Chapter 7
XIII. They continued to come, one at a time or in groups, old women and young women, old men and young men, fanatics and dreamers, agitators who could hardly open their mouths without some white-hot words escaping, revealing a blaze of passion smoldering in the deeps of them. Peter became more and more uneasy, realizing that he was actually in the midst of all the
most dangerous reds of American city. They it was, whom our law-abiding citizens dreaded, who were the objects of more concern to the police than all the plain, everyday burglars and bandits. Peter now could see the reason. He had not dreamed that such angry and hate-tormented people existed in the world. Such people would be capable of anything. He sat with his restless eyes wandering from one face to another. Which one of this crowd had helped to set off the
bomb? And would they boast about it to him this evening? Peter half expected this, but again he wondered. They were such strange criminals. They called him comrade, and they spoke with that same affection that had so bewildered him in little Jenny. Was this just a ruse to get his confidence, or did these people really think that they loved him? Peter Gudge, a stranger and a secret enemy. Peter had been at great pains to fool them, but
they seemed to him so easy to fool that his pains were wasted. He despised them for this, and all the while he listened to them he was saying to himself, the poor nuts. They had come to hear his story and they plied him with questions and made him tell over and over again every detail. Peter, of course, had been carefully instructed. He was not to mention the elaborate confession he had been made to sign. That would be giving too
dangerous a weapon to these enemies of law and order. He must tell as brief a story as possible. How he had happened to be near the scene of the explosion, and how the police had tried to force him to admit that he knew something about the case. Peter told this according to orders, but he had not been prepared for the minute questioning to which he was subjected by Andrews, the lawyer aided by old John Durand, the leader of the semen.
They wanted to know everything that had been done to him, and who had done it, and how and when and where and why. Peter had a sense of the dramatic, and enjoyed being the center of attention and admiration, even though it was from a room full of criminal reds. So he told all the picturesque details of how Guffy had twisted his wrist and shut him in a dungeon. The memory of the pain was still poignant, and came out of him now with a realism
that would have moved a colder group. So pretty soon, here were all these women sobbing and raging. Little Ada Ruth became inspired, and began reciting a poem, or was she composing it right here, before his eyes? She seemed entranced with indignation. It was something about the workers arising, the outcry of a mob. No further patience with a heedless foe, get off our backs, or else to hell you go. Peter listened and thought to himself,
the poor nut. And then Donald Gordon, the Quaker boy, took the floor and began shaking his long black locks and composing a speech, it seemed. And Peter listened and thought again, the poor nut. Then another man, the editor of a labor journal, revealed the fact that he was composing an editorial. He knew Guffy and was going to publish Guffy's picture and brand him as an Inquisitionist. He asked for Peter's picture, and Peter agreed to
have one taken, and to be headlined as the Inquisitionist's victim. Peter had no idea what the long word meant, but he assented and thought again, the poor nut. All of them were nuts, taking other people's troubles with such excitement. But Peter was frightened too. He couldn't altogether enjoy being a hero in this vivid and startling fashion. Having his name and fame spread from one end of the country to the other, so that organized
labor might know the methods which the great traction interests of American city were employing to send a well-known labor leader to the gallows, the thing seemed to grow and grow before Peter's frightened eyes. Peter, the ant, felt the earth shaking and got a sudden sense of the mountain size of the mighty giants who were stamping in combat over his head. Peter wondered, had Guffy realized what a stir his story would make, what a powerful weapon he was giving
to his enemies? What could Guffy expect to get from Peter to compensate for this damage to his own case? Peter, as he listened to the stormy oratory in the crowded little room, found himself thinking again and again of running away. He had never seen anything like the rage into which these people worked themselves, the terrible things they said, the denunciations, not merely of the police of American city, but of the courts and the newspapers, the
churches and the colleges, everything that seemed respectable and sacred to law-abiding citizens like Peter Gudge. Peter's fright became apparent. But why shouldn't he be frightened? Andrews, the lawyer, offered to take him away and hide him lest the opposition should try to make way with him. Peter would be a most important witness for the Gubber defense, and they must take good care of him. But Peter recovered his self-possession and took up
his noble role. No, he would take his chances with the rest of them. He was not too much afraid. Sadie Todd, the stenographer, rewarded him for his heroism. They had a spare bedroom in their little home, and if Peter cared to stay with them for a while, they would try to make him comfortable. Peter accepted this invitation, and at a late hour in the evening the gathering broke up. The various groups of reds went their way, their hands clenched
in their faces portraying a grim resolve to make out of Peter's story a means of lashing, discontented labor to new frenzies of excitement. The men clasped Peter's hand cordially. The ladies gazed at him with soulful eyes and whispered their admiration for his brave course. Their hope, indeed their conviction, that he would stand by the truth to the end and would study their ideas and join their movement. All the while Peter watched them and continued
saying to himself, The poor nuts. Section 14 The respectable newspapers of American City of course did not waste their space upon fantastic accusations brought by radicals, charging the police authorities with using torture upon witnesses. But there was a socialist paper published every week in American City, and this paper had a long account of Peter's
experiences on the front page together with his picture. Also, there were three labor papers which carried the story, and the Guber Defense Committee prepared a circular about it and mailed out thousands of copies all over the country. This circular was written by Donald Gordon, the Quaker boy. He brought Peter a proof of it to make sure that he had got all the details right, and Peter read it and really could not help being thrilled
to discover what a hero he was. Peter had not said anything about his early career, and whoever among the Guber Defense Committee had learned those details chose to be diplomatically silent. Peter smiled to himself as he thought about that. They were foxy, these people. They were playing their hand for all it was worth, and Peter admired them for that. In Donald Gordon's narrative, Peter appeared as a poor working man, and Peter grinned.
He was used to the word working, but when he talked about working people, he meant something different from what these socialists meant. The story went out, and of course all sorts of people wanted to meet Peter, and came to the home of the Todd Girls. So Peter settled down to his job of finding out all he could about these visitors, their names and occupations, their relations to the radical movement. Guffey had advised him not to make notes for fear
of detection, but Peter could not carry all this in his head, so he would retire to his room and make minute notes on slips of paper, and carefully sew these up in the lining of his coat with a thrill of mystery. Except for this note-taking, however, Peter's sleuthing was easy work, for these people all seemed eager to talk about what they were doing. Sometimes it frightened Peter. They were so open and defiant. Not merely did they
express their ideas to one another and to him, they were expressing them on public platforms and in their publications, in pamphlets and in leaflets, what they called literature. Peter had had no idea their movement was so widespread or so powerful. He had expected to unearth a secret conspiracy and perhaps a dynamite bomb or two, instead of which, apparently, he was unearthing a volcano. However, Peter did the best he could. He got the names
and details of about some 40 or 50 people of all classes, obscure working men and women, Jewish tailors, Russian and Italian cigar workers, American-born machinists and printers, and also some parlor reds, large, immaculate and shining ladies who came rolling up to the little bungalow in large, immaculate and shining automobiles, and left their uniformed chauffeurs outside for hours at a time while they listened to Peter's story of his third
degree. One benevolent lady with a flowing gray veil who wafted a sweet perfume about the room suggested that Peter might be in need and pressed a $20 bill into his hand. Peter, thrilled but also bewildered, got a new sense of the wonders of this thing called the movement, and decided that when Guffy got through with him he might turn into a red in earnest for a while. Meantime he settled down to make himself comfortable with the
Todd sisters. Sadie went off to work before eight o'clock every morning, and that was before Peter got up, but Jenny stayed home and fixed his breakfast and opened the door for his visitors, and in general played the hostess for him. She was a confirmed invalid. Twice a week she went off to a doctor to have something done to her spine, and the balance of the time she was supposed to be resting, but Peter very seldom saw her doing this.
She was always addressing circulars or writing letters for the cause or going off to sell literature and take up collections at meetings. When she was not so employed she was arguing with somebody, frequently with Peter, trying to make him think as she did. Poor kid, she was all wrought up over the notions she had got about the wrongs of the working classes. She gave herself no peace about it, day or night, and this of course was a bore to Peter,
who wanted peace above all things. Over in Europe millions of men were organized in armies, engaged in slaughtering one another. That of course was very terrible, but what was the good of thinking about it? There was no way to stop it, and it certainly wasn't Peter's fault. But this poor deluded child was acting all the time as if she were to blame for this European conflict, then had the job of bringing it to a close. The tears
would come into her deep-set gray eyes, and her soft chin would quiver with pain whenever she talked about it, and it seemed to Peter she was talking about it all the time. It was her idea that the war must be stopped by uprisings on the part of the working people in Europe. Apparently she thought this might be hastened if the working people of American City would rise up and set an example.
