Chapter 6
Section 11 and 12 of 100% The Story of a Patriot by Upton Sinclair. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Section 11 Again Peter did not know how long he lay shivering in the Black Dungeon. He only knew that they brought him bread and water three times before Guffy came again
and summoned him forth. Peter now sat huddled into a chair, twisting his trembling hands together, while the Chief Detective of the Traction Trust explained to him his new program. Peter was permanently ruined as a witness in the case. The labor conspirators had raised huge sums for the defense.
They had all the labor unions of the city and in fact of the entire country behind them, and they were hiring spies and informers and trying to find out all they could about the prosecution, the evidence it had collected, and the moves it was preparing. Guffy did not say that he had been afraid to kick Peter out because of the possibility that Peter might go over to the goober's side and tell all he knew.
But Peter guessed this while he sat listening to Guffy's explanation, and realized with a thrill of excitement that at last he had really got a hold upon the ladder of prosperity. Not in vain had his finger been almost broken and his wrist almost dislocated. Now," said Guffy, "'here's my idea.
As a witness you're on the bum, but as a spy you're it. They know that you blabbed, and that I know it. They know I've had you in the hole. So now what I want to do is to make a martyr of you. Do you see?'
Peter nodded. Yes, he saw. It was his specialty, seeing things like that. "'You're an honest witness. Do you understand?
I tried to get you to lie and you wouldn't, so now you go over to the other side and they take you in. Then you find out all you can, and from time to time you meet somebody as I'll arrange it and send me word what you've learned. You get me?'
"'I get you,' said Peter eagerly. No words could portray his relief. He had a real job now. He was going to be a sleuth, like Guffy himself.' "'Now,' said Guffy,
"'the first thing I want to know is, who's blabbing in this jail? We can't do anything, but they get tipped off. I've got witnesses that I want kept hidden, and I don't dare put them here for fear of the goober crowd. I want to know who were the traitors.
I want to know a lot of things that I'll tell you from time to time. I want you to get next to these reds and learn about their ideas so you can talk their lingo.' "'Sure,' said Peter. He could not help smiling a little. He was supposed to be a red already, to have been one of their leading conspirators.
But Guffy had abandoned that pretense, or perhaps had forgotten about it. It was really an easy job that Peter had set before him. He did not have to pretend to be anything different from what he was. He would call himself a victim of circumstances, and would be honestly indignant against those who had sought to use him in a frame-up against Jim Goober.
The rest would follow naturally. He would get the confidence of the labor people, and Guffy would tell him what to do next. "'We'll put you in one of the cells of this jail,' said the chief detective, "'and we'll pretend to give you a third degree. You'll holler and make a fuss and say you won't tell, and finally we'll give up and
kick you out, and then all you have to do is just hang around. They'll come after you, or I miss my guess.' So the little comedy was arranged and played through. Guffy took Peter by the collar and led him out into the main part of the jail, and locked him in one of a row of open cells.
He grabbed Peter by the wrist and pretended to twist it, and Peter pretended to protest. He did not have to draw on his imagination—he knew how it felt, and how he was supposed to act—and he acted. He sobbed and screamed, and again and again he vowed that he had told the truth, that he knew nothing else than what he had told, and that nothing could make him tell any more.
Guffy left him there until late the next afternoon, and then came again and took him by the collar and led him out to the steps of the jail and gave him a parting kick. Peter was free. What a wonderful sensation. Freedom!
God, had there ever been anything like it? He wanted to shout and howl with joy, but instead he staggered along the street and sank down upon a stone, coping, sobbing, with his head clasped in his hands, waiting for something to happen. And sure enough, it happened.
Perhaps an hour passed when he was touched lightly on the shoulder. Comrade, said a soft voice, and Peter, looking between his fingers, saw the skirts of a girl. A folded slip of paper was pressed into his hand, and the soft voice said, Come to this address. The girl walked on, and Peter's heart leaped with excitement.
Peter was a sleuth at last. Section 12 Peter waited until after dark in order to indulge his sense of the romantic. Also, he flattered his self-importance by looking carefully about him as he walked down the street.
He did not know just who would be shadowing him, but Peter wanted to be sleuthy. Also, he had a bit of genuine anxiety. He had told the truth when he said to Guffey that he didn't know what a red was, but since then he had been making inquiries, and now he knew. A red was a fellow who sympathized with labor unions and with strikes, who wanted to murder
the rich and divide their property, and believed that the quickest way to do the dividing was by means of dynamite. All reds made bombs and carried concealed weapons, and perhaps secret poisons. Who could tell? And now Peter was going among them.
He was going to become one of them. It was almost too interesting for a fellow who aimed above everything to be comfortable. Looking in him whispered, Why not skip? Get out of town and be done with it. But then he thought of the rewards and honors that Guffey had promised him.
Also, there was the spirit of curiosity. He might skip at any time, but first he would like to know a bit more about being a dick. He came to the number which had been given him, a tiny bungalow in a poor neighborhood, and rang the doorbell. It was answered by a girl, and at a glance Peter saw that it was the girl who had spoken
to him. He did not wait for him to announce himself, but cried impulsively, Mr. Gudge, oh, I'm so glad you've come. She added, Comrade. Just as if Peter were a well-known friend.
But then, But are you a comrade? How do you mean? asked Peter. You're not a socialist? Well, we'll make one of you.
She brought him in and showed him to a chair, saying, I know what they did to you. You stood out against them. Oh, you were wonderful, wonderful. Peter was at a loss what to say. There was in this girl's voice a note of affection as well as of admiration, and Peter in his
hard life had had little experience with emotions of this sort. Peter had watched the gushings and excitements of girls who were seeking flirtations, but this girl's attitude, he felt at once, was not flirtatious. Her voice, though soft, was just a trifle too solemn for a young girl. Her deep-set, wistful gray eyes rested on Peter with the solicitude of a mother whose
child had just escaped a danger. She called, Sadie, here's Mr. Gudge. And there entered another girl, older, taller, but thin and pale like her sister. Jenny and Sadie Todd were their names, Peter learned. The older was a stenographer and supported the family.
The two girls were in a state of intense concern. They started to question Peter about his experiences, but he had only talked for a minute or two before the elder went to the telephone. There were various people who must see Peter at once, important people who were to be notified as soon as he turned up.
She spent some time at the phone, and the people she talked with must have phoned to others because for the next hour or two there was a constant stream of visitors coming in, and Peter had to tell his story over and over again. The first to come was a giant of a man with tight-set mouth and so powerful a voice that it frightened Peter.
He was not surprised to learn that this man was the leader of one of the most radical of the city's big labor unions, the Siemens. Yes, he was a red, all right. He corresponded to Peter's imaginings, a grim, dangerous man, to be pictured like Sampson seizing the pillars of society and pulling them down upon his head.
They've got you scared, my boy," he said, noting Peter's hesitating answers to his questions. Well, they have had me scared for forty-five years, and I've never let them know it yet. Then in order to cheer Peter up and strengthen his nerves, he told how he, a runaway seaman, had been hunted through the Everglades of Florida with bloodhounds and tied to a tree
and beaten into insensibility. Then came David Andrews, whom Peter had heard of as one of the lawyers in the Gouver case, a tall, distinguished-looking man with keen, alert features. What was such a man doing among these outcasts? Peter decided that he must be one of the shrewd ones who made money out of inciting the discontented.
Then came a young girl, frail and sensitive, slightly crippled. As she crossed the room to shake his hand, tears rolled down her cheeks, and Peter stood embarrassed, wondering if she had just lost a near relative, and what was he to say about it. In the first words he gathered to his great consternation that she had been moved to tears
by the story of what he himself had endured. Ada Ruth was a poet, and this was a new type for Peter. After much groping in his mind, he set her down for one of the dupes of the movement, a poor little sentimental child with no idea of the wickedness by which she was surrounded. With her came a Quaker boy with pale, ascetic face and black locks which he had to shake
back from his eyes every now and then. He wore a Windsor tie and a black felt hat and other marks of eccentricity, and from his speeches Peter gathered that he was ready to blow up all the governments of the world in the interests of pacifism. The same was true of McCormick, an IWW leader who had just served sixty days in jail, a
silent young Irishman with drawn lips and restless black eyes, who made Peter uneasy by watching him closely and saying scarcely a word. End of sections 11 and 12.
