100%: the Story of a Patriot

by Upton Sinclair

  So for a couple of months Peter and Mrs. James set up housekeepingtogether. It was a wonderful experience for the former, because Mrs.James was what is called a "lady," she had rich relatives, and tookpains to let Peter know that she had lived in luxury before herhusband had run away to Paris with a tight-rope walker. She taughtPeter all those worldly arts which one misses when one is brought upin an orphan asylum, and on the road with a patent medicine vender.Tactfully, and without hurting his feelings, she taught him how tohold a knife and fork, and what color tie to select. At the sametime she managed to conduct a propaganda which caused him to regardhimself as the most favored of mankind; he was overwhelmed withgratitude for every single kiss from the lips of his grass widow. Ofcourse he could not expect such extraordinary favors of fortunewithout paying for them; he had learned by now that there was nosuch thing as "free love." So he paid, hand over fist; he not onlypaid all the expenses of the unregistered honeymoon, he boughtnumerous expensive presents at the lady's tactful suggestion. Shewas always so vivacious and affectionate when Peter had given her apresent! Peter lived in a kind of dream, his money seemed to go outof his pockets without his having to touch it.

  Meantime great events were rolling by, unheeded by Peter and hisgrass widow who never read the newspapers. For one thing Jim Gooberwas convicted and sentenced to die on the gallows, and Jim Goober'sassociate, Biddle, was found guilty, and sentenced to prison forlife. Also, America entered the war, and a wave of patrioticexcitement swept like a prairie fire over the country. Peter couldnot help hearing about this; his attention was attracted to oneaspect of the matter--Congress was about to pass a conscription act.And Peter was within the age limit; Peter would almost certainly bedrafted into the army!

  No terror that he had ever felt in his life was equal to thisterror. He had tried to forget the horrible pictures of battle andslaughter, of machine-guns and hand-grenades and torpedoes andpoison gas, with which little Jennie had filled his imagination; butnow these imaginings came crowding back upon him, now for the firsttime they concerned him. From that time on his honeymoon wasspoiled. Peter and his grass widow were like a party of picnickerswho are far away in the wilderness, and see a black thunder-stormcome rolling up the sky!

  Also, Peter's bank account was running low. Peter had had noconception how much money you could spend on a grass widow who is a"swell dresser" and understands what is "proper." He was overwhelmedwith embarrassment; he put off telling Mrs. James until the lastmoment--in fact, until he wasn't quite sure whether he had enoughmoney in bank to meet the last check he had given to the landlady.Then, realizing that the game was up, he told.

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

  Section 31

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

  The purpose of the meeting was quickly explained. America was now atwar, and the time had come when the mouths of these Reds were to bestopped for good. You could do things in war-time that you couldn'tdo in peace-time, and one of the things you were going to do was toput an end to the agitation against property. Peter licked his lips,metaphorically speaking. It was something he had many times toldMcGivney ought to be done. Pat McCormick especially ought to be putaway for good. These were a dangerous bunch, these Reds, and Mac wasthe worst of all. It was every man's duty to help, and what couldPeter do?

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

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

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

  "To jail!" cried Peter, in dismay.

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

  Peter didn't like the idea of going to jail; his memories of thejail in American City were especially painful. But McGivneyexplained that this was a time when men couldn't consider their ownfeelings; the country was in danger, public safety must beprotected, and it was up to everybody to make some patrioticsacrifice. The rich men were all subscribing to liberty bonds; thepoor men were going to give their lives; and what was Peter Gudgegoing to give? "Maybe I'll be drafted into the army," Peterremarked.

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

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

  Donald was decidedly uncordial in his welcoming of Peter; withoutsaying a word the young Quaker made Peter aware that he was arenegade, a coward who had "thrown down" the Goober defense. ButPeter was patient and tactful; he did not try to defend himself, nordid he ask any questions about Donald and Donald's activities. Hesimply announced that he had been studying the subject ofmilitarism, and had come to a definite point of view. He was aSocialist and an Internationalist; he considered America's entryinto the war a crime, and he was willing to do his part in agitatingagainst it. He was going to take his stand as a conscientiousobjector; they might send him to jail if they pleased, or even standhim against a wall and shoot him, but they would never get him toput on a uniform.

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

  At the next weekly meeting of Local American City, Peter ventured tosay a few words. It was a red-hot meeting, at which the war and thedraft were the sole subjects of discussion. There were some Germansin the local, some Irishmen, and one or two Hindoos; they,naturally, were all ardent pacifists. Also there were agitators ofwhat was coming to be called the "left wing"; the group within theparty who considered it too conservative, and were always clamoringfor more radical declarations, for "mass action" and general strikesand appeals to the proletariat to rise forthwith and break theirchains. These were days of great events; the Russian revolution hadelectrified the world, and these comrades of the "left wing" feltthemselves lifted upon pinions of hope.

  Peter
spoke as one who had been out on the road, meeting the rankand file; he could speak for the men on the job. What was the use ofopposing the draft here in a hall, where nobody but party memberswere present? What was wanted was for them to lift up their voiceson the street, to awaken the people before it was too late! Wasthere anybody in this gathering bold enough to organize a streetmeeting?

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

  Section 32

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

  It was all very simple, and took less than ten minutes of time. Thetruck drew up on Main Street, and a young orator stepped forward andannounced to his fellow citizens that the time had come for theworkers to make known their true feelings about the draft. Neverwould free Americans permit themselves to be herded into armies andshipped over seas and be slaughtered for the benefit ofinternational bankers. Thus far the orator had got, when a policemanstepped forward and ordered him to shut up. When he refused, thepoliceman tapped on the sidewalk with his stick, and a squad ofeight or ten came round the corner, and the orator was informed thathe was under arrest. Another orator stepped forward and took up theharangue, and when he also had been put under arrest, another, andanother, until the whole six of them, including Peter, were in hand.

  The crowd had had no time to work up any interest one way or theother, A patrol-wagon was waiting, and the orators were bundled inand driven to the station-house, and next morning they were haledbefore a magistrate and sentenced each to fifteen days. As they hadbeen expecting to get six months, they were a happy bunch of "leftwingers."

  And they were still happier when they saw how they were to betreated in jail. Ordinarily it was the custom of the police toinflict all possible pain and humiliation upon the Reds. They wouldput them in the revolving tank, a huge steel structure of many cellswhich was turned round and round by a crank. In order to get intoany cell, the whole tank had to be turned until that particular cellwas opposite the entrance, which meant that everybody in the tankgot a free ride, accompanied by endless groaning and scraping ofrusty machinery; also it meant that nobody got any consecutivesleep. The tank was dark, too dark to read, even if they had hadbooks or papers. There was nothing to do save to smoke cigarettesand shoot craps, and listen to the smutty stories of the criminals,and plot revenge against society when they got out again. But up inthe new wing of the jail were some cells which were clean and brightand airy, being only three or four feet from a row of windows. Inthese cells they generally put the higher class of criminals--womenwho had cut the throats of their sweethearts, and burglars who hadgot I away with the swag, and bankers who had plundered wholecommunities. But now, to the great surprise of five out of the sixanti-militarists, the entire party was put in one of these bigcells, and allowed the privilege of having reading matter and ofpaying for their own food. Under these circumstances martyrdombecame a joke, and the little party settled down to enjoy life. Itnever once occurred to them to think of Peter Gudge as the source ofthis bounty. They attributed it, as the French say, "to theirbeautiful eyes."

  There was Donald Gordon, who was the son of a well-to-do businessman, and had been to college, until he was expelled for taking thedoctrines of Christianity too literally and expounding them toopersistently on the college campus. There was a big, brawnylumber-jack from the North, Jim Henderson by name, who had beendriven out of the camps for the same reason, and had appallingstories to tell of the cruelties and hardships of the life of alogger. There was a Swedish sailor by the name of Gus, who hadvisited every port in the world, and a young Jewish cigar-worker whohad never been outside of American City, but had travelled even morewidely in his mind.

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

  There was no part of America that Tom Duggan hadn't visited, notragedy of the life of outcasts that he hadn't seen. He was sosaturated with it that he couldn't think of anything else. He wouldtell about men who had perished of thirst in the desert, aboutminers sealed up for weeks in an exploded mine, about matchmakerspoisoned until their teeth fell out, and their finger nails and eventheir eyes. Peter could see no excuse for such morbidness, suchendless harping upon the horrible things of life. It spoiled all hishappiness in the jail--it was worse than little Jennie's talkingabout the war!

  Section 33

  One of Duggan's poems had to do with a poor devil named Slim, whowas a "snow-eater," that is to say, a cocaine victim. This Slimwandered about the streets of New York in the winter-time withoutany shelter, and would get into an office building late in theafternoon, and hide in one of the lavatories to spend the night. Ifhe lay down, he would be seen and thrown out, so his only chance wasto sit up; but when he fell asleep, he would fall off theseat--therefore he carried a rope in his pocket, and would tiehimself in a sitting position.

  Now what was the use of a story like that? Peter didn't want to hearabout such people! He wanted to express his disgust; but he knew, ofcourse, that he must hide it. He laughed as he exclaimed, "ChristAlmighty, Duggan, can't you give us something with a smile? Youdon't think it's the job of Socialists to find a cure for the dopehabit, do you? That's sure one thing that ain't caused by the profitsystem."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Then he sat down and buried his face in his hands. The group ofrough fellows sat in solemn silence. Presently Gus, the Swedishsailor, feeling perhaps that the rebuke to Peter had been toosevere, spoke timidly: "Comrade Gudge, he ban in jail twicealready."

  So the poet looked up again. He held out his hand to Peter. "Sure, Iknow that!" he said, clasping Peter in the grip of comradeship. Andthen he added: "I'll tell you a story with a smile!"
>
  Once upon a time, it appeared, Duggan had been working in a movingpicture studio, where they needed tramps and outcasts and all sortsof people for crowds. They had been making a "Preparedness" picture,and wanted to show the agitators and trouble-makers, mobbing thepalace of a banker. They got two hundred bums and hoboes, and tookthem in trucks to the palace of a real banker, and on the front lawnthe director made a speech to the crowd, explaining his ideas."Now," said he, "remember, the guy that owns this house is the guythat's got all the wealth that you fellows have produced. You aredown and out, and you know that he's robbed you, so you hate him.You gather on his lawn and you're going to mob his home; if you canget hold of him, you're going to tear him to bits for what he's doneto you." So the director went on, until finally Duggan interrupted:"Say, boss, you don't have to teach us. This is a real palace, andwe're real bums!"

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