menu_book Chapter 11

100% The Story of a Patriot by Upton Sinclair. Sections 38 to 41. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Section 38. Presently the couple rose and strolled away to the elevator, and Peter followed.

He did not dare get into the elevator with them, for he had suddenly become acutely aware of the costume he was wearing in his role of proletarian anti-militarist. But Peter was certain that Nell and her escort were not going out of the building, for they had no hats or wraps. So he went downstairs and hunted through the lobby and the dining room and then through

the basement, from which he heard strains of music. Here was another vast room, got up in mystical oriental fashion with electric lights hidden in bunches of imitation flowers on each table. This room was called the Grill, and part of it was bare for dancing, and on a little platform sat a band playing music.

The strangest music that ever assailed human ears. If Peter had heard it before seeing Nell, he would not have understood it. But now its weird rhythms fitted exactly to the moods which were tormenting him. This music would groan, it would rattle and squeak, it would make noises like swiftly torn canvas, or like a steam siren in a hurry.

It would climb up to the heavens and come banging down to hell. And everything with queer, tormenting motions, gliding and writhing, wriggling, jerking, jumping. Peter would never have known what to make of such music if he had not had it here made visible before his eyes in the behaviour of the half naked goddesses and the black coated

gods on this dancing floor. These celestial ones came sliding across the floor like skaters, they came writhing like serpents, they came strutting like turkeys, jumping like rabbits, stalking solemnly like giraffes, they came clamped in one another's arms like bears trying to hug each other to death, they came contorting themselves as if they were boa constrictors trying to

swallow each other, and Peter watching them and listening to their music made a curious discovery about himself. Deeply buried in Peter's soul were the ghosts of all sorts of animals. Peter had once been a boa constrictor, Peter had once been a bear, Peter had once been a rabbit and a giraffe, a turkey and a fox, and now under the spell of this weird music

these dead creatures came to life in his soul. So Peter discovered the meaning of jazz in all its weirdly named and incredible varieties. Also Peter discovered that he had once been a caveman and had hit his rival over the head with a stone axe and carried off his girl by the hair. All this he discovered while he stood in the doorway of the Hotel de Soto Grill and watched

Nell, the ex-chambermaid of the Temple of Jim Jumbo, doing the turkey trot and the fox trot and the grizzly bear and the bunny hug in the arms of a young man with the face of a bulldog. Peter stood for a long while in a daze, Nell and the young man sat down at one of the tables to have a meal, but still Peter stood watching and trying to figure out what to do.

He knew that he must not speak to her in his present costume, there would be no way to make her understand that he was only playing a role, that he who looked like a dead one was really a prosperous man of important affairs, a 100% red-blooded patriot disguised as a proletarian pacifist. No, he must wait, he must get into his best before he spoke to her.

But meantime she might go away, and he might not be able to find her again in this huge city. After an hour or two he succeeded in figuring out a way and hurried upstairs to the writing room and penned a note. Nell, this is your old friend Peter Gudge.

I have struck it rich and have important news for you. Be sure to send word to me. Peter. To this he added his address and sealed it in an envelope to Miss Nell Doolan. Then he went out into the lobby and signalled to one of the brass button imps who went about

the place calling names in shrill sing-song. He got this youngster off in a corner and pressed a dollar bill into his hand. There was a young lady in the grill who was to have this note at once. It was very important. Would the brass button imp do it?

The imp said, sure, and Peter stood in the doorway and watched him walk back and forth through the aisles of the grill calling in his shrill sing-song, Miss Nell Doolan, Miss Nell Doolan. He walked right by the table where Nell sat eating. He sang right into her face it seemed to Peter, but she never gave a sign.

Peter did not know what to make of it, but he was bound to get that note to Nell, so when the imp returned he pointed her out and the imp went again and handed the note to her. Peter saw her take it, then he darted away, and remembering suddenly that he was supposed to be on duty he rushed back to the office and inquired for Mr. Lackman.

To his horror he learned that Mr. Lackman had returned, paid his bill, and departed with his suitcase to a destination unknown. Section 39 Peter had a midnight appointment with McGivney and now had to go and admit this humiliating failure.

He had done his best, he declared. He inquired at the desk and waited and waited, but the hotel people had failed to notify him of Lackman's arrival. All this was strictly true, but it did not pacify McGivney, who was in a black fury. It might have been worth thousands of dollars to you, he declared.

He's the biggest fish we'll ever get on our hook. Won't he come again? asked the grief-stricken Peter. No, declared the other, they'll get him at his home city. But won't that do?

asked Peter naively. You damn fool! was McGivney's response. We wanted to get him here, where we could pluck him ourselves. The rat-faced man hadn't intended to tell Peter so much, but in his rage he let it out. He and a couple of his friends had planned to get something on this young millionaire

and scare the wits out of him with the idea that he would put up a good many thousand dollars to be let off. Peter might have had his share of this, only he had been fool enough to let the bird get out of his net. Peter offered to follow the young man to his home city and find some way to lure him back

into McGivney's power. After McGivney had stormed for a while, he decided that this might be possible. He would talk it over with the others and let Peter know. But alas, when Peter picked up an afternoon newspaper next day, he read on the front page how young Lackman, stepping off the train in his home city that morning, had been placed

under arrest. His school had been raided, and half a dozen of the teachers were in jail, and a ton of red literature had been confiscated, and a swarm of dire conspiracies against the safety of the country had been laid bare. Peter read this news and knew that he was in for another stormy hour with his boss,

but he hardly gave a thought to it because of something which had happened a few minutes before, something of so much greater importance. A messenger had bought him a special delivery letter, and with thumping heart, he had torn it open and read, All right, meet me in the waiting-room of Guggenheim's department store at two o'clock

this afternoon, but for God's sake forget Nell Doolan. Yours, Edith Eustace. So here was Peter dressed in his best clothes, as for his temporary honeymoon with the grass widow, and on the way to the rendezvous an hour ahead of time. And here came Nell, also dressed, every garment so contrived that a single glance would tell

the beholder that their owner was moving in the highest circles and regardless of expense. Nell glanced over her shoulder now and then as she talked and explained that Ted Crothers, the man with the bulldog face, was a terror and it was hard to get away from him because he had nothing to do all day. The waiting-room of the big department store was not the place Peter would have selected

for the pouring out of his heart, but he had to make the best of it, so he told Nell that he loved her, that he would never be able to love anybody else, and that he had made piles of money now. He was high up on the ladder of prosperity. Nell did not laugh at him as she had laughed in the temple of Jim Jambo, for it was easily

to be seen that Peter Gudge was no longer a scullion, but a man of the world with a fascinating air of mystery. Nell wanted to know forthwith what he was doing. He answered that he could not tell. It was a secret of the most desperate import.

He was under oath. These were the days of German spies and bomb plots, when kings and kaisers and emperors and tsars were pouring treasures into America for all kinds of melodramatic purposes. Also the days of government contracts and secret deals, when in the lobbies and private meeting places of hotels like the De Soto there were fortunes made and unmade every

hour. So it was easy for Nell to believe in a real secret, and being a woman, she put all her faculties upon the job of guessing it. She did not again ask Peter to tell her, but she let him talk and tactfully guided the conversation, and before long she knew that Peter was intimate with a great many of the

most desperate Reds, and likewise that he knew all about the insides of the Gouber case, and about the great men of American city who had put up a million dollars for the purpose of hanging Gouber, and about the various ways in which this money had been spent and wires had been pulled to secure a conviction. Nell put two and two together, and before long she figured out that the total was four.

She suddenly confronted Peter with this total, and Peter was dumb with consternation and broke down and confessed everything, and told Nell all about his schemes and his achievements and his adventures, omitting only little Jenny and the grass widow. He told about the sums he had been making and was expecting to make. He told about Lachman, and showed Nell the newspaper with pictures of the young millionaire

and his school. What a handsome fellow, said Nell. It's a shame. How do you mean? asked Peter, a little puzzled.

Could it be that Nell had any sympathy for these Reds? I mean, she answered, that it had been worth more to you than all the rest put together. Nell was a woman, and her mind ran to the practical aspect of things. She said, You've been letting those dicks work you.

They're getting the swag, and just giving you tips. What you need is somebody to take care of you. Peter's heart leaped. Would you do it? he cried.

I've got ten of my hands, said the girl. He'd cut my throat and yours too, if he knew I was here. But I'll try to get myself free, and then maybe, I won't promise, but I'll think over your problem, Peter, and I'll certainly try to help, so that McGivney and Guffey and those fellows can't play you for a sucker any longer.

She must have time to think it over, she said, and to make inquiries about the people involved, some of whom apparently she knew. She would meet Peter again the next day, in a more private place than here. She named a spot in the city park, which would be easy to find, and yet sufficiently remote, for a quiet conference.

Section 40 Peter had been made so bold by Nell's flattery and what she had said about his importance, that he did not go back to McGivney to take his second scolding about the Lackman case. He was getting tired of McGivney's scoldings. If McGivney didn't like his work, let McGivney go and be a Red for a while himself.

Peter walked the streets all day and a part of the night, thinking about Nell and thrilling over the half-promises she had made him. They met next day in the park. No one was following them, and they found a solitary place and Nell let him kiss her several times, and in between the kisses she unfolded to him a terrifying plan.

Peter thought that he was something of an intriguer, but his self-esteem shriveled to nothingness in the presence of the superb conception which had come to ripeness in the space of twenty-four hours in the brain of Nell Doolan, alias Edith Eustace. Peter had been doing the hard work and these big fellows had been using him, handing him a tip now and then and making fortunes out of the information he brought them.

McGivney had let the cat out of the bag in this case of Lackman. You might be sure they had been making money, big money, out of all the other cases. But what Peter must do was to work up something of his own and get the real money and make himself one of the big fellows. Peter had the facts, he knew the people, he had watched in the goober case exactly how

a frame-up was made, and now he must make one for himself, and one that would pay. It was a matter of duty to rid the country of all these reds, but why should he not have the money as well? Nell had spent the night figuring over it, trying to pick out the right person. She had hit on old Nelson Ackerman, the banker.

Ackerman was enormously and incredibly wealthy, he was called the financial king of American City. Also, he was old and Nell happened to know he was a coward. He was sick in bed just now and when a man is sick he is still more of a coward. What Peter must do was to discover some kind of a bomb plot against old Nelson Ackerman.

Peter might talk up the idea among some of his reds and get them interested in it, or he might frame up some letters to be found upon them and hide some dynamite in their rooms. When the plot was discovered it would make a frightful uproar, needless to say. The king would hear of it, and of Peter's part as the discoverer of it, and he would

unquestionably reward Peter. Perhaps Peter might arrange to be retained as a secret agent to protect the king from the reds. Thus Peter would be in touch with real money and might hire Guffey and McGivney instead of there hiring him.

If Peter had stood alone would he have dared so perilous a dream as this? Or was he a piker, a little fellow, the victim of his own fears and vanities? Anyhow Peter was not alone. He had Nell and it was necessary that he should pose before Nell as a bold and desperate blade. Just as in the old days in the temple it was necessary that Peter should get plenty

of money in order to take Nell away from another man. So he said, all right, he would go in on that plan, and proceeded to discuss with Nell the various personalities he might use. The most likely was Pat McCormick. Mack with his grim set face and his silent secretive habits fitted perfectly to Peter's

conception of a dynamiter. Also Mack was Peter's personal enemy. Mack had just returned from his organizing trip in the oil fields and had been denouncing Peter and gossiping about him in the various radical groups. Mack was the most dangerous red of them all.

He must surely be one of the dynamiters. Another likely one was Joe Angel whom Peter had met at a recent gathering of Ada Ruth's anti-conscription league. People made jokes about this chap's name because he looked the part with his bright blue eyes that seemed to have come out of heaven and his bright golden hair and even the memory

of dimples in his cheeks. But when Joe opened his lips you discovered that he was an angel from the nether regions. He was the boldest and most defiant of all the reds that Peter had yet come upon. He had laughed at Ada Ruth and her sentimental literary attitude toward the subject of the draft.

It wasn't writing poems and passing resolutions that was wanted. It wasn't even men who would refuse to put on the uniform, but men who would take the guns that were offered to them and drill themselves and at the proper time face about and use the guns in the other direction. Agitating and organizing were all right in their place, but now when the government dared

to challenge the workers and force them into the army, it was the men of action that were needed in the radical movement. Joe Angel had been up in the lumber country and could tell what was the mood of the real workers, the huskies of the timberlands. Those fellows weren't doing any more talking.

They had their secret committees that were ready to take charge of things as soon as they had put the capitalists and their governments out of business. Meantime, if there was a sheriff or prosecuting attorney that got too gay, they would bump him off. This was a favorite phrase of Blue-Eyed Angel.

He would use it every half hour or so as he told about his adventures. Yes, he would say, he got gay, but we bumped him off all right. Section 41 So Nell and Peter settled down to work out the details of their frame-up on Joe Angel and Pat McCormick.

Peter must get a bunch of them together and get them to talking about bombs and killing people and then he must slip a note into the pockets of all who showed interest, calling them to meet for a real conspiracy. Nell would write the notes so that no one could fasten the job onto Peter. She pulled out a pencil and a little pad from her handbag and began,

"'If you really believe in a bold stroke for the workers' rights, meet me.' And then she stopped. "'Where?' "'In the studios,' put in Peter. And Nell wrote, "'In the studios.'

Is that enough?' Room 17 Peter knew that this was the room of Nikitin, a Russian painter who called himself an anarchist. So Nell wrote, Room 17, and after further discussion she added, "'Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock.

No names and no talk. Action.' This time was set because Peter recollected that there was to be a gathering of the Wobblies in their headquarters this very evening. It was to be a business meeting, but of course these fellows never got together very long

without starting the subject of tactics. There was always a considerable element among them who were dissatisfied with what they called the supine attitude of the organization and were always arguing for action. Peter was sure he would be able to get some of them interested in the idea of a dynamite conspiracy.

As it turned out, Peter had no trouble at all. The subject was started without his having to put in a word. Were the workers to be driven like sheep to the slaughter, and the Wobblies not to make one move? So asked the blue-eyed angel vehemently and added that if they were going to move, American

City was as good a place as any. He had talked with enough of the rank-and-file to realize that they were ready for action. All they needed was a battle cry and an organization to guide them. Henderson, the big lumberjack, spoke up. That was just the trouble.

You couldn't get an organization for such a purpose. The authorities would get spies among you, they would find out what you were doing and drive you underground. Well, cried Joe, we'll go underground. Yes, agreed the other.

But then your organization goes bust. Nobody knows who to trust. Everybody's accusing the rest of being a spy. Hell, said Joe Angel, I've been in jail for the movement. I'll take my chances if anybody's calling me a spy.

What I'm not going to do is sit down and see the workers driven to hell because I'm so damn careful about my precious organization. When others objected, Angel rushed on still more vehemently. Suppose they did fail in a mass uprising. Suppose they were driven to assassination and terrorism.

At least they would teach the exploiters a lesson and take a little joy out of their lives. Peter thought it would be a good idea for him to pose as a conservative just now. Do you really think the capitalists would give up from fear? He asked.

And the other answered. You bet I do. I'd tell you if we'd made it understood that every congressman who had voted this country into war would be sent to the front trenches, our country would still be at peace. But, put in Peter deftly, it ain't the congressmen, it's people higher up than them.

You bet. Put in Gus, the Swedish sailor. You bet you. I name you one dozen big fellows in this country. You make it clear if we don't get peace, they all get killed.

We get peace, all right. So Peter had things where he wanted them. Who are those fellows? He asked and got the crowd arguing over names. Of course they didn't argue very long before someone mentioned Nelson Ackerman, who was

was venomously hated by the Reds because he had put up a hundred thousand dollars of the anti-Goober fund. Peter pretended not to know about Nelson. And Jerry Rudd, a blanket stiff, whose head was still sore from being cracked open in a recent harvester strike, remarked that, by Jesus, if they'd put a few fellows like

that in the trenches, there'd be some pacifists in America sure enough all right. It seemed almost as if Joe Angel had come there to back up Peter's purpose. What we want, said he, is a few fellows to fight as hard for themselves as they fight for the capitalists. Yes, assented Henderson grimly, we're all so good, we wait until our masters tell us

we can kill. That was the end of the discussion, but it seemed quite enough to Peter. He watched his chance, and one by one he managed to slip his little notes into the coat pockets of Joe Angel, Jerry Rudd, Henderson, and Gus the sailor. And then Peter made his escape, trembling with excitement.

The great dynamite conspiracy was on. They must be got rid of, he was whispering to himself. They must be got rid of by any means. It's my duty I'm doing. End of sections 38 to 41