It seemed as if Henderson, the lumber-jack, had read Peter'sthought. "My God!" he said. "What a job it is to make the workersclass-conscious!" He sat on the edge of his cot, with his broadshoulders bowed and his heavy brows knit in thought over the problemof how to increase the world's discontent. He told of one camp wherehe had worked--so hard and dangerous was the toil that seven men hadgiven up their lives in the course of one winter. The man who ownedthis tract, and was exploiting it, had gotten the land by therankest kind of public frauds; there were filthy bunk-houses,vermin, rotten food, poor wages and incessant abuse. And yet, in thespring-time, here came the young son of this owner, on a honeymoontrip with his bride. "And Jesus," said Henderson, "if you could haveseen those stiffs turn out and cheer to split their throats! Theyreally meant it, you know; they just loved that pair of idle,good-for-nothing kids!"
Gus, the sailor, spoke up, his broad, good-natured face wearing agrin which showed where three of his front teeth had been knockedout with a belaying pin. It was exactly the same with the seamen, hedeclared. They never saw the ship-owners, they didn't know even thenames of the people who were getting the profit of their toil, butthey had a crazy loyalty to their ship, Some old tanker would besent out to sea on purpose to be sunk, so that the owners might getthe insurance. But the poor A. Bs. would love that old tub so thatthey would go down to the bottom with her--or perhaps they wouldsave her, to the owners great disgust!
Thus, for hours on end, Peter had to sit listening to this dingdonging about the wrongs of the poor and the crimes of the rich.Here he had been sentenced for fifteen days and nights to listen toSocialist wrangles! Every one of these fellows had a different ideaof how he wanted the world to be run, and every one had a differentidea of how to bring about the change. Life was an endless strugglebetween the haves and the have-nots, and the question of how thehave-nots were to turn out the haves was called "tactics." When youtalked about "tactics" you used long technical terms which made yourconversation unintelligible to a plain, ordinary mortal. It seemedto Peter that every time he fell asleep it was to the music ofproletariat and surplus value and unearned increment, possibilismand impossibilism, political action, direct action, mass action, andthe perpetual circle of Syndicalist-Anarchist, Anarchist-Communist,Communist-Socialist and Socialist-Syndicalist.
Section 34
In company such as this Peter's education for the role of detectivewas completed by force, as it were. He listened to everything, andwhile he did not dare make any notes, he stored away treasures inhis mind, and when he came out of the jail he was able to giveMcGivney a pretty complete picture of the various radicalorganizations in American City, and the attitude of each one towardthe war.
Peter found that McGivney's device had worked perfectly. Peter wasnow a martyr and a hero; his position as one of the "left wingers"was definitely established, and anyone who ventured to say a wordagainst him would be indignantly rebuked. As a matter of fact, noone desired to say much. Pat McCormick, Peter's enemy, was out on anorganizing trip among the oil workers.
Duggan had apparently taken a fancy to Peter, and took him to meetsome of his friends, who lived in an old, deserted warehouse, whichhappened to have skylights in the roof; this constituted each room a"studio," and various radicals rented the rooms, and lived here asort of picnic existence which Peter learned was called "Bohemian."They were young people, most of them, with one or two old fellows,derelicts; they wore flannel shirts, and soft ties, or no ties atall, and their fingers were always smeared with paint. Their liferequirements were simple; all they wanted was an unlimited quantityof canvas and paint, some cigarettes, and at long intervals a pickleor some sauer-kraut and a bottle of beer. They would sit all day infront of an easel, painting the most inconceivable pictures--pinkskies and green-faced women and purple grass and fantastic splurgesof color which they would call anything from "The Woman with aMustard Pot" to "A Nude Coming Downstairs." And there would beothers, like Duggan, writing verses all day; pounding away on atypewriter, if they could manage to rent or borrow one. There wereseveral who sang, and one who played the flute and caused all theothers to tear their hair. There was a boy fresh from the country,who declared that he had run away from home because the family sanghymns all day Sunday, and never sang in tune.
From people such as these you would hear the most revolutionaryutterances; but Peter soon realized that it was mostly just talkwith them. They would work off their frenzies with a few dashes ofpaint or some ferocious chords on the piano. The really dangerousones were not here; they were hidden away in offices or dens oftheir own, where they were prompting strikes and labor agitations,and preparing incendiary literature to be circulated among the poor.
You met such people in the Socialist local, and in the I. W. W.headquarters, and in numerous clubs and propaganda societies whichPeter investigated, and to which he was welcomed as a member. In theSocialist local there was a fierce struggle going on over the war.What should be the attitude of the party? There was a group, acomparatively small group, which believed that the interests ofSocialism would best be served by helping the Allies to theoverthrow of the Kaiser. There was another group, larger and stillmore determined, which believed that the war was a conspiracy ofallied capitalism to rivet its power upon the world, and this groupwanted the party to stake its existence upon a struggle againstAmerican participation. These two groups contested for the minds ofthe rank and file of the members, who seemed to be bewildered by themagnitude of the issue and the complexity of the arguments. Peter'sorders were to go with the extreme anti-militarists; they were theones whose confidence he wished to gain, also they were thetrouble-makers of the movement, and McGivney's instructions were tomake all the trouble possible.
Over at the I. W. W. headquarters was another group whose memberswere debating their attitude to the war. Should they call strikesand try to cripple the leading industries of the country? Or shouldthey go quietly on with their organization work, certain that in theend the workers would sicken of the military adventure into whichthey were being snared? Some of these "wobblies" were Socialistparty members also, and were active in both gatherings; two of them,Henderson, the lumber-jack, and Gus Lindstrom, the sailor, had beenin jail with Peter, and had been among his intimates ever since.
Also Peter met the Pacifists; the "Peoples' Council," as they calledthemselves. Many of these were religious people, two or threeclergymen, and Donald Gordon, the Quaker, and a varied assortment ofwomen--sentimental young girls who shrunk from the thought ofbloodshed, and mothers with tear-stained cheeks who did not wanttheir darlings to be drafted. Peter saw right away that thesemothers had no "conscientious objections." Each mother was thinkingabout her own son and about nothing else. Peter was irritated atthis, and took it for his special job to see that those mother'sdarlings did their duty.
He attended a gathering of Pacifists in the home of aschool-teacher. They made heart-breaking speeches, and finallylittle Ada Ruth, the poetess, got up and wanted to know, was it allto end in talk, or would they organize and prepare to take someaction against the draft? Would they not at least go out on thestreet, get up a parade with banners of protest, and go to jail asComrade Peter Gudge had so nobly done?
Comrade Peter was called on for "a few words." Comrade Peterexplained that he was no speaker; after all, actions spoke louderthan words, and he had tried to show what he believed. The otherswere made ashamed by this, and decided for a bold stand at once. AdaRuth became president and Donald Gordon secretary of the"Anti-conscription League"--a list of whose charter members wasturned over to McGivney the same evening.
Section 35
All this time the country had been going to war. The huge militarymachine was getting under way, the storm of public feeling wasrising. Congress had voted a huge loan, a country-wide machine ofpropaganda was being organized, and the oratory of Four Minute Menwas echoing from Maine to California. Peter read the American City"Times" every morning, and here were speeches of statesmen andsermons of clergymen, here were ca
rtoons and editorials, all burningwith the fervor's of patriotism. Peter absorbed these, and his soulbecame transfigured. Hitherto Peter had been living for himself; butthere comes a time in the life of every man who can use his brain atall when he realizes that he is not the one thing of importance inthe universe, the one end to be served. Peter very often sufferedfrom qualms of conscience, waves of doubt as to his ownrighteousness. Peter, like every other soul that ever lived, neededa religion, an ideal.
The Reds had a religion, as you might call it; but this religion hadfailed to attract Peter. In the first place it was low; its devoteeswere wholly lacking in the graces of life, in prestige, and thatease which comes with assurance of power. They were noisy in theirfervors, and repelled Peter as much as the Holy Rollers. Also, theywere always harping upon the sordid and painful facts of life; whobut a pervert would listen to "sob stories," when he might have allthe things that are glorious and shining and splendid in the world?
But now here was the religion Peter wanted. These clergymen in theirrobes of snow white linen, preaching in churches with golden altarsand stained-glass windows; these statesmen who wore the halo offame, and went about with the cheering of thousands in their ears;these mighty captains of industry whose very names were magic--withpower, when written on pieces of paper, to cause cities to rise inthe desert, and then to fall again beneath a rain of shells andpoison gas; these editors and cartoonists of the American City"Times," with all their wit and learning--these people all combinedto construct for Peter a religion and an ideal, and to hand it outto him, ready-made and precisely fitted to his understanding. Peterwould go right on doing the things he had been doing before; but hewould no longer do them in the name of Peter Gudge, the ant, hewould do them in the name of a mighty nation of a hundred and tenmillion people, with all its priceless memories of the past and itsinfinite hopes for the future; he would do them in the sacred nameof patriotism, and the still more sacred name of democracy.And--most convenient of circumstances--the big business men ofAmerican City, who had established a secret service bureau withGuffey in charge of it, would go right on putting up their funds,and paying Peter fifty dollars a week and expenses while he servedthe holy cause!
It was the fashion these days for orators and public men to vie withone another in expressing the extremes of patriotism, and Peterwould read these phrases, and cherish them; they came to seem a partof him, he felt as if he had invented them. He became greedy formore and yet more of this soul-food; and there was always more to behad--until Peter's soul was become swollen, puffed up as with abellows. Peter became a patriot of patriots, a super-patriot; Peterwas a red-blooded American and no mollycoddle; Peter was a"he-American," a 100% American--and if there could have been such athing as a 101% American, Peter would have been that. Peter was somuch of an American that the very sight of a foreigner filled himwith a fighting impulse. As for the Reds--well, Peter groped forquite a time before he finally came upon a formula which expressedhis feelings. It was a famous clergyman who achieved it forhim--saying that if he could have his way he would take all theReds, and put them in a ship of stone with sails of lead, and sendthem forth with hell for their destination.
So Peter chafed more and more at his inability to get action. Howmuch more evidence did the secret service of the Traction Trustrequire? Peter would ask this question of McGivney again and again,and McGivney would answer: "Keep your shirt on. You're getting yourpay every week. What's the matter with you?"
"The matter is, I'm tired of listening to these fellows ranting,"Peter would say. "I want to stop their mouths."
Yes, Peter had come to take it as a personal affront that theseradicals should go on denouncing the cause which Peter had espoused.They all thought of Peter as a comrade, they were most friendly tohim; but Peter had the knowledge of how they would regard him whenthey knew the real truth, and this imagined contempt burned him likean acid. Sometimes there would be talk about spies and informers,and then these people would exhaust their vocabulary of abuse, andPeter, of course, would apply every word of it to himself and becomewild with anger. He would long to answer back; he was waiting forthe day when he might vindicate himself and his cause by smashingthese Reds in the mouth.
Section 36
"Well," said McGivney one day, "I've got something interesting foryou now. You're going into high society for a while!"
And the rat-faced man explained that there was a young man in aneighboring city, reputed to be a multi-millionaire, who had writtena book against the war, and was the financial source of muchpacificism and sedition. "These people are spending lots of moneyfor printing," said McGivney, "and we hear this fellow Lackman isputting it up. We've learned that he is to be in town tomorrow, andwe want you to find out all about his affairs."
So Peter was to meet a millionaire! Peter had never known one ofthese fortunate beings, but he was for them--he had always been forthem. Ever since he had learned to read, he had liked to findstories about them in the newspapers, with pictures of them andtheir palaces. He had read these stories as a child reads fairytales. They were his creatures of dreams, belonging to a world abovereality, above pain and inconvenience.
And then in the days when Peter had been a servant in the Temple ofJimjambo, devoted to the cult of Eleutherinian Exoticism, he hadfound hanging in the main assembly room a picture labelled, "MountOlympus," showing a dozen gods and goddesses reclining at ease onsilken couches, sipping nectar from golden goblets and gazing downupon the far-off troubles of the world. Peter would peer from behindthe curtains and see the Chief Magistrian emerging from behind theseven mystic veils, lifting his rolling voice and in a kind of chantexpounding life to his flock of adoring society ladies. He wouldpoint to the picture and explain those golden, Olympian days whenthe Eleutherinian cult had originated. The world had changed muchsince then, and for the worse; those who had power must take it astheir task to restore beauty and splendor to the world, and todevelop the gracious possibilities of being.
Peter, of course, hadn't really believed in anything that went on inthe Temple of Jimjambo; and yet he had been awed by its richness,and by the undoubtedly exclusive character of its worshippers; hehad got the idea definitely fixed in his head that there really hadbeen a Mount Olympus, and when he tried to imagine the millionairesand their ways, it was these gods and goddesses, reclining on silkencouches and sipping nectar, that came to his mind!
Now since Peter had come to know the Reds, who wanted to blow up thepalaces of the millionaires, he was more than ever on the side ofhis gods and goddesses. His fervors for them increased every time heheard them assailed; he wanted to meet some of them, andpassionately, yet respectfully, pour out to them his allegiance. Aglow of satisfaction came over him as he pictured himself in somepalace, lounging upon a silken conch and explaining to a millionairehis understanding of the value of beauty and splendor in the world.
And now he was to meet one; it was to be a part of his job tocultivate one! True, there was something wrong with this particularmillionaire--he was one of those freaks who for some reason beyondimagining gave their sympathy to the dynamiters and assassins. Peterhad met "Parlor Reds" at the home of the Todd sisters; the largeshining ladies who came in large shining cars to hear him tell ofhis jail experiences. But he hadn't been sure as to whether theywere really millionaires or not, and Sadie, when he had inquiredparticularly, had answered vaguely that every one in the radicalmovement who could afford an automobile or a dress-suit was called amillionaire by the newspapers.
But young Lackman was a real millionaire, McGivney positivelyassured him; and so Peter was free to admire him in spite of all hisfreak ideas, which the rat-faced man explained with intenseamusement. Young Lackman conducted a school for boys, and when oneof the boys did wrong, the teacher would punish himself instead ofthe boy! Peter must pretend to be interested in this kind of"education," said McGivney, and he must learn at least the names ofLackman's books.
"But will he pay any attention to me?" demanded Peter.
"
Sure, he will," said McGivney. "That's the point--you've been injail, you've really done something as a pacifist. What you want todo is to try to interest him in your Anti-conscription League. Tellhim you want to make it into a national organization, you want toget something done besides talking."
The address of young Lackman was the Hotel de Soto; and as he heardthis, Peter's heart gave a leap. The Hotel de Soto was the MountOlympus of American City! Peter had walked by the vast whitestructure, and seen the bronze doors swing outward, and the favoredones of the earth emerging to their magic chariots; but never had itoccurred to him that he might pass thru those bronze doors, and gazeupon those hidden mysteries!
"Will they let me in?" he asked McGivney, and the other laughed."Just walk in as if you owned the place," he said. "Hold up yourhead, and pretend you've lived there all your life."
That was easy for McGivney to say, but not so easy for Peter toimagine. However, he would try it; McGivney must be right, for itwas the same thing Mrs. James had impressed upon him many times. Youmust watch what other people did, and practice by yourself, and thengo in and do it as if you had never done anything else. All life wasa gigantic bluff, and you encouraged yourself in your bluffing bythe certainty that everybody else was bluffing just as hard.
At seven o'clock that evening Peter strolled up to the magic bronzedoors, and touched them; and sure enough, the blue-uniformedguardians drew them back without a word, and the tiny brass-buttonimps never even glanced at Peter as he strode up to the desk andasked for Mr. Lackman.
The haughty clerk passed him on to a still more haughty telephoneoperator, who condescended to speak into her trumpet, and theninformed him that Mr. Lackman was out; he had left word that hewould return at eight. Peter was about to go out and wander aboutthe streets for an hour, when he suddenly remembered that everybodyelse was bluffing; so he marched across the lobby and seated himselfin one of the huge leather arm-chairs, big enough to hold three ofhim. There he sat, and continued to sit--and nobody said a word!
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