Chapter 4
Section 7 and 8 of 100% The Story of a Patriot by Upton Sinclair. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Section 7 Suddenly the man reached out and grasped one of Peter's hands. He twisted the wrist again, the sore wrist which still ached from the torture.
Will you tell?" I'd tell if I could, screamed Peter. My God, how can I? Don't lie to me, hissed the man. I know about it now.
You can't fool me. You know Jim Goober." I never heard of him, wailed Peter. You lie, declared the other, and he gave Peter's wrist a twist. Yes, yes, I know him, shrieked Peter.
Ah, that's more like it, said the other. Of course you know him. What sort of a looking man is he? I don't know. He's a big man.
You lie. You know he's a medium-sized man. He's a medium-sized man. A dark man? Yes, a dark man.
And you know Mrs. Goober, the music teacher? Yes, I know her. And you've been to her house? Yes, I've been to her house. Where is their house?
I don't know, that is. It's on Fourth Street, and he hired you to carry that suitcase with the bombs in it, didn't he? Yes, he hired me. And he told you what was in it, didn't he?
He, he, that is, I don't know. You don't know whether he told you? Yes, he told me. You knew all about the plot, didn't you? Yes, I knew.
And you know Isaacs, the Jew? Yes, I know him. He was the fellow that drove the jitney, wasn't he? Yes, he drove the jitney. Where did he drive it?
He drove it everywhere. He drove it over here with the suitcase, didn't he? Yes, he did. And you know Biddle, and you know what he did, don't you? Yes, I know.
And you're willing to tell all you know about it, are you? Yes, I'll tell it all. I'll tell whatever you— You'll tell whatever you know, will you? Y, yes, sir.
And you'll stand by it? You'll not try to back out? You don't want to go back into the hole? No, sir. And suddenly Guffey pulled from his pocket a paper folded up.
It was several typewritten sheets. Peter Gudge, he said, I've been looking up your record, and I found out what you did in this case. You'll see, when you read, how perfectly I got it. You won't find a single mistake in it.
Guffey meant this for wit, but poor Peter was too far gone with terror to have any idea that there was such a thing as a smile in the world. This is your story, do you see?" continued Guffey. Now take it and read it. So Peter took the paper in his trembling hand, the one which had not been twisted lame.
He tried to read it, but his hand shook so that he had to put it on his knee, and then he discovered that his eyes had not yet got used to the light. He could not see the print. I can't—he wailed. And the other man took the paper from him.
I'll read it to you, he said. Now you listen and put your mind on it, and make sure I've got it all right. And so Guffey started to read an elaborate legal document. I, Peter Gudge, being duly sworn to pose and swear, and so on. It was an elaborate and detailed story about a man named Jim Goober and his wife and three
other men, and how they had employed Peter to buy for them certain materials to make how Peter had helped them to make the bombs in a certain room at a certain given address, and how they had put the bombs in a suitcase, with a time clock to set them off, and how Isaacs, the jitney driver, had driven them to a certain corner on Main Street, and how they had left the suitcase with the bombs on the street in front of the Preparedness
Day Parade. It was very simple and clear, and Peter, as he listened, was almost ready to cry with delight, realizing that this was all he had to do to escape from his horrible predicament. He knew now what he was supposed to know, and he knew it. Why had not Guffey told him long ago, so that he might have known it without having his
fingers bent out of place and his wrist twisted off? Now, then, said Guffey, that's your confession, is it? Yes, said Peter. And you'll stand by it to the end? Yes, sir.
We can count on you now. No more nonsense? Yes, sir. You swear it's all true? I do.
Then you won't let anybody persuade you to go back on it, no matter what they say to you? No, sir, said Peter. All right, said Guffey, and his voice showed the relief of a businessman who was closed an important deal.
He became almost human as he went on. Now, Peter, he said, you're our man, and we're going to count on you. You understand, of course, that we have to hold you as a witness, but you're not to be a prisoner, and we're going to treat you well. We'll put you in the hospital part of the jail, and you'll have good grub and nothing
to do. In a week or so, we'll want you to appear before the grand jury. Meantime, you understand, not a word to a soul. People may try to worm something out of you, but don't you open your mouth about this case except to me.
I'm your boss, and I'll tell you what to do, and I'll take care of you all the way. You got that all straight? Yes, sir, said Peter. Section 8. There was once, so legend declares, a darky who said that he liked to stub his toe because
it felt so good when it stopped hurting. On this same principle, Peter had a happy time in the hospital of the American City Jail. He had a comfortable bed and plenty to eat, and absolutely nothing to do. His sore joints became gradually healed, and he gained half a pound a day in weight,
and his busy mind set to work to study the circumstances about him, to find out how he could perpetuate these comfortable conditions, and add to them the little luxuries which make life really worth living. In charge of this hospital was an old man by the name of Dubeman. He had been appointed because he was the uncle of an alderman, and he had held the job for
years, and during that time had gained weight almost as rapidly as Peter was gaining. He had now come to a condition where he did not like to get out of his armchair if it could be avoided. Peter discovered this, and so found it possible to make himself useful in small ways. Also, Mr. Dubeman had a secret vice.
He took snuff, and for the sake of discipline he did not want this dreadful fact to become known. Therefore, he would wait until everybody's back was turned before he took a pinch of snuff, and Peter learned this and would tactfully turn his back. Everybody in this hospital had some secret vice, and it was Mr. Dubeman's duty to repress
the vices of the others. The inmates of the hospital included many of the prisoners who had money and could pay to make themselves comfortable. They wanted tobacco, whiskey, cocaine, and other drugs, and some of them wanted a chance to practice unnameable horrors.
All the money they could smuggle in they were ready to spend for license to indulge themselves. As for the attendants in the hospital, they were all political appointees, derelicts who had been unable to hold a job in the commercial world and had sought an easy birth like Peter himself. They took bribes and were prepared to bribe Peter to outwit Mr. Dubeman.
Mr. Dubeman, on the other hand, was prepared to reward Peter with many favors if Peter would consent to bring him secret information. In such a situation it was possible for a man with his wits about him to accumulate quite a little capital. For the most part Peter stuck by Dubeman, having learned by bitter experience that in
the long run it pays to be honest. Dubeman was referred to by the other attendants as the Old Man, and always in Peter's life from the very dawn of childhood there had been some such Old Man, the fountainhead of authority, the dispenser of creature comforts. First had been Old Man, Drub, who from early morning until late at night wore green spectacles
and a sign across his chest, I am blind, and made a weary little child lead him through the streets by the hand. At night, when they got home to their garret room, Old Man, Drub, would take off his green goggles and was perfectly able to see Peter, and if Peter had made the slightest mistake during the day he would beat him.
When Drub was arrested Peter was taken to the orphan asylum, and there was another Old Man, and the same harsh lesson of subservience to be learned. Peter had run away from the asylum and then had come Pericles Priam with his pain paralyser, and Peter had studied his whims and served his interests. When Pericles had married a rich widow and she had kicked Peter out there had come the
temple of Jimjombo where the Old Man had been Tushbar Akrogos, the major domo, terrible when he was thwarted but a generous dispenser of favors when once you had learned to flatter him, to play upon his weaknesses, to smooth the path of his pleasures. All these years Peter had been forced to crook the pregnant hinges of the knee. It had become an instinct with him, an instinct that went back far behind the twenty years
of his conscious life, that went back twenty thousand years, perhaps ten times twenty thousand years, to a time when Peter had chipped flint spearheads at the mouth of some cave and broiled marrow bones for some Old Man of the board, then seen rebellious young fellows cast out to fall prey to the saber-toothed tiger.
