing, and before the crowd quite realized
it, he was leaping between two of the cars. A dozen men sprang upon
him from a dozen directions, and he went down in the midst of a wild
melee. They pinned him with his face mashed into the dirt, and from
the crowd there rose a roar as from wild beasts in the night-time,

"String him up! String him up!" One man came running with a rope,
shouting, "Hang him!"

The master of ceremonies tried to protest thru his megaphone, but
the instrument was knocked out of his hands, and he was hauled to
one side, and presently there was a man climbing up the pine tree
and hanging the rope over a limb. You could not see Grady for the
jostling throng about him, but suddenly there was a yell from the
crowd, and you saw him quite plainly--he shot high up into the air,
with the rope about his neck and his feet kicking wildly.
Underneath, men danced about and yelled and waved their hats in the
air, and one man leaped up and caught one of the kicking feet and
hung onto it.

Then, above all the din, a voice was heard thru the megaphone, "Let
him down a bit! Let me get at him!" And those who held the rope gave
way, and the body came down toward the ground, still kicking, and a
man took out a clasp-knife, and cut the clothing away from the body,
and cut off something from the body; there was another yell from the
crowd, and the men in the automobiles slapped their knees and
shrieked with satisfaction. Those in the car with Peter whispered
that it was Ogden, son of the president of the Chamber of Commerce;
and all over town next day and for weeks thereafter men would nudge
one another, and whisper about what Bob Ogden had done to the body
of Shawn Grady, secretary of the "damned wobblies." And every one
who nudged and whispered about it felt certain that by this means
the Red Terror had been forever suppressed, and 100% Americanism
vindicated, and a peaceful solution of the problem of capital and
labor made certain.

Strange as it might seem, there was one member of the I. W. W. who
agreed with them. One of the victims of that night had learned his
lesson! When Tom Duggan was able to sit up again, which was six
weeks later, he wrote an article about his experience, which was
published in an I. W. W. paper, and afterwards in pamphlet form was
read by many hundreds of thousands of workingmen. In it the poet
said:

"The preamble of the I. W. W. opens with the statement that the
employing class and the working class have nothing in common; but on
this occasion I learned that the preamble is mistaken. On this
occasion I saw one thing in common between the employing class and
the working class, and that thing was a black-snake whip. The butt
end of the whip was in the hands of the employing class, and the
lash of the whip was on the backs of the working class, and thus to
all eternity was symbolized the truth about the relationship of the
classes!"






Section 61





Peter awoke next morning with a vivid sense of the pain and terror
of life. He had been clamoring to have those Reds punished; but
somehow or other he had thought of this punishment in an abstract
way, a thing you could attend to by a wave of the hand. He hadn't
quite realized the physical side of it, what a messy and bloody job
it would prove. Two hours and more he had listened to the thud of a
whip on human flesh, and each separate stroke had been a blow upon
his own nerves. Peter had an overdose of vengeance; and now, the
morning after, his conscience was gnawing at him. He had known every
one of those boys, and their faces rose up to haunt him. What had
any of them done to deserve such treatment? Could he say that he had
ever known a single one of them to do anything as violent as the
thing they had all suffered?

But more than anything else Peter was troubled by fear. Peter, the
ant, perceived the conflict of the giants becoming more ferocious,
and realized the precariousness of his position under the giants'
feet. The passions of both sides were mounting, and the fiercer
their hate became, the greater the chance of Peter's being
discovered, the more dreadful his fate if he were discovered. It was
all very well for McGivney to assure him that only four of Guffey's
men knew the truth, and that all these might be trusted to the
death. Peter remembered a remark he had heard Shawn Grady make, and
which had caused him to lose his appetite for more than one meal.
"They've got spies among us," the young Irishman had said. "Well,
sooner or later we'll do a bit of spying of our own!"

And now these words came back to Peter like a voice from the grave.
Suppose one of the Reds who had money were to hire somebody to get a
job in Guffey's office! Suppose some Red girl were to try Peter's
device, and seduce one of Guffey's men--by no means a difficult
task! The man mightn't even mean to reveal that Peter Gudge was a
secret agent; he might just let it slip, as little Jennie had let
slip the truth about Jack Ibbetts! Thus Mac would know who had
framed him up; and what would Mac do to Peter when he got out on
bail? When Peter thought of things like that he realized what it
meant to go to war; he saw that he had gained nothing by staying at
home, he might as well have been in the front-line trenches! After
all, this was war, class-war; and in all war the penalty for spying
is death,

Also Peter was worried about Nell. She had been in her new position
for nearly a week, and he hadn't heard a word from her. She had
forbidden him to write, for fear he might write something
injudicious. Let him just wait, Edythe Eustace would know how to
take care of herself. And that was all right, Peter had no doubt
about the ability of Edythe Eustace to take care of herself. What
troubled him was the knowledge that she was working on another
"frame-up," and he stood in fear of the exuberance of her
imagination. The last time that imagination had been pregnant, it
had presented him with a suit-case full of dynamite. What it might
bring forth next time he did not know, and was afraid to think. Nell
might cause him to be found out by Guffey; and that would be nearly
as horrible as to be found out by Mac!

Peter got his morning "Times," and found a whole page about the
whipping of the Reds, portraying the job as a patriotic duty
heroically performed; and that naturally cheered Peter up
considerably. He turned to the editorial page, and read a two column
"leader" that was one whoop of exultation. It served still more to
cure Peter's ache of conscience; and when he read on and found a
series of interviews with leading citizens, giving cordial
endorsement to the acts of the "vigilantes," Peter became ashamed of
his weakness, and glad that he had not revealed it to anyone. Peter
was trying his best to become a real "he-man," a 100% red-blooded
American, and he had the "Times" twice each day, morning and
evening, to guide, sustain and inspire him.

Peter had been told by McGivney to fix himself up and pose as one of
the martyrs of the night's affair, and this appealed to his sense of
humor. He cut off the hair from a part of his head, and stuck some
raw cotton on top, and plastered it over with surgical tape. He
stuck another big wad of surgical tape across his forehead, and a
criss-cross of it on his cheek, and tied up his wrist in an
excellent imitation of a sprain. Thus rigged out he repaired to the
American House, and McGivney rewarded him with a hearty laugh, and
then proceeded to give some instructions which, entirely restored
Peter's usual freshness of soul. Peter was going up on Mount Olympus
again!

The rat-faced man explained in detail. There was a lady of great
wealth--indeed, she was said to be several times a millionaire--who
was an openly avowed Red, a pacifist of the most malignant variety.
Since the arrest of young Lackman she had come forward and put up
funds to finance the "People's Council," and the "Anti-Conscription
League," and all the other activities which for the sake of
convenience were described by the term "pro-German." The only
trouble was this lady was so extremely wealthy it was hard to do
anything to her. Her husband was a director in a couple of Nelse
Ackerman's banks, and had other powerful connections. The husband
was a violent, anti-Socialist, and a buyer of liberty bonds; he
quarrelled with his wife, but nevertheless he did not want to see
her in jail, and this made an embarrassing situation for the police
and the district attorney's office, and even for the Federal
authorities, who naturally did not want to trouble one of the
courtiers of the king of American City. "But something's got to be
done," said McGivney. "This camouflaged German propaganda can't go
on." So Peter was to try to draw Mrs. Godd into some kind of "overt
action."

"Mrs. Godd?" said Peter. It seemed to him a singular coincidence
that one of the dwellers on Mount Olympus should bear that name. The
great lady lived on a hilltop out in the suburbs, not so far from
the hilltop of Nelse Ackerman. One of the adventures looked forward
to by Reds and pacifists in distress was to make a pilgrimage to
this palace and obtain some long, green plasters to put over their
wounds. Now was the time at all times for Peter to go, said
McGivney. Peter had many wounds to be plastered, and Mrs. Godd would
be indignant at the proceedings of last night, and would no doubt
express herself without restraint.






Section 62





Peter hadn't been so excited since the time when he had waited to
meet young Lackman. He had never quite forgiven himself for this
costly failure, and now he was to have another chance. He took a
trolley ride out into the country, and walked a couple of miles to
the palace on the hilltop, and mounted thru a grove of trees and
magnificent Italian gardens. According to McGivney's injunctions, he
summoned his courage, and went to the front door of the stately
mansion and rang the bell.

Peter was hot and dusty from his long walk, the sweat had made
streaks down his face and marred the pristine whiteness of his
plasters. He was never a distinguished-looking person at best, and
now, holding his damaged straw hat in his hands, he looked not so
far from a hobo. However, the French maid who came to the door was
evidently accustomed to strange-looking visitors. She didn't order
Peter to the servant's entrance, nor threaten him with the dogs; she
merely said, "Be seated, please. I will tell madame"--putting the
accent on the second syllable, where Peter had never heard it
before.

And presently here came Mrs. Godd in tier cloud of Olympian
beneficence; a large and ample lady, especially built for the role
of divinity. Peter felt suddenly awe-stricken. How had he dared come
here? Neither in the Hotel de Soto, with its many divinities, nor in
the palace of Nelse Ackerman, the king, had he felt such a sense of
his own lowliness as the sight of this calm, slow-moving great lady
inspired. She was the embodiment of opulence, she was "the real
thing." Despite the look of kindliness in her wide-open blue eyes,
she impressed him with a feeling of her overwhelming superiority. He
did not know it was his duty as a gentleman to rise from his chair
when a lady entered, but some instinct brought him to his feet and
caused him to stand blinking as she crossed to him from the opposite
end of the big room.

"How do you do?" she said in a low, full voice, gazing at him
steadily out of the kind, wide-open blue eyes. Peter stammered, "How
d-dy do, M--Mrs. Godd."

In truth, Peter was almost dumb with bewilderment. Could it really,
possibly be that this grand personage was a Red? One of the things
that had most offended him about all radicals was their noisiness,
their aggressiveness; but here was a grand serenity of looks and
manner, a soft, slow voice--here was beauty, too, a skin unlined,
despite middle years, and glowing with health and a fine cleanness.
Nell Doolin had had a glowing complexion, but there was always a lot
of powder stuck on, and when you investigated closely, as Peter had
done, you discovered muddy spots in the edges of her hair and on her
throat. But Mrs. Godd's skin shone just as the skin of a goddess
would be expected to shine, and everything about her was of a divine
and compelling opulence. Peter could not have explained just what it
was that gave this last impression so overwhelmingly. It was not
that she wore many jewels, or large ones, for Mrs. James had beaten
her at that; it was not her delicate perfume, for Nell Doolin
scattered more sweetness on the air; yet somehow even poor, ignorant
Peter felt the difference--it seemed to him that none of Mrs. Godd's
costly garments had ever been worn before, that the costly rugs on
the floor had never been stepped on before, the very chair on which
he sat had never been sat on before!

Little Ada Ruth had called Mrs. Godd "the mother of all the world;"
and now suddenly she became the mother of Peter Gudge. She had read
the papers that morning, she had received a half dozen telephone
calls from horrified and indignant Reds, and so a few words sufficed
to explain to her the meaning of Peter's bandages and plasters. She
held out to him a beautiful cool hand, and quite without warning,
tears sprang into the great blue eyes.

"Oh, you are one of those poor boys! Thank God they did not kill
you!" And she led him to a soft couch and made him lie down amid
silken pillows. Peter's dream of Mount Olympus had come literally
true! It occurred to him that if Mrs. Godd were willing to play
permanently the role of mother to Peter Gudge, he would be willing
to give up his role of anti-Red agent with its perils and its
nervous strains; he would forget duty, forget the world's strife and
care; he would join the lotus-eaters, the sippers of nectar on Mount
Olympus!

She sat and talked to him in the soft, gentle voice, and the kind
blue eyes watched him, and Peter thought that never in all his life
had he encountered such heavenly emotions. To be sure, when he had
gone to see Miriam Yankovich, old Mrs. Yankovich had been just as
kind, and tears of sympathy had come into her eyes just the same.
But then, Mrs. Yankovich was nothing but a fat old Jewess, who lived
in a tenement and smelt of laundry soap and partly completed
washing; her hands had been hot and slimy, and so Peter had not been
in the least grateful for her kindness. But to encounter tender
emotions in these celestial regions, to be talked to maternally and
confidentially by this wonderful Mrs. Godd in soft white chiffons
just out of a band-box _this _was quite another matter!






Section 63





Peter did not want to set traps for this mother of Mount Olympus, he
didn't want to worm any secrets from her. And as it happened, he
found that he did not have to, because she told him everything right
away, and without the slightest hesitation. She talked just as the
"wobblies" had talked in their headquarters; and Peter, when he
thought it over, realized that there are two kinds of people who can
afford to be frank in their utterance--those who have nothing to
lose, and those who have so much to lose that they cannot possibly
lose it.

Mrs. Godd said that what had been done to those men last night was a
crime, and it ought to be punished if ever a crime was punished, and
that she would like to engage detectives and get evidence against
the guilty ones. She said furthermore that she sympathized with the
Reds of the very reddest shade, and if there were any color redder
than Red she would be of that color. She said all this in her quiet,
soft voice. Tears came into her eyes now and then, but they were
well-behaved tears, they disappeared of their own accord, and
without any injury to Mrs. Godd's complexion, or any apparent effect
upon her self-possession.

Mrs. Godd said that she didn't see how anybody could fail to be a
Red who thought about the injustices of present-day society. Only a
few days before she had been in to see the district attorney, and
had tried to make a Red out of him! Then she told Peter how there
had come to see her a man who had pretended to be a radical, but she
had realized that he didn't know anything about radicalism, and had
told him she was sure he was a government agent. The man had finally
admitted it, and showed her his gold star--and then Mrs. Godd had
set to work to convert him! She had argued with him for an hour or
two, and then had invited him to go to the opera with her. "And do
you know," said Mrs. Godd, in an injured tone, "he wouldn't go! They
don't want to be converted, those men; they don't want to listen to
reason. I believe the man was actually afraid I might influence
him."

"I shouldn't wonder," put in Peter, sympathetically; for he was a
tiny bit afraid himself.

"I said to him, `Here I live in this palace, and back in the
industrial quarter of the city are several thousand men and women
who slave at machines for me all day, and now, since the war, all
night too. I get the profits of these peoples' toil--and what have I
done to earn it? Absolutely nothing! I never did a stroke of useful
work in my life.' And he said to me, `Suppose the dividends were to
stop, what would you do?' 'I don't know what I'd do,' I answered,
`I'd be miserable, of course, because I hate poverty, I couldn't
stand it, it's terrible to think of--not to have comfort and
cleanliness and security. I don't see how the working-class stand
it--that's exactly why I'm a Red, I know it's wrong for anyone to be
poor, and there's no excuse for it. So I shall help to overthrow the
capitalist system, even if it means I have to take in washing for my
living!"

Peter sat watching her in the crisp freshness of her snowy chiffons.
The words brought a horrible image to his mind; he suddenly found
himself back in the tenement kitchen, where fat and steaming Mrs.
Yankovich was laboring elbow deep in soap-suds. It was on the tip of
Peter's tongue to say: "If you really had done a day's washing, Mrs.
Godd, you wouldn't talk like that!"

But he remembered that he must play the game, so he said, "They're
terrible fellows, them Federal agents. It was two of them pounded me
over the head last night." And then he looked faint and pitiful, and
Mrs. Godd was sympathetic again, and moved to more recklessness of
utterance.

"It's because of this hideous war!" she declared. "We've gone to war
to make the world safe for democracy, and meantime we have to
sacrifice every bit of democracy at home. They tell you that you
must hold your peace while they murder one another, but they may try
all they please, they'll never be able to silence me! I know that
the Allies are just as much to blame as the Germans, I know that
this is a war of profiteers and bankers; they may take my sons and
force them into the army, but they cannot take my convictions and
force them into their army. I am a pacifist, and I am an
internationalist; I want to see the workers arise and turn out of
office these capitalist governments, and put an end to this hideous
slaughter of human beings. I intend to go on saying that so long as
I live." There sat Mrs. Godd, with her lovely firm white hands
clasped as if in prayer, one large diamond ring on the left fourth
finger shining defiance, and a look of calm, child-like conviction
upon her face, confronting in her imagination all the federal agents
and district attorneys and capitalist judges and statesmen and
generals and drill sergeants in the civilized world.

She went on to tell how she had attended the trial of three pacifist
clergymen a week or two previously. How atrocious that Christians in
a Christian country should be sent to prison for trying to repeat
the words of Christ! "I was so indignant," declared Mrs. Godd, "that
I wrote a letter to the judge. My husband said I would be committing
contempt of court by writing to a judge during the trial, but I
answered that my contempt for that court was beyond anything I could
put into writing. Wait--"

And Mrs. Godd rose gravely from her chair and went over to a desk by
the wall, and got a copy of the letter. "I'll read it to you," she
said, and Peter listened to a manifesto of Olympian Bolshevism--

To His Honor:

As I entered the sanctuary, I gazed upward to the stained glass
dome, upon which were inscribed four words: Peace. Justice. Truth.
Law--and I felt hopeful. Before me were men who had violated no
constitutional right, who had not the slightest criminal tendency,
who, were opposed to violence of every kind.

The trial proceeded. I looked again at the beautiful stained glass
dome, and whispered to myself those majestic-sounding words: "Peace.
Justice. Truth. Law." I listened to the prosecutors; the Law in
their hands was a hard, sharp, cruel blade, seeking insistently,
relentlessly for a weak spot in the armor of its victims. I listened
to their Truth, and it was Falsehood. Their Peace was a cruel and
bloody War. Their justice was a net to catch the victims at any
cost--at the cost of all things but the glory of the Prosecutor's
office.

I grew sick at heart. I can only ask myself the old, old question:
What can we, the people do? How can we bring Peace, justice, Truth
and Law to the world? Must we go on bended knees and ask our public
servants to see that justice is done to the defenceless, rather than
this eternal prosecuting of the world's noblest souls! You will find
these men guilty, and sentence them to be shut behind iron
bars--which should never be for human beings, no matter what their
crime, unless you want to make beasts of them. Is that your object,
sir? It would seem so; and so I say that we must overturn the system
that is brutalizing, rather than helping and uplifting mankind.

Yours for Peace..Justice..Truth..Law--

Mary Angelica Godd.

What were you going to do with such a woman? Peter could understand
the bewilderment of His Honor, and of the district attorney's
office, and of the secret service department of the Traction
Trust--as well as of Mrs. Godd's husband! Peter was bewildered
himself; what was the use of his coming out here to get more
information, when Mrs. Godd had already committed contempt of court
in writing, and had given all the information there was to give to a
Federal agent? She had told this man that she had contributed
several thousand dollars to the Peoples' Council, and that she
intended to contribute more. She had put up bail for a whole bunch
of Reds and Pacifists, and she intended to put up bail for McCormick
and his friends, just as soon as the corrupt capitalist courts had
been forced to admit them to bail. "I know McCormick well, and he's
a lovely boy," she said. "I don't believe he had anything more to do
with dynamite bombs than I have."

Now all this time Peter had sat there, entirely under the spell of
Mrs. Godd's opulence. Peter was dwelling among the lotus-eaters, and
forgetting the world's strife and care; he was reclining on a silken
couch, sipping nectar with the shining ones of Mount Olympus. But
now suddenly, Peter was brought back to duty, as one wakes from a
dream to the sound of an alarm-clock. Mrs. Godd was a friend of
Mac's, Mrs. Godd proposed to get Mac out on bail! Mac, the most
dangerous Red of them all! Peter saw that he must get something on
this woman at once!






Section 64





Peter sat up suddenly among his silken cushions, and began to tell
Mrs. Godd about the new plan of the Anti-conscription League, to
prepare a set of instructions for young conscientious objectors.
Peter represented the purpose of these instructions to be the
advising of young men as to their legal and constitutional rights.
But it was McGivney's idea that Peter should slip into the
instructions some phrase advising the young men to refuse military
duty; if this were printed and circulated, it would render every
member of the Anti-conscription League liable to a sentence of ten
or twenty years in jail. McGivney had warned Peter to be very
cautious about this, but again Peter found that there was no need of
caution. Mrs. Godd was perfectly willing to advise young men to
refuse military service. She had advised many such, she said,
including her own sons, who unfortunately agreed with their father
in being blood-thirsty.

It came to be lunch-time, and Mrs. Godd asked if Peter could sit at
table--and Peter's curiosity got the better of all caution. He
wanted to see the Godd family sipping their nectar out of golden
cups. He wondered, would the disapproving husband and the
blood-thirsty sons be present?