menu_book Chapter 18

100% The Story of a Patriot by Upton Sinclair, sections 64-66. The Slibbervox recording is in the public domain. Section 64. Peter sat up suddenly among his silken cushions and began to tell Mrs. Gaud about the new plan of the Anti-Conscription League to prepare a set of instructions for young conscientious

objectors. Peter represented the purpose of these instructions to be the advising of young men as to their legal and constitutional rights. But it was McGivney's idea that Peter should slip into the instructions some phrase advising the young men to refuse military duty.

If this were printed and circulated, it would render every member of the Anti-Conscription League liable to a sentence of 10 or 20 years in jail. McGivney had warned Peter to be very cautious about this, but again Peter found that there was no need of caution. Mrs. Gaud was perfectly willing to advise young men to refuse military service.

She had advised many such, she said, including her own sons, who unfortunately agreed with their father in being bloodthirsty. It came to be lunchtime and Mrs. Gaud asked if Peter could sit at table, and Peter's curiosity got the better of all caution. He wanted to see the Gaud family sipping their nectar out of golden cups.

He wondered would the disapproving husband and the bloodthirsty sons be present? There was nobody present but an elderly woman companion and Peter did not see any golden cups, but he saw some fine china so fragile that he was afraid to touch it, and he saw a row of silver implements so heavy that it gave him a surprise each time he picked one up.

Also he saw foods prepared in strange and complicated ways so chopped up and covered with sauces that it was literally true he couldn't give the name to a single thing he had eaten except the buttered toast. He was inwardly quaking with embarrassment during this meal, but he saved himself by Mrs. Gaud's formula to watch and see what the others were doing and then do likewise.

Each time a new course was brought Peter would wait and when he saw Mrs. Gaud pick up a certain fork or a certain spoon he would pick up the same one or as near to it as he could guess. He could put his whole mind on this because he didn't have to do any talking. Mrs. Gaud poured out a steady stream of sedition and high treason and all Peter had to do was

to listen and nod. Mrs. Gaud would understand that his mouth was too full for utterance. After the luncheon they went out on the broad veranda which overlooked a magnificent landscape. The hostess got Peter settled in a soft porch chair with many cushions and then waved her hand toward the view of the city with its haze of thick black smoke.

That's where my wage slaves toil to earn my dividends, she said. They're supposed to stay there, in their place as it's called, and I stay here in my place. If they want to change places it's called revolution and that is violence. What I marvel at is that they use so little violence and feel so little. Look at those men being tortured in jail.

Could anyone blame them if they used violence or if they made an effort to escape? That suggested a swift stabbing idea to Peter. Suppose Mrs. Gaud could be induced to help in a jail delivery. It might be possible to help them to escape, he suggested. Do you think so?

asked Mrs. Gaud, showing excitement for the first time during the interview. It might be, said Peter. Those jailers are not above taking bribes, you know. I met nearly all of them while I was in that jail and I think I might get in touch with one or two that could be paid.

Would you like me to try it? Well, I don't know, began the lady, hesitatingly. Do you really think? You know, they never ought to have been put in at all, Peter interjected. That's certainly true, declared Mrs. Gaud.

And if they could escape without hurting anyone, if they didn't have to fight the jailers, it wouldn't do any real harm. That was as far as Peter got with his impromptu conspiracy. Suddenly he heard a voice behind him. What?

What does this mean? It was a male voice, fierce and trembling with anger, and Peter started from his silken cushions and glanced around, thrusting up one arm with the defensive gesture of a person who has been beaten since earliest childhood. Bearing down on him was a man, possibly he was not an abnormally big man, but he certainly

looked so to Peter. His smooth shaven face was pink with anger, his brows gathered in a terrible frown, and his hands clenched with deadly significance. You dirty little skunk, he hissed. You infernal young sneak.

John, cried Mrs. Gaud imperiously, but she might as well have cried to an advancing thunderstorm. The man made a leap upon Peter, and Peter, who had dodged many hundreds of blows in his lifetime, rolled off the lounging chair and leaped to his feet and started for the stairs of the veranda. The man was right behind him, and as Peter reached the first stair the man's foot shot

out and caught Peter fairly in the seat of his trousers, and the first stair was the only one of the ten or twelve stairs of the veranda that Peter touched in his descent. Landing at the bottom, he did not stop even for a glance. He could hear the snorting of Mr. Gaud, it seemed right behind his ear, and Peter ran down the driveway as he had seldom run in his life before.

Every now and then Mr. Gaud would shoot out another kick, but he had to stop slightly to do this, and Peter gained just enough to keep the kicks from reaching him. So at last the pursuer gave up, and Peter dashed through the gates of the Gaud estate and onto the main highway. Then he looked over his shoulder, and seeing that Mr. Gaud was a safe distance away, he

stopped and turned and shook his clenched fist with the menace of a street rat, shrieking, Damn you! Damn you!" A whirlwind of impotent rage laid hold upon him. He shouted more curses and menaces, and among them some strange, some almost incredible words, Yes, I'm a Red, damn your soul, and I'll stay a Red.

Yes, Peter Gaudge, the friend of law and order. Peter Gaudge, the little brother to the rich, shouted, I'm a Red, and what's more, we'll blow you up some day for this. Mack and Meal put a bomb under you. Mr. Gaud turned and stalked with contemptuous dignity back to his own private domestic controversy.

Peter walked off down the road, rubbing his sore trousers and sobbing to himself. Yes, Peter understood now exactly how the Reds felt. Here were these rich parasites, exploiting the labour of working men and living off in palaces by themselves. And what had they done to earn it? What would they ever do for the poor man except to despise him, and to kick him in the seat of the trousers? They were a set of willful brutes.

Peter suddenly saw the happenings of last night from a new angle, and wished he had all the younger members of the Chamber of Commerce and the Merchants and Manufacturers Association right there along with Mr. Gaud, so that he could bundle them all off to the devil at once. And that was no passing mood either. The seat of Peter's trousers hurt so that he could hardly endure the trolley ride home, and all the way Peter was plotting

how he could punish Mr. Gaud. He suddenly remembered that Mr. Gaud was an associate of Nelson Ackerman, and Peter now had a spy in Nelson Ackerman's home and was preparing some kind of a frame-up. Peter would see if he couldn't find some way to start a dynamite conspiracy against Mr. Gaud. He would start a campaign against Mr. Gaud in the radical movement and maybe he could find some way to get a bunch of the Wobblies to carry him

off and tie him up and beat him with a black snake whip. Section 65 With these reflections Peter went back to the American house where McGivney had promised to meet him that evening. Peter went to room 427 and being tired after the previous nights excitement he lay down and fell fast asleep, and when he opened his eyes he wasn't sure

whether it was a nightmare or whether he had died in his sleep and gone to hell with Mr. Gaud. Somebody was shaking him and bidding him in a gruff voice, Wake up! Peter opened his eyes and saw that it was McGivney, and that was all right. It was natural that McGivney should be waking him up. But what was this? McGivney's voice was angry. McGivney's face was dark and glowering, and most incredible circumstance of all, McGivney had a revolver

in his hand and was pointing it into Peter's face. It really made it much harder for Peter to get awake because he couldn't believe that he was awake. Also it made it harder for McGivney to get any sense out of him because his jaw hung down and he stared with terrified eyes into the muzzle of the revolver. My God! Mr. McGivney! What's the matter?

Get up here! hissed the rat-faced man, and added a vile name. He gripped Peter by the lapel of his coat and half-jerked him to his feet, still keeping the muzzle of the revolver in Peter's face, and poor Peter, trying desperately to get his wits together, thought of half a dozen wild guesses one after another. Could it be that McGivney had heard him denouncing Mr. God and proclaiming himself a Red? Could it be that some of the Reds had framed up

something on Peter? Could it be that McGivney had just plain gone crazy, that Peter was in the room with a maniac armed with a revolver? Where did you put that money I gave you the other day? demanded McGivney and added some more vile names. Instantly, of course, Peter was on the defensive. No matter how frightened he might be, Peter would never fail to hang on to his money.

I spent it, Mr. McGivney. You're lying to me. No. Tell me where you put that money, insisted the man, and his face was ugly with anger and the muzzle of the revolver seemed to be trembling with anger. Peter started to insist that he had spent every cent. Make him cough up, Hammett, said McGivney, and Peter for the first time realized that

there was another man in the room. His eyes had been so fascinated by the muzzle of the revolver that he hadn't taken a glance about. Hammett was a big fellow, and he strode up to Peter and grabbed one of Peter's arms and twisted it around behind Peter's back and up between Peter's shoulders. When Peter started to scream, Hammett clapped his other hand over his mouth, and so Peter knew that it

was all up. He could not hold on to that money at that cost. When McGivney asked him, will you tell me where it is, Peter nodded and tried to answer through his nose. So Hammett took his hand from his mouth. Where is it? And Peter replied, In my right shoe.

Hammett unlaced the shoe and took it off and pulled out the inside sole, and underneath was a little flat package wrapped in tissue paper, and inside the tissue paper was the thousand dollars that McGivney had given Peter, and also the three hundred dollars which Peter had saved from Nelson Ackerman's present, and two hundred dollars which he had saved from his salary. Hammett counted the money and McGivney stuck it into his pocket,

and then he commanded Peter to put on his shoe again. Peter obeyed with his trembling fingers, meantime keeping his eye in part on the revolver and in part on the face of the rat. What's the matter, Mr. McGivney? We'll find out in time.

Was the answer. Now, you march downstairs and remember, I've got this gun on you, and there's eight bullets in it, and if you move a finger, I'll put them all into you. So Peter and McGivney and Hammett went down in the elevator of the hotel and out of doors and into an automobile. Hammett drove and Peter sat in the rear seat with McGivney,

who had the revolver in his coat pocket, his finger always on the trigger, and the muzzle always pointed into Peter's middle. So Peter obeyed all orders promptly and stopped asking questions because he found he could get no answers. Meantime he was using his terrified wits on the problem. The best guess he could make was that Guffey had decided to believe Joe Angel's story instead of Peter's. But then, why all this gunplay? This movie stuff?

And it was just as well, for what had happened lay entirely beyond the guessing power of Peter's mind or any other mind. Section 66 They went into the office of the Secret Service Department of the Traction Trust, a place where Peter had never been allowed to come hitherto. It was on the fourteenth floor of

the Merchant's Trust building, and the sign on the door read, The American City Land and Investment Company. Walk in. When you walked in you saw a conventional real estate office, and it was only when you had penetrated several doors that you came to the secret rooms where Guffey and his staff conducted the espionage work of the big business interests of the city. Peter was hustled into one of these rooms and there stood Guffey, and the instant

Guffey saw him he bore down upon him shaking his fist. You stinking puppy! he exclaimed. You miserable little whelp! You dirty, sneaking hound! He added a number of other descriptive phrases taken from the vocabulary of the kennel. Peter's knees were shaking and his teeth were chattering, and he watched every motion of Guffey's angry fingers and every grimace of Guffey's angry features. Peter had been fully prepared for

the most horrible torture he had experienced yet, but gradually he realized that he wasn't going to be tortured, he was only going to be scolded and raged at, and no words could describe the wave of relief in his soul. In the course of his street rat's life Peter had been called more names than Guffey could think of if he spent the next months trying. If all Guffey was going to do was to pace up and down the room and shake his fist under

Peter's nose every time he passed him and compare him with every kind of a domestic animal Peter could stand it all night without a murmur. He stopped trying to find out what it was that had happened because he saw that this only drove Guffey to fresh fits of exasperation. Guffey didn't want to talk to Peter, he didn't want to hear the sound of Peter's whining gutter pup's voice. All he wanted was to pour out his rage and have Peter listen in

abject abasement. And this Peter did. But meantime of course, Peter's wits were working at high speed and he was trying to pick up hints as to what the devil it could mean. One thing was quite clear. The damage, whatever it was, was done. The jig was up, it was all over but the funeral. They had taken Peter's money to pay for the funeral and that was all they hoped to get out of him. Gradually came other hints.

So you thought you were going into business on your own, snarled Guffey and his fist, which was under Peter's nose, gave an upward poke that almost dislocated Peter's neck. Aha, thought Peter, Nelson Ackerman has given me away. You thought you were going to make your fortune and retire for life on your income. Yes, that was it surely. But what could Nelson Ackerman have told that was so very bad? You were going to have a spy of your own, set

up your own business and kick me out perhaps. My God, thought Peter, who told that? Then suddenly Guffey stopped in front of him. Was that what you thought? he demanded. He repeated the question and it appeared that he really wanted an answer and so Peter stammered, No sir. But evidently the answer didn't suit Guffey for he grabbed Peter's nose and gave it a tweak that brought the tears into his eyes. What was it then? A nasty sneer came

on the head detective's face and he laughed at Peter with a laugh of venomous contempt. I suppose you thought she really loved you. Was that it? You thought she really loved you. And McGivney and Hammett and Guffey ha-ha'd together and to Peter it seemed like the mockery of demons in the undermost pit of hell. Those words brought every pillar of Peter's dream castle tumbling in ruins about his ears. Guffey had found out about

Nell. Again and again on the automobile ride to Guffey's office Peter had reminded himself of Nell's command. Stick it out Peter, stick it out. He had meant to stick it out in spite of everything but now in a flash he saw that all was lost. How could he stick it out when they knew all about Nell when Nell herself was no longer sticking it out?

Guffey saw these thoughts plainly written in Peter's face and his sneer turned into a snarl. So you think you'll tell me the truth now, do you? Well, it happens there's nothing left to tell. Again he turned and began pacing up and down the room. The pressure of rage inside him was so great that it took still more time to work it off. But finally the head detective

sat down at his desk and opened the drawer and took out a paper. I see you're sitting there trying to think up some new lie to tell me, said he. And Peter did not try to deny it because any kind of denial only caused a fresh access of rage. All right, said Guffey, I'll read you this and you can see just where you stand and just how many kinds of a boob you are.

So he started to read the letter and before Peter had heard one sentence he knew this was a letter from Nell and he knew that the castle of his dreams was flat in the dust forever. The ruins of Sargon and Nineveh were not more hopelessly flat. Dear Mr. Guffey, read the letter. I am sorry to throw you down, but fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money and we all get tired

of work and need a rest. This is to tell you that Ted Crothers has just broken into Nelson Ackerman's safe in his home and we have got some liberty bonds and some jewels which we guess to be worth fifty thousand dollars and you know Ted is a good judge of jewels. Now of course you will find out that I was working in Mr. Ackerman's home and you will be after me hot foot so I might as well tell you about it and tell you it won't do you

any good to catch us because we have got all the inside dope on the goober frame up and everything else your bureau has been pulling off in American City for the last year. You can ask Peter Gudge and he will tell you. It was Peter and me that fixed up that dynamite conspiracy but you mustn't blame Peter because he only did what I told him to do. He hasn't got sense enough to be really dangerous and he will make you a perfectly good agent if

you treat him kind and keep him away from women. You can do that easy enough if you don't let him get any money because of course he's nothing much on looks and the women would never bother with him if you didn't pay him too much. Now Peter will tell you how we framed up the dynamite job and of course you wouldn't want that to get known to the Reds and you may be sure that if Ted and me get pinched we'll find some way to let the Reds know all

about it. If you keep quiet we'll never say a word and you've got a perfectly good dynamite conspiracy with all the evidence you need to put the Reds out of business and you can just figure it cost you $50,000 and it was a cheap price because Nelson Ackerman has paid a whole lot more for your work and you never got anything half as big as this. I know you'll be mad when you read this but think it over and keep your shirt on. I send

it to you by messenger so you can get hold of Nelson Ackerman right quick and have him to the police because you know how it is, if those babies find it out it will get to the Reds and the newspapers and it'll be all over town and do a lot of harm to your frame up and you know after those Reds have got beaten up and Sean Grady lynched you wouldn't like to have any rumour get out that the dynamite was planted by your own people. Ted and me

will keep out of sight and we won't sell the jewels for a while and everything will be all right. Yours respectfully, Edith. PS. It really ain't Peter's fault that he's silly about women and he would have worked out for you alright if it hadn't been for my good looks. End of sections 64 to 66.