There was nobody present but an elderly woman companion, and Peter
did not see any golden cups. But he saw some fine china, so fragile
that he was afraid to touch it, and he saw a row of silver
implements, so heavy that it gave him a surprise each time he picked
one up. Also, he saw foods prepared in strange and complicated ways,
so chopped up and covered with sauces that it was literally true he
couldn't give the name of a single thing he had eaten, except the
buttered toast.

He was inwardly quaking with embarrassment during this meal, but he
saved himself by Mrs. James's formula, to watch and see what the
others were doing and then do likewise. Each time a new course was
brought, Peter would wait, and when he saw Mrs. Godd pick up a
certain fork or a certain spoon, he would pick up the same one, or
as near to it as he could guess. He could put his whole mind on
this, because he didn't have to do any talking; Mrs. Godd poured out
a steady stream of sedition and high treason, and all Peter had to
do was to listen and nod. Mrs. Godd would understand that his mouth
was too full for utterance.

After the luncheon they went out on the broad veranda which
overlooked a magnificent landscape. The hostess got Peter settled in
a soft porch chair with many cushions, and then waved her hand
toward the view of the city with its haze of thick black smoke.

"That's where my wage slaves toil to earn my dividends," said she.
"They're supposed to stay there--in their `place,' as it's called,
and I stay here in my place. If they want to change places, it's
called `revolution,' and that is `violence.' What I marvel at is
that they use so little violence, and feel so little. Look at those
men being tortured in jail! Could anyone blame them if they used
violence? Or if they made an effort to escape?"

That suggested a swift, stabbing idea to Peter. Suppose Mrs. Godd
could be induced to help in a jail delivery!

"It might be possible to help them to escape," he suggested.

"Do you think so?" asked Mrs. Godd, showing excitement for the
first time during that interview.

"It might be," said Peter. "Those jailors are not above taking
bribes, you know. I met nearly all of them while I was in that jail,
and I think I might get in touch with one or two that could be paid.
Would you like me to try it?"

"Well, I don't know--" began the lady, hesitatingly. "Do you really
think--"

"You know they never ought to have been put in at all!" Peter
interjected.

"That's certainly true!" declared Mrs. Godd.

"And if they could escape without hurting anyone, if they didn't
have to fight the jailors, it wouldn't do any real harm--"

That was as far as Peter got with his impromptu conspiracy. Suddenly
he heard a voice behind him: "What does this mean?" It was a male
voice, fierce and trembling with anger; and Peter started from his
silken cushions, and glanced around, thrusting up one arm with the
defensive gesture of a person who has been beaten since earliest
childhood.

Bearing down on him was a man; possibly he was not an abnormally big
man, but certainly he looked so to Peter. His smooth-shaven face was
pink with anger, his brows gathered in a terrible frown, and his
hands clenched with deadly significance. "You dirty little skunk!"
he hissed. "You infernal young sneak!"

"John!" cried Mrs. Godd, imperiously; but she might as well have
cried to an advancing thunder-storm. The man made a leap upon Peter,
and Peter, who had dodged many hundreds of blows in his lifetime,
rolled off the lounging chair, and leaped to his feet, and started
for the stairs of the veranda. The man was right behind him, and as
Peter reached the first stair the man's foot shot out, and caught
Peter fairly in the seat of his trousers, and the first stair was
the only one of the ten or twelve stairs of the veranda that Peter
touched in his descent.

Landing at the bottom, he did not stop even for a glance; he could
hear the snorting of Mr. Godd, it seemed right behind his ear, and
Peter ran down the driveway as he had seldom run in his life before.
Every now and then Mr. Godd would shoot out another kick, but he had
to stop slightly to do this, and Peter gained just enough to keep
the kicks from reaching him. So at last the pursuer gave up, and
Peter dashed thru the gates of the Godd estate and onto the main
highway.

Then he looked over his shoulder, and seeing that Mr. Godd was a
safe distance away, he stopped and turned and shook his clenched
fist with the menace of a street-rat, shrieking, "Damn you! Damn
you!" A whirlwind of impotent rage laid hold upon him. He shouted
more curses and menaces, and among them some strange, some almost
incredible words. "Yes, I'm a Red, damn your soul, and I'll stay a
Red!"

Yes, Peter Gudge, the friend of law and order, Peter Gudge, the
little brother to the rich, shouted, "I'm a Red, and what's more,
we'll blow you up some day for this--Mac and me'll put a bomb under
you!" Mr. Godd turned and stalked with contemptuous dignity back to
his own private domestic controversy.

Peter walked off down the road, rubbing his sore trousers and
sobbing to himself. Yes, Peter understood now exactly how the Reds
felt. Here were these rich parasites, exploiting the labor of
working men and living off in palaces by themselves--and what had
they done to earn it? What would they ever do for the poor man,
except to despise him, and to kick him in the seat of his trousers?
They were a set of wilful brutes! Peter suddenly saw the happenings
of last night from a new angle, and wished he had all the younger
members of the Chamber of Commerce and the Merchants' and
Manufacturers' Association right there along with Mr. Godd, so that
he could bundle them all off to the devil at once.

And that was no passing mood either. The seat of Peter's trousers
hurt so that he could hardly endure the trolley ride home, and all
the way Peter was plotting how he could punish Mr. Godd. He
remembered suddenly that Mr. Godd was an associate of Nelse
Ackerman; and Peter now had a spy in Nelse Ackerman's home, and was
preparing some kind of a "frame-up!" Peter would see if he couldn't
find some way to start a dynamite conspiracy against Mr. Godd! He
would start a campaign against Mr. Godd in the radical movement, and
maybe he could find some way to get a bunch of the "wobblies" to
carry him off and tie him up and beat him with a black-snake whip!






Section 65





With these reflections Peter went back to the American House, where
McGivney had promised to meet him that evening. Peter went to Room
427, and being tired after the previous night's excitement, he lay
down and fell fast asleep. And when again he opened his eyes, he
wasn't sure whether it was a nightmare, or whether he had died in
his sleep and gone to hell with Mr. Godd. Somebody was shaking him,
and bidding him in a gruff voice, "Wake up!" Peter opened his eyes,
and saw that it was McGivney; and that was all right, it was natural
that McGivney should be waking him up. But what was this? McGivney's
voice was angry, McGivney's face was dark and glowering, and--most
incredible circumstance of all--McGivney had a revolver in his hand,
and was pointing it into Peter's face!

It really made it much harder for Peter to get awake, because he
couldn't believe that he was awake; also it made it harder for
McGivney to get any sense out of him, because his jaw hung down, and
he stared with terrified eyes into the muzzle of the revolver.

"M-m-my God, Mr. McGivney! w-w-what's the matter?"

"Get up here!" hissed the rat-faced man, and he added a vile name.
He gripped Peter by the lapel of his coat and half jerked him to his
feet, still keeping the muzzle of the revolver in Peter's face. And
poor Peter, trying desperately to get his wits together, thought of
half a dozen wild guesses one after another. Could it be that
McGivney had heard him denouncing Mr. Godd and proclaiming himself a
Red? Could it be that some of the Reds had framed up something on
Peter? Could it be that McGivney had gone just plain crazy; that
Peter was in the room with a maniac armed with a revolver?

"Where did you put that money I gave you the other day;" demanded
McGivney, and added some more vile names.

Instantly, of course, Peter was on the defensive. No matter how
frightened he might be, Peter would never fail to hang on to his
money.

"I-I s-s-spent it, Mr. McGivney."

"You're lying to me!"

"N-n-no."

"Tell me where you put that money!" insisted the man, and his face
was ugly with anger, and the muzzle of the revolver seemed to be
trembling with anger. Peter started to insist that he had spent
every cent. "Make him cough up, Hammett!" said McGivney; and Peter
for the first time realized that there was another man in the room.
His eyes had been so fascinated by the muzzle of the revolver that
he hadn't taken a glance about.

Hammett was a big fellow, and he strode up to Peter and grabbed one
of Peter's arms, and twisted it around behind Peter's back and up
between Peter's shoulders. When Peter started to scream, Hammett
clapped his other hand over his mouth, and so Peter knew that it was
all up. He could not hold on to money at that cost. When McGivney
asked him, "Will you tell me where it is?" Peter nodded, and tried
to answer thru his nose.

So Hammett took his hand from his mouth. "Where is it?" And Peter
replied, "In my right shoe."

Hammett unlaced the shoe and took it off, and pulled out the inside
sole, and underneath was a little flat package wrapped in tissue
paper, and inside the tissue paper was the thousand dollars that
McGivney had given Peter, and also the three hundred dollars which
Peter had saved from Nelse Ackerman's present, and two hundred
dollars which he had saved from his salary. Hammett counted the
money, and McGivney stuck it into his pocket, and then he commanded
Peter to put on his shoe again. Peter obeyed with his trembling
fingers, meantime keeping his eye in part on the revolver and in
part on the face of the rat.

"W-w-what's the matter, Mr. McGivney?"

"You'll find out in time," was the answer. "Now, you march
downstairs, and remember, I've got this gun on you, and there's
eight bullets in it, and if you move a finger I'll put them all into
you."

So Peter and McGivney and Hammett went down in the elevator of the
hotel, and out of doors, and into an automobile. Hammett drove, and
Peter sat in the rear seat with McGivney, who had the revolver in
his coat pocket, his finger always on the trigger and the muzzle
always pointed into Peter's middle. So Peter obeyed all orders
promptly, and stopped asking questions because he found he could get
no answers.

Meantime he was using his terrified wits on the problem. The best
guess he could make was that Guffey had decided to believe Joe
Angell's story instead of Peter's. But then, why all this gun-play,
this movie stuff? Peter gave up in despair; and it was just as well,
for what had happened lay entirely beyond the guessing power of
Peter's mind or any other mind.






Section 66





They went to the office of the secret service department of the
Traction Trust, a place where Peter had never been allowed to come
hitherto. It was on the fourteenth floor of the Merchant's Trust
Building, and the sign on the door read: "The American City Land &
Investment Company. Walk In." When you walked in, you saw a
conventional real estate office, and it was only when you had
penetrated several doors that you came to the secret rooms where
Guffey and his staff conducted the espionage work of the big
business interests of the city.

Peter was hustled into one of these rooms, and there stood Guffey;
and the instant Guffey saw him, he bore down upon him, shaking his
fist. "You stinking puppy!" he exclaimed. "You miserable little
whelp! You dirty, sneaking hound!" He added a number of other
descriptive phrases taken from the vocabulary of the kennel.

Peter's knees were shaking, his teeth were chattering, and he
watched every motion of Guffey's angry fingers, and every grimace of
Guffey's angry features. Peter had been fully prepared for the most
horrible torture he had experienced yet; but gradually he realized
that he wasn't going to be tortured, he was only going to be scolded
and raged at, and no words could describe the wave of relief in his
soul. In the course of his street-rat's life Peter had been called
more names than Guffey could think of if he spent the next month
trying. If all Guffey was going to do was to pace up and down the
room, and shake his fist under Peter's nose every time he passed
him, and compare him with every kind of a domestic animal, Peter
could stand it all night without a murmur.

He stopped trying to find out what it was that had happened, because
he saw that this only drove Guffey to fresh fits of exasperation.
Guffey didn't want to talk to Peter, he didn't want to hear the
sound of Peter's whining gutter-pup's voice. All he wanted was to
pour out his rage, and have Peter listen in abject abasement, and
this Peter did. But meantime, of course, Peter's wits were working
at high speed, he was trying to pick up hints as to what the devil
it could mean. One thing was quite clear--the damage, whatever it
was, was done; the jig was up, it was all over but the funeral. They
had taken Peter's money to pay for the funeral, and that was all
they hoped to get out of him.

Gradually came other hints. "So you thought you were going into
business on your own!" snarled Guffey, and his fist, which was under
Peter's nose, gave an upward poke that almost dislocated Peter's
neck.

"Aha!" thought Peter. "Nelse Ackerman has given me away!"

"You thought you were going to make your fortune and retire for life
on your income!"

Yes, that was it, surely! But what could Nelse Ackerman have told
that was so very bad?

"You were going to have a spy of your own, set up your own bureau,
and kick me out, perhaps!"

"My God!" thought Peter. "Who told that?"

Then suddenly Guffey stopped in front of him. "Was that what you
thought?" he demanded. He repeated the question, and it appeared
that he really wanted an answer, and so Peter stammered, "N-n-no,
sir." But evidently the answer didn't suit Guffey, for he grabbed
Peter's nose and gave it a tweak that brought the tears into his
eyes.

"What was it then?" A nasty sneer came on the head detective's
face, and he laughed at Peter with a laugh of venomous contempt. "I
suppose you thought she really loved you! Was it that? You thought
she really loved you?" And McGivney and Hammett and Guffey ha-ha-ed
together, and to Peter it seemed like the mockery of demons in the
undermost pit of hell. Those words brought every pillar of Peter's
dream castle tumbling in ruins about his ears. Guffey had found out
about Nell!

Again and again on the automobile ride to Guffey's office Peter had
reminded himself of Nell's command, "Stick it out, Peter! Stick it
out!" He had meant to stick it out in spite of everything; but now
in a flash he saw that all was lost. How could he stick it out when
they knew about Nell, and when Nell, herself, was no longer sticking
it out?

Guffey saw these thoughts plainly written in Peter's face, and his
sneer turned into a snarl. "So you think you'll tell me the truth
now, do you? Well, it happens there's nothing left to tell!"

Again he turned and began pacing up and down the room. The pressure
of rage inside him was so great that it took still more time to work
it off. But finally the head detective sat down at his desk, and
opened the drawer and took out a paper. "I see you're sitting there,
trying to think up some new lie to tell me," said he. And Peter did
not try to deny it, because any kind of denial only caused a fresh
access of rage. "All right," Guffey said, "I'll read you this, and
you can see just where you stand, and just how many kinds of a boob
you are."

So he started to read the letter; and before Peter had heard one
sentence, he knew this was a letter from Nell, and he knew that the
castle of his dreams was flat in the dust forever. The ruins of
Sargon and Nineveh were not more hopelessly flat!

"Dear Mr. Guffey," read the letter, "I am sorry to throw you down,
but fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money, and we all get tired
of work and need a rest. This is to tell you that Ted Crothers has
just broke into Nelse Ackerman's safe in his home, and we have got
some liberty bonds and some jewels which we guess to be worth fifty
thousand dollars, and you know Ted is a good judge of jewels.

"Now of course you will find out that I was working in Mr.
Ackerman's home and you will be after me hot-foot, so I might as
well tell you about it, and tell you it won't do you any good to
catch us, because we have got all the inside dope on the Goober
frame-up, and everything else your bureau has been pulling off in
American City for the last year. You can ask Peter Gudge and he'll
tell you. It was Peter and me that fixed up that dynamite
conspiracy, but you mustn't blame Peter, because he only did what I
told him to do. He hasn't got sense enough to be really dangerous,
and he will make you a perfectly good agent if you treat him kind
and keep him away from the women. You can do that easy enough if you
don't let him get any money, because of course he's nothing much on
looks, and the women would never bother with him if you didn't pay
him too much.

"Now Peter will tell you how we framed up that dynamite job, and of
course you wouldn't want that to get known to the Reds, and you may
be sure that if Ted and me get pinched, we'll find some way to let
the Reds know all about it. If you keep quiet we'll never say a
word, and you've got a perfectly good dynamite conspiracy, with all
the evidence you need to put the Reds out of business, and you can
just figure it cost you fifty thousand dollars, and it was cheap at
the price, because Nelse Ackerman has paid a whole lot more for your
work, and you never got anything half as big as this. I know you'll
be mad when you read this, but think it over and keep your shirt on.
I send it to you by messenger so you can get hold of Nelse Ackerman
right quick, and have him not say anything to the police; because
you know how it is--if those babies find it out, it will get to the
Reds and the newspapers, and it'll be all over town and do a lot of
harm to your frame-up. And you know after those Reds have got beaten
up and Shawn Grady lynched, you wouldn't like to have any rumor get
out that that dynamite was planted by your own people. Ted and me
will keep out of sight, and we won't sell the jewels for a while,
and everything will be all right.

"Yours respectfully,

"Edythe.

"P. S. It really ain't Peter's fault that he's silly about women,
and he would have worked for you all right if it hadn't been for my
good looks!"






Section 67





So there it was. When Peter had heard this letter, he understood
that there was no more to be said, and he said it. His own weight
had suddenly become more than he could support, and he saw a chair
nearby and slipped into it, and sat with eyes of abject misery
roaming from Guffey to McGivney, and from McGivney to Hammett, and
then back to Guffey again.

The head detective, for all his anger, was a practical man; he could
not have managed the very important and confidential work of the
Traction Trust if he had not been. So now he proceeded to get down
to business. Peter would please tell him everything about that
dynamite frame-up; just how they had managed it and just who knew
about it. And Peter, being also a practical man, knew that there was
no use trying to hide anything. He told the story from beginning to
end, taking particular pains to make clear that he and Nell alone
were in the secret---except that beyond doubt Nell had told her
lover, Ted Crothers. It was probably Crothers that got the dynamite.
From the conversation that ensued Peter gathered that this young man
with the face of a bull-dog was one of the very fanciest
safecrackers in the country, and no doubt he was the real brains of
the conspiracy; he had put Nell up to it, and managed every step.
Suddenly Peter remembered all the kisses which Nell had given him in
the park, and he found a blush of shame stealing over him. Yes,
there was no doubt about it, he was a boob where women were
concerned!

Peter began to plead for himself, Really it wasn't his fault because
Nell had got a hold on him. In the Temple of Jimjambo, when he was
only a kid, he had been desperately in love with her. She was not
only beautiful, she was so smart; she was the smartest woman he had
ever known. McGivney remarked that she had been playing with Peter
even then--she had been in Guffey's pay at that time, collecting
evidence to put Pashtian el Kalandra in jail and break up the cult
of Eleutherinian Exoticism. She had done many such jobs for the
secret service of the Traction Trust, while Peter was still
traveling around with Pericles Priam selling patent medicine. Nell
had been used by Guffey to seduce a prominent labor leader in
American City; she had got him caught in a hotel room with her, and
thus had broken the back of the biggest labor strike ever known in
the city's history.

Peter felt suddenly that he had a good defense. Of course a woman
like that had been too much for him! It was Guffey's own fault if he
hired people like that and turned them loose! It suddenly dawned on
Peter--Nell must have found out that he, Peter, was going to meet
young Lackman in the Hotel de Soto, and she must have gone there
deliberately to ensnare him. When McGivney admitted that that was
possibly true, Peter felt that he had a case, and proceeded to urge
it with eloquence. He had been a fool, of course, every kind of fool
there was, and he hadn't a word to say for himself; but he had
learned his lesson and learned it thoroughly. No more women for him,
and no more high life, and if Mr. Guffey would give him another
chance--

Guffey, of course, snorted at him. He wouldn't have a pudding-head
like Peter Gudge within ten miles of his office! But Peter only
pleaded the more abjectly. He really did know the Reds thoroughly,
and where could Mr. Guffey find anybody that knew them as well? The
Reds all trusted him; he was a real martyr--look at the plasters all
over him now! And he had just added another Red laurel to his
brow--he had been to see Mrs. Godd, and had had the seat of his
trousers kicked by Mr. Godd, and of course he could tell that story,
and maybe he could catch some Reds in a conspiracy against Mr. Godd.
Anyhow, they had that perfectly good case against McCormick and the
rest of the I. W. Ws. And now that things had gone so far, surely
they couldn't back down on that case! All that was necessary was to
explain matters to Mr. Ackerman--

Peter realized that this was an unfortunate remark. Guffey was on
his feet again, pacing up and down the room, calling Peter the names
of all the barnyard animals, and incidentally revealing that he had
already had an interview with Mr. Ackerman, and that Mr. Ackerman
was not disposed to receive amicably the news that the secret
service bureau which he had been financing, and which was supposed
to be protecting him, had been the means of introducing into his
home a couple of high-class criminals who had cracked his safe and
made off with jewels that they guessed were worth fifty thousand
dollars, but that Mr. Ackerman claimed were worth eighty-five
thousand dollars. Peter was informed that he might thank his lucky
stars that Guffey didn't shut him in the hole for the balance of his
life, or take him into a dungeon and pull him to pieces inch by
inch. As it was, all he had to do was to get himself out of Guffey's
office, and take himself to hell by the quickest route he could
find. "Go on!" said Guffey. "I mean it, get out!"

And so Peter got to his feet and started unsteadily toward the door.
He was thinking to himself: "Shall I threaten them? Shall I say I'll
go over to the Reds and tell what I know?" No, he had better not do
that; the least hint of that might cause Guffey to put him in the
hole! But then, how was it possible for Guffey to let him go, to
take a chance of his telling? Right now, Guffey must be thinking to
himself that Peter might go away, and in a fit of rage or of despair
might let out the truth to one of the Reds, and then everything
would be ruined forever. No, surely Guffey would not take such a
chance! Peter walked very slowly to the door, he opened the door
reluctantly, he stood there, holding on as if he were too weak to
keep his balance; he waited--waited--

And sure enough, Guffey spoke. "Come back here, you mut!" And Peter
turned and started towards the head detective, stretching out his
hands in a gesture of submission; if it had been in an Eastern
country, he would have fallen on his knees and struck his forehead
three times in the dust. "Please, please, Mr. Guffey!" he wailed.
"Give me another chance!"

"If I put you to work again," snarled Guffey, "will you do what I
tell you, and not what you want to do yourself?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Guffey."

"You'll do no more frame-ups but my frame-ups?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Guffey."

"All right, then, I'll give you one more chance. But by God, if I
find you so much as winking at another girl, I'll pull your eye
teeth out!"

And Peter's heart leaped with relief. "Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr.
Guffey!"

"I'll pay you twenty dollars a week, and no more," said Guffey.
"You're worth more, but I can't trust you with money, and you can
take it or leave it."

"That'll be perfectly satisfactory, Mr. Guffey," said Peter.






Section 68





So there was the end of high life for Peter Gudge. He moved no more
in the celestial circles of Mount Olympus. He never again saw the
Chinese butler of Mr. Ackerman, nor the French parlor-maid of Mrs.
Godd. He would no more be smiled at by the two hundred and
twenty-four boy angels of the ceiling of the Hotel de Soto lobby.
Peter would eat his meals now seated on a stool in front of a lunch
counter, he would really be the humble proletarian, the "Jimmie
Higgins" of his role. He put behind him bright dreams of an
accumulated competence, and settled down to the hard day's work of
cultivating the acquaintance of agitators, visiting their homes and
watching their activities, getting samples of the literature they
were circulating, stealing their letters and address-books and
note-books, and taking all these to Room 427 of the American House.

These were busy times just now. In spite of the whippings and the
lynchings and the jailings--or perhaps because of these very
things--the radical movement was seething. The I. W. Ws. had
reorganized secretly, and were accumulating a defense fund for their
prisoners; also, the Socialists of all shades of red and pink were
busy, and the labor men had never ceased their agitation over the
Goober case. Just now they were redoubling their activities, because
Mrs. Goober was being tried for her life. Over in Russia a mob of
Anarchists had made a demonstration in front of the American
Legation, because of the mistreatment of a man they called "Guba."
At any rate, that was the way the news came over the cables, and the
news-distributing associations of the country had been so successful
in keeping the Goober case from becoming known that the editors of
the New York papers really did not know any better, and printed the
name as it came, "Guba!" which of course gave the radicals a fine
chance to laugh at them, and say, how much they cared about labor!

The extreme Reds seemed to have everything their own way in Russia.
Late in the fall they overthrew the Russian government, and took
control of the country, and proceeded to make peace with Germany;
which put the Allies in a frightful predicament, and introduced a
new word into the popular vocabulary, the dread word "Bolshevik."
After that, if a man suggested municipal ownership of ice-wagons,
all you had to do was to call him a "Bolshevik" and he was done for.

However, the extremists replied to this campaign of abuse by taking
up the name and wearing it as a badge. The Socialist local of
American City adopted amid a storm of applause a resolution to call
itself the "Bolshevik local," and the "left-wingers" had everything
their own way for a time. The leader in this wing was a man named
Herbert Ashton, editor of the American City "Clarion," the party's
paper. A newspaper-man, lean, sallow, and incredibly bitter, Ashton
apparently had spent all his life studying the intrigues of
international capital, and one never heard an argument advanced that
he was not ready with an answer. He saw the war as a struggle
between the old established commercialism of Great Britain, whose
government he described as "a gigantic trading corporation," and the
newly arisen and more aggressive commercialism of Germany.

Ashton would take the formulas of the war propagandists and treat
them as a terrier treats a rat. So this was a war for democracy! The
bankers of Paris had for the last twenty years been subsidizing the
Russian Tsars, who had shipped a hundred thousand exiles to Siberia
to make the world safe for democracy! The British Empire also had
gone to war for democracy--first in Ireland, then in India and
Egypt, then in the Whitechapel slums! No, said Ashton, the workers
were not to be fooled with such bunk. Wall Street had loaned some
billions of dollars to the Allied bankers, and now the American
people were asked to shed their blood to make the world safe for
those loans!

Peter had been urging McGivney to put an end to this sort of
agitation, and now the rat-faced man told him that the time for
action had come. There was to be a big mass meeting to celebrate the
Bolshevik revolution, and McGivney warned Peter to keep out of sight
at that meeting, because there might be some clubbing. Peter left
off his red badge, and the button with the clasped hands and went up
into the gallery and lost himself in the crowd. He saw a great many
"bulls" whom he knew scattered thru the audience, and also he saw
the Chief of Police and the head of the city's detective bureau.
When Herbert Ashton was half way thru his tirade, the Chief strode
up to the platform and ordered him under arrest, and a score of
policemen put themselves between the prisoner and the howling
audience.

Altogether they arrested seven people; and next morning, when they
saw how much enthusiasm their action had awakened in the newspapers,
they decided to go farther yet. A dozen of Guffey's men, with
another dozen from the District Attorney's office, raided the office
of Ashton's paper, the "Clarion," kicked the editorial staff
downstairs or threw them out of the windows, and proceeded to smash
the typewriters and the printing presses, and to carry off the
subscription lists and burn a ton or two of "literature" in the back
yard. Also they raided the headquarters of the "Bolshevik local,"
and placed the seven members of the executive committee under
arrest, and the judge fixed the bail of each of them at twenty-five
thousand dollars, and every day for a week or two the American City
"Times" would send a man around to Guffey's office, and Guffey would
furnish him with a mass of material which Peter had prepared,
showing that the Socialist program was one of terrorism and murder.

Almost every day now Peter rendered some such service to his
country. He discovered where the I. W. W. had hidden a printing
press with which they were getting out circulars and leaflets, and
this place was raided, and the press confiscated, and half a dozen
more agitators thrown into jail. These men declared a hunger strike,
and tried to starve themselves to death as a protest against the
beatings they got; and then some hysterical women met in the home of
Ada Ruth, and drew up a circular of protest, and Peter kept track of
the mailing of this circular, and all the copies were confiscated in
the post-office, and so one more conspiracy was foiled. They now had
several men at work in the post-office, secretly opening the mail of
the agitators; and every now and then they would issue an order
forbidding mail to be delivered to persons whose ideas were not
sound.

Also the post-office department cancelled the second class mailing
privileges of the "Clarion," and later it barred the paper from the
mails entirely. A couple of "comrades" with automobiles then took up
the work of delivering the paper in the nearby towns; so Peter was
sent to get acquainted with these fellows, and in the night time
some of Guffey's men entered the garage, and fixed one of the cars
so that its steering gear went wrong and very nearly broke the
driver's neck. So yet another conspiracy was foiled!






Section 69





Peter was really happy now, because the authorities were thoroughly
roused, and when he brought them new facts, he had the satisfaction
of seeing something done about it. Ostensibly the action was taken
by the Federal agents, or by the District Attorney's office, or by
the city police and detectives; but Peter knew that it was always
himself and the rest of Guffey's agents, pulling the wires behind
the scenes. Guffey had the money, he was working for the men who
really counted in American City; Guffey was the real boss. And all
over the country it was the same; the Reds were being put out of
business by the secret agents of the Chambers of Commerce and the
Merchants' and Manufacturers' Associations, and the "Improve America
League," and such like camouflaged organizations.

They had everything their own way, because the country was at war,
the war excitement was blazing like a prairie fire all over the
land, and all you had to do was to call a man a pro-German or a
Bolshevik, and to be sufficiently excited about it, and you could
get a mob together and go to his home and horsewhip him or tar and
feather him or lynch him. For years the big business men had been
hating the agitators, and now at last they had their chance, and in
every town, in every shop and mill and mine they had some Peter
Gudge at work, a "Jimmie Higgins" of the "Whites," engaged in spying
and "snooping" upon the "Jimmie Higgins" of the "Reds." Everywhere
they had Guffeys and McGivneys to direct these activities, and they
had "strong arm men," with guns on their hips and deputy sheriffs'
and other badges inside their coats, giving them unlimited right to
protect the country from traitors.

There were three or four million men in the training camps, and
every week great convoys were sent out from the Eastern ports,
loaded with troops for "over there." Billions of dollars worth of
munitions and supplies were going, and all the yearnings and
patriotic fervors of the country were likewise going "over there."
Peter read more speeches and sermons and editorials, and was proud
and glad, knowing that he was taking his humble part in the great
adventure. When he read that the biggest captains of industry and
finance were selling their services to the government for the sum of
one dollar a year, how could he complain, who was getting twenty
dollars every week? When some of the Reds in their meetings or in
their "literature" declared that these captains of industry and
finance were the heads of companies which were charging the
government enormous prices and making anywhere from three to ten
times the profits they had made before the war--then Peter would
know that he was listening to an extremely dangerous Bolshevik; he
would take the name of the man to McGivney, and McGivney would pull
his secret wires, and the man would suddenly find himself out of a
job--or maybe being prosecuted by the health department of the city
for having set out a garbage can without a cover.

After persistent agitation, the radicals had succeeded in persuading
a judge to let out McCormick and the rest of the conspirators on
fifty thousand dollars bail apiece. That was most exasperating to
Peter, because it was obvious that when you put a Red into jail, you
made him a martyr to the rest of the Reds you made him conspicuous
to the whole community, and then if you let him out again, his
speaking and agitating were ten times as effective as before. Either
you ought to keep an agitator in jail for good, or else you ought
not put him in at all. But the judges didn't see that--their heads
were full of a lot of legal bunk, and they let David Andrews and the
other Red lawyers hood-wink them. Herbert Ashton and his Socialist
crowd also got out on bail, and the "Clarion" was still published
and openly sold on the news-stands. While it didn't dare oppose the
war any more, it printed every impolite thing it could possibly
collect about the "gigantic trading corporation" known as the
British Government, and also about the "French bankers" and the
"Italian imperialists." It clamored for democracy for Ireland and
Egypt and India, and shamelessly defended the Bolsheviki, those
pro-German conspirators and nationalizers of women.

So Peter proceeded to collect more evidence against the "Clarion"
staff, and against the I. W. Ws. Presently he read the good news
that the government had arrested a couple of hundred of the I. W. W.
leaders all over the country, and also the national leaders of the
Socialists, and was going to try them all for conspiracy. Then came
the trial of McCormick and Henderson and Gus and the rest; and Peter
picked up his "Times" one morning, and read on the front page some
news that caused him to gasp. Joe Angell, one of the leaders in the
dynamite conspiracy, had turned state's evidence! He had revealed to
the District Attorney, not only the part which he himself had played
in the plan to dynamite Nelse Ackerman's home, but he had told
everything that the others had done--just how the dynamite had been
got and prepared, and the names of all the leading citizens of the
community who were to share Nelse Ackerman's fate! Peter read, on
and on, breathless with wonder, and when he got thru with the story
he rolled back on his bed and laughed out loud. By heck, that was
the limit! Peter had framed a frame-up on Guffey's man, and of
course Guffey couldn't send this man to prison; so he had had him
turn state's evidence, and was letting him go free, as his reward
for telling on the others!

The court calendars were now crowded with "espionage" cases;
pacifist clergymen who had tried to preach sermons, and labor
leaders who bad tried to call strikes; members of the
Anti-conscription League and their pupils, the draft-dodgers and
slackers; Anarchists and Communists and Quakers, I. W. Ws., and
Socialists and "Russellites." There were several trials going on all
the time, and in almost every case Peter had a finger, Peter was
called on to get this bit of evidence, or to investigate that juror,
or to prepare some little job against a witness for the defense.
Peter was wrapped up in the fate of each case, and each conviction
was a personal triumph. As there was always a conviction, Peter
began to swell up again with patriotic fervor, and the memory of
Nell Doolin and Ted Crothers slipped far into the background. When
"Mac" and his fellow dynamiters were sentenced to twenty years
apiece, Peter felt that he had atoned for all his sins, and he
ventured timidly to point out to McGivney that the cost of living
was going up all the time, and that he had kept his promise not to
wink at a woman for six months. McGivney said all right, they would
raise him to thirty dollars a week.






Section 70





Of course Peter's statement to McGivney had not been literally true.
He had winked at a number of women, but the trouble was none had
returned his wink. First he had made friendly advances toward Miriam
Yankovich, who was buxom and not bad looking; but Miriam's thoughts
were evidently all with McCormick in jail; and then, after her
experience with Bob Ogden, Miriam had to go to a hospital, and of
course Peter didn't want to fool with an invalid. He made himself
agreeable to others of the Red girls, and they seemed to like him;
they treated him as a good comrade, but somehow they did not seem to
act up to McGivney's theories of "free love." So Peter made up his
mind that he would find him a girl who was not a Red. It would give
him a little relief now and then, a little fun. The Reds seldom had
any fun--their idea of an adventure was to get off in a room by
themselves and sing the International or the Red Flag in whispers,
so the police couldn't hear them.

It was Saturday afternoon, and Peter went to a clothing store kept
by a Socialist, and bought himself a new hat and a new suit of
clothes on credit. Then he went out on the street, and saw a neat
little girl going into a picture-show, and followed her, and they
struck up an acquaintance and had supper together. She was what
Peter called a "swell dresser," and it transpired that she worked in
a manicure parlor. Her idea of fun corresponded to Peter's, and
Peter spent all the money he had that Saturday evening, and made up
his mind that if he could get something new on the Reds in the
course of the week, he would strike McGivney for forty dollars.

Next morning was Easter Sunday, and Peter met his manicurist by
appointment, and they went for a stroll on Park Avenue, which was
the aristocratic street of American City and the scene of the
"Easter parade." It was war time, and many of the houses had flags
out, and many of the men were in uniform, and all of the sermons
dealt with martial themes. Christ, it appeared, was risen again to
make the world safe for democracy, and to establish
self-determination for all people; and Peter and Miss Frisbie both
had on their best clothes, and watched the crowds in the "Easter
parade," and Miss Frisbie studied the costumes and make-up of the
ladies, and picked up scraps of their conversation and whispered
them to Peter, and made Peter feel that he was back on Mount Olympus
again.

They turned into one of the swell Park Avenue churches; the Church
of the Divine Compassion it was called, and it was very "high," with
candles and incense--althogh you could hardly smell the incense on
this occasion for the scent of the Easter lilies and the ladies.
Peter and his friend were escorted to one of the leather covered
pews, and they heard the Rev. de Willoughby Stotterbridge, a famous
pulpit orator, deliver one of those patriotic sermons which were
quoted in the "Times" almost every Monday morning. The Rev. de
Willoughby Stotterbridge quoted some Old Testament text about
exterminating the enemies of the Lord, and he sang the triumph of
American arms, and the overwhelming superiority of American
munitions. He denounced the Bolsheviks and all other traitors, and
called for their instant suppression; he didn't say that he had
actually been among the crowd which had horse-whipped the I. W. Ws.
and smashed the printing presses and typewriters of the Socialists,
but he made it unmistakably clear that that was what he wanted, and
Peter's bosom swelled with happy pride. It was something to a man to
know that he was serving his country and keeping the old flag
waving; but it was still more to know that he was enlisted in the
service of the Almighty, that Heaven and all its hosts were on his
side, and that everything he had done had the sanction of the
Almighty's divinely ordained minister, speaking in the Almighty's
holy temple, in the midst of stained-glass windows and brightly
burning candles and the ravishing odor of incense, and of Easter
lilies and of mignonette and lavender in the handkerchiefs of
delicately gowned and exquisite ladies from Mount Olympus. This, to
be sure, was mixing mythologies, but Peter's education had been
neglected in his youth, and Peter could not be blamed for taking the
great ones of the earth as they were, and believing what they taught
him.

The white robed choir marched out, and the music of "Onward
Christian Soldiers" faded away, and Peter and his lady went out from
the Church of the Divine Compassion, and strolled on the avenue
again, and when they had sufficiently filled their nostrils with the
sweet odors of snobbery, they turned into the park, where there were
places of seclusion for young couples interested in each other. But
alas, the fates which dogged Peter in his love-making had prepared
an especially cruel prank that morning. At the entrance to the park,
whom should Peter meet but Comrade Schnitzelmann, a fat little
butcher who belonged to the "Bolshevik local" of American City.
Peter tried to look the other way and hurry by, but Comrade
Schnitzelmann would not have it so. He came rushing up with one
pudgy hand stretched out, and a beaming smile on his rosy Teutonic
countenance. "Ach, Comrade Gudge!" cried he. "Wie geht's mit you dis
morning?"

"Very well, thank you," said Peter, coldly, and tried to hurry on.

But Comrade Schnitzelmann held onto his hand. "So! You been seeing
dot Easter barade!" said he. "Vot you tink, hey? If we could get all
de wage slaves to come und see dot barade, we make dem all
Bolsheviks pretty quick! Hey, Comrade Gudge?"

"Yes, I guess so," said Peter, still more coldly.

"We show dem vot de money goes for--hey, Comrade Gudge!" And Comrade
Schnitzelmann chuckled, and Peter said, quickly, "Well, good-bye,"
and without introducing his lady-love took her by the arm and
hurried away.

But alas, the damage had been done! They walked for a minute or two
amid ominous silence. Then suddenly the manicurist stood still and
confronted Peter. "Mr. Gudge," she demanded, "what does that mean?"

And Peter of course could not answer. He did not dare to meet her
flashing eyes, but stood digging the toe of his shoe into the path.
"I want to know what it means," persisted the girl. "Are you one of
those Reds?"

And what could poor Peter say? How could he explain his acquaintance
with that Teutonic face and that Teutonic accent?

The girl stamped her foot with impatient anger. "So you're one of
those Reds! You're one of those pro-German traitors! You're an
imposter, a spy!"

Peter was helpless with embarrassment and dismay. "Miss Frisbie," he
began, "I can't explain--"

"_Why_ can't you explain? Why can't any honest man explain?"

"But--but--I'm not what you think--it isn't true! I--I--" It was on
the tip of Peter's tongue to say, "I'm a patriot! I'm a 100%
American, protecting my country against these traitors!" But
professional honor sealed his tongue, and the little manicurist
stamped her foot again, and her eyes flashed with indignation.

"You dare to seek my acquaintance! You dare to take me to church!
Why--if there was a policeman in sight, I'd report you, I'd send you
to jail!" And actually she looked around for a policeman! But it is
well known that there never is a policeman in sight when you look
for one; so Miss Frisbie stamped her foot again and snorted in
Peter's face. "Goodbye, _Comrade_ Gudge!" The emphasis she put upon
that word "comrade" would have frozen the fieriest Red soul; and she
turned with a swish of her skirts and strode off, and Peter stood
looking mournfully at her little French heels going crunch, crunch,
crunch on the gravel path. When the heels were clean gone out of
sight, Peter sought out the nearest bench and sat down and buried
his face in his hands, a picture of woe. Was there ever in the world
a man who had such persistent ill luck with women?






Section 71





These were days of world-agony, when people bought the newspapers
several times every day, and when crowds gathered in front of
bulletin boards, looking at the big maps with little flags, and
speculating, were the Germans going to get to Paris, were they going
to get to the Channel and put France out of the war? And then
suddenly the Americans struck their first blow, and hurled the
Germans back at Chateau-Thierry, and all America rose up with one
shout of triumph!

You would think that was a poor time for pacifist agitation; but the
members of the Anti-conscription League had so little discretion
that they chose this precise moment to publish a pamphlet,
describing the torturing of conscientious objectors in military
prisons and training camps! Peter had been active in this
organization from the beginning, and he had helped to write into the
pamphlet a certain crucial phrase which McGivney had suggested. So
now here were the pamphlets seized by the Federal government, and
all the members of the Anti-conscription League under arrest,
including Sadie Todd and little Ada Ruth and Donald Gordon! Peter
was sorry about Sadie Todd, in spite of the fact that she had called
him names. He couldn't be very sorry about Ada Ruth, because she was
obviously a fanatic, bent on getting herself into trouble. As for
Donald Gordon, if he hadn't learned his lesson from that whipping,
he surely had nobody to blame but himself.

Peter was a member of this Anti-conscription League, so he pretended
to be in hiding, and carried on a little comedy with Ada Ruth's
cousin, an Englishwoman, who hid him out in her place in the
country. Peter had an uncomfortable quarter of an hour when Donald
Gordon was released on bail, because the Quaker boy insisted that
the crucial phrase which had got them all into trouble had been
stricken out of the manuscript before he handed it to Peter Gudge to
take to the printer. But Peter insisted that Donald was mistaken,
and apparently he succeeded in satisfying the others, and after they
were all out on bail, he made bold to come out of his hiding place
and to attend one or two protest meetings in private homes.

Then began a new adventure, in some ways the most startling of all.
It had to do with another girl, and the beginning was in the home of
Ada Ruth, where a few of the most uncompromising of the pacifists
gathered to discuss the question of raising money to pay for their
legal defense. To this meeting came Miriam Yankovich, pale from an
operation for cancer of the breast, but with a heart and mind as Red
as ever. Miriam had brought along a friend to help her, because she
wasn't strong enough to walk; and it was this friend who started
Peter on his new adventure.