menu_book Chapter 9

Thus was Peter done with the Goubert case, and mighty glad of it he was. He was tired of the strain, he needed a rest and a little pleasure. He had his pockets stuffed with money and a good fat bank account, and proposed to take things easy for the first time in his hard and lonely life. The opportunity was at hand, for he had taken McGivney's advice and got himself another

girl. It was a little romance, very worldly and delightful. To understand it, you must know that in the judicial procedure of American City they used both men and women jurors, and because busy men of affairs did not want to waste their time in the jury box, nor to have the time of their clerks and working men wasted, there

had grown up a class of men and women who made their living by working as jurors. They hung around the courthouse and were summoned on panel after panel, being paid six dollars a day with numerous opportunities to make money on the side if they were clever. Among this group of professional jurors there was the keenest competition to get into the jury box of the Goubert case.

It was to be a long and hard fought case, there would be a good deal of prestige attached to it, and also there were numerous sums of money floating round. Anybody who got in, and who voted right, might be sure of an income for life, to say nothing of a life job as a juror if he wanted it. Peter happened to be in court while the tailorsmen were being questioned.

A very charming and petite brunette, what Peter described as a swell dresser, was on the stand and was cleverly trying to satisfy both sides. She knew nothing about the case, she had never read anything about it, she knew nothing and cared nothing about social problems, so she was accepted by the prosecution. But then the defence took her in hand, and it appeared that once upon a time she had

been so indiscreet as to declare to somebody her conviction that all labour leaders ought to be stood up against a wall and filled with lead. So she was challenged by the defence, and very much chagrined she came down from the stand and took a seat in the courtroom next to Peter. He saw a trace of tears in her eyes, and realising her disappointment, ventured a word of sympathy.

The acquaintance grew, and they went out to lunch together. Mrs. James was her name, and she was a widow, a grass widow as she archly mentioned. She was quick and lively, with brilliant white teeth and cheeks, with a glow of health in them. This glow came out of a little bottle, but Peter never guessed it.

Peter had got himself a good suit of clothes now, and made bold to spend some money on the lunch. As it happened, both he and Mrs. James were through with the Gupper case. Both were tired and wanted a change, and Peter, blushing shyly, suggested that a sojourn at the beach might be fun.

Mrs. James agreed immediately, and the matter was arranged. Peter had seen enough of the detective business by this time to know what you can safely do, and what you had better not do. He didn't travel with his grass widow, he didn't pay her car fare, nor do anything else to constitute her a white slave.

He simply went to the beach and engaged himself a comfortable apartment, and next day, strolling on the boardwalk, he happened to meet the widow. So for a couple of months Peter and Mrs. James set up housekeeping together. It was a wonderful experience for the former, because Mrs. James was what is called a lady. She had rich relatives, and took pains to let Peter know that she had lived in luxury

before her husband had run away to Paris with a tightrope walker. She taught Peter all those worldly arts which one misses when one is brought up in an orphan asylum, and on the road with a patent medicine vendor. Tactfully, and without hurting his feelings, she taught him how to hold a knife and fork, and what colour tie to select.

At the same time, she managed to conduct a propaganda which caused him to regard himself as the most favoured of mankind. He was overwhelmed with gratitude for every single kiss from the lips of his grass widow. Of course he could not expect such extraordinary favours of fortune without paying for them. He had learned by now that there was no such thing as free love.

So he paid hand over fist. He not only paid all the expenses of the unregistered honeymoon, he bought numerous expensive presents at the lady's tactful suggestion. She was always so vivacious and affectionate when Peter had given her a present. Peter lived in a kind of dream.

His money seemed to go out of his pockets without his having to touch it. Meantime great events were rolling by, unheeded by Peter and his grass widow who never read the newspapers. For one thing, Jim Goober was convicted and sentenced to die on the gallows, and Jim Goober's associate, Biddle, was found guilty and sentenced to prison for life.

Also, America entered the war, and a wave of patriotic excitement swept like a prairie fire over the country. Peter could not help hearing about this. His attention was attracted to one aspect of the matter. Congress was about to pass a conscription act, and Peter was within the age limit.

Peter would almost certainly be drafted into the army. No terror that he had ever felt in his life was equal to this terror. He had tried to forget the horrible pictures of battle and slaughter, of machine guns and hand grenades and torpedoes and poison gas, with which little Jenny had filled his imagination. But now these imaginings came crowding back upon him, now for the first time they concerned

him. From that time on his honeymoon was spoiled. Peter and his grass widow were like a party of picnickers who are far away in the wilderness and see a black thunderstorm come rolling up the sky. Also, Peter's bank account was running low.

Peter had had no conception of how much money you could spend on a grass widow who is a swell dresser and understands what is proper. He was overwhelmed with embarrassment. He put off telling Mrs. James until the last moment, in fact until he wasn't quite sure whether he had enough money in the bank to meet the last cheque he had given to the landlady.

Then, realizing that the game was up, he told. He was surprised to see how charmingly a grass widow of good breeding could take bad tidings. Evidently it wasn't the first time that Mrs. James had been to the beach. She smiled cheerfully and said that it was the jury box for her once more. She gave Peter her card and told him she would be glad to have him call upon her again, when

he had restored his fortunes. She picked up her suitcase and her new trunk full of Peter's presents and departed with the most perfect sweetness and good taste. Section 31 So there was Peter, down and out, once more.

But fate was kind to him. That very day came a letter signed 243, which meant McGivney. 243 had some important work for Peter, so would he please call at once. Peter pawned his last bit of jewelry for his fare to American City and met McGivney at the usual rendezvous.

The purpose of the meeting was quickly explained. America was now at war and the time had come when the mouths of these reds were to be stopped for good. You could do things in wartime that you couldn't do in peacetime, and one of the things you were going to do was put an end to the agitation against property.

Peter licked his lips, metaphorically speaking. It was something he had many times told McGivney ought to be done. Pat McCormick especially ought to be put away for good. These were a dangerous bunch, these reds, and Mack was the worst of all. It was every man's duty to help.

And what could Peter do? McGivney answered that the authorities were making a complete list of all the radical organizations and their members, getting evidence preliminary to arrests. McGivney was in charge of the job. As in the Guber case, the big business interests of the city were going ahead while the government

was still wiping the sleep out of its eyes. Would Peter take a job spying upon the reds in American City? I can't, exclaimed Peter. They're all sore at me because I didn't testify in the Guber case. We can easily fix that up, answered the rat-faced man.

It may mean a little inconvenience for you. You may have to go to jail for a few days. To jail? cried Peter in dismay. Yes, said the other, you'll have to get arrested and made into a martyr.

Then you see, they'll all be sure you're straight, and they'll take you back again and welcome you. Peter didn't like the idea of going to jail. His memories of the jail in American City were especially painful. But McGivney explained that this was a time when men couldn't consider their own feelings.

The country was in danger. Public safety must be protected, and it was up to everybody to make some patriotic sacrifice. The rich men were all subscribing to liberty bonds. The poor men were going to give their lives. And what was Peter Gudge going to give?

Maybe I'll be drafted into the army, Peter remarked. No you won't, not if you take this job, said McGivney. We can fix that. A man like you who has special abilities is too precious to be wasted. Peter decided forthwith that he would accept the proposition.

It was much more sensible to spend a few days in jail than to spend a few years in the trenches and maybe the balance of eternity under the sod of France. Matters were quickly arranged. Peter took off his good clothes and dressed himself as became a working man and went into the eating room where Donald Gordon, the Quaker boy, always got his lunch.

Peter was quite sure that Donald would be one of the leading agitators against the draft, and in this he was not mistaken. Donald was decidedly uncordial in his welcoming of Peter. Without saying a word, the young Quaker made Peter aware that he was a renegade, a coward who had thrown down the Goubert defence.

But Peter was patient and tactful. He did not try to defend himself, nor did he ask any questions about Donald and Donald's activities. He simply announced that he had been studying the subject of militarism and had come to a definite point of view.

He was a socialist and an internationalist. He considered America's entry into the war a crime, and he was willing to do his part in agitating against it. He was going to take his stand as a conscientious objector. They might send him to jail if they pleased, or even stand him against the wall and shoot

him, but they would never get him to put on a uniform. It was impossible for Donald Gordon to hold out against a man who talked like that, a man who looked him in the eye and expressed his convictions so simply and honestly. And that evening Peter went to a meeting of local American city of the Socialist Party and renewed his acquaintance with all the comrades.

He didn't make a speech or do anything conspicuous, but simply got into the spirit of things, and next day he managed to meet some of the members and whenever and wherever he was asked, he expressed his convictions as a conscientious objector. So before a week had passed, Peter found that he was being tolerated, that nobody was going to denounce him as a traitor or kick him out of the room.

At the next weekly meeting of local American city, Peter ventured to say a few words. It was a red-hot meeting, at which the war and the draft were the sole subjects of discussion. There were some Germans in the local, some Irishmen, and one or two Hindus. They naturally were all ardent pacifists. Also there were agitators of what was coming to be called the left wing, the group within

the party who considered it too conservative and were always clamouring for more radical declarations, for mass action and general strikes and appeals to the proletariat to rise forthwith and break their chains. These were days of great events. The Russian revolution had electrified the world and these comrades of the left wing

felt themselves lifted upon pinions of hope. Peter spoke as one who had been out on the road, meeting the rank and file. He could speak for men on the job. What was the use of opposing the draft here in a hall where nobody but party members were present?

What was wanted was for them to lift up their voices on the street, to awaken the people before it was too late. Was there anybody in this gathering bold enough to organise a street meeting? There were some who could not resist this challenge and in a few minutes Peter had secured the pledges of a half dozen young hotheads, Donald Gordon among them.

Before the evening was passed it had been arranged that these would-be martyrs should hire a truck and make their debut on Main Street the very next evening. Old hands in the movement warned them that they would only get their heads cracked by the police, but the answer to that was obvious. They might as well get their heads cracked by the police as get them blown to pieces

by German artillery. Section 32 Peter reported to McGivney what was planned and McGivney promised that the police would be on hand. Peter warned him to be careful and have the police be gentle, at which McGivney grinned

and answered that he would see to that. It was all very simple and took less than ten minutes of time. The truck drew up on Main Street and a young orator stepped forward and announced to his fellow citizens that the time had come for the workers to make known their true feelings about the draft.

Never would free Americans permit themselves to be herded into armies and shipped overseas and be slaughtered for the benefit of international bankers. Thus far the orator had got when a policeman stepped forward and ordered him to shut up. When he refused, the policeman tapped on the sidewalk with his stick and a squad of eight or ten came round the corner and the orator was informed that he was under arrest.

Another orator stepped forward and took up the harangue and when he also had been put under arrest, another and another, until the whole six of them, including Peter, were in hand. The crowd had had no time to work up any interest one way or the other. A patrol wagon was waiting and the orators were bundled in and driven to the station

house and next morning they were hailed before a magistrate and sentenced each to fifteen days. As they had been expecting to get six months, they were a happy bunch of left-wingers. And they were still happier when they saw how they were to be treated in jail. Ordinarily it was the custom of the police to inflict all possible pain and humiliation

upon the Reds. They would put them in the revolving tank, a huge steel structure of many cells which was turned round and round by a crank. In order to get into any cell, the whole tank had to be turned until that particular cell was opposite the entrance, which meant that everybody in the tank got a free ride, accompanied

by endless groaning and scraping of rusty machinery. Also it meant that nobody got any consecutive sleep. The tank was dark, too dark to read, even if they had had books or papers. There was nothing to do save to smoke cigarettes and shoot craps, and listen to the smutty stories of the criminals, and plot revenge against society when they got out again.

But up in the new wing of the jail were some cells which were clean and bright and airy, being only three or four feet from a row of windows. In these cells they generally put the higher class of criminals, women who had cut the throats of their sweethearts, and burglars who had got away with the swag, and bankers who had plundered whole communities.

But now, to the great surprise of five out of the six anti-militarists, the entire party was put in one of these big cells and allowed the privilege of having reading matter and of paying for their own food. Under these circumstances martyrdom became a joke, and the little party settled down to enjoy life.

It never once occurred to them to think of Peter Gudge as the source of this bounty. They attributed it, as the French say, to their beautiful eyes. There was Donald Gordon, who was the son of a well-to-do businessman and had been to college until he was expelled for taking the doctrines of Christianity too literally and expounding them too persistently on the college campus.

There was a big brawny lumberjack from the north, Jim Henderson by name, who had been driven out of the camps for the same reason and had appalling stories to tell of the cruelties and hardships of the life of a logger. There was a Swedish sailor by the name of Gus, who had visited every port in the world, and a young Jewish cigar worker who had never been outside of American city but had traveled

even more widely in his mind. The sixth man was the strangest character of all to Peter, a shy, dreamy fellow with eyes so full of pain and a face so altogether mournful that it hurt to look at him. Duggan was his name, and he was known in the movement as the hobo poet. He wrote verses, endless verses, about the lives of society's outcasts.

He would get himself a pencil and paper and sit off in the corner of the cell by the hour, and the rest of the fellows, respecting his work, would talk in whispers so as not to disturb him. He wrote all the time while the others slept, it seemed to Peter. He wrote verses about the adventures of his fellow prisoners, and presently he was writing

verses about the jailers and about other prisoners in this part of the jail. He would have moods of inspiration and would make up topical verses as he went along. Then again he would sink back into his despair and say that life was hell, and making rhymes about it was childishness. There was no part of America that Tom Duggan hadn't visited, no tragedy of the life of

outcasts that he hadn't seen. He was so saturated with it that he couldn't think of anything else. He would tell about men who had perished of thirst in the desert, about miners sealed up for weeks in an exploded mine, about matchmakers poisoned until their teeth fell out, and their fingernails and even their eyes.

Peter could see no excuse for such morbidness, such endless harping upon the horrible things of life. It spoiled all his happiness in the jail. It was worse than little Jenny's talking about the war. Section 33

One of Duggan's poems had to do with a poor devil named Slim who was a snow eater, that is to say a cocaine victim. This Slim wandered about the streets of New York in the wintertime without any shelter and would get into an office building late in the afternoon and hide in one of the lavatories to spend the night.

If he lay down he would be seen and thrown out, so his only chance was to sit up, but when he fell asleep he would fall off the seat. Therefore he carried a rope in his pocket and would tie himself in a sitting position. Now, what was the use of a story like that? Peter didn't want to hear about such people.

He wanted to express his disgust, but he knew, of course, that he must hide it. He laughed as he exclaimed, Christ Almighty Duggan, can't you give us something with a smile? You don't think it's the job of socialists to find a cure for the dope habit, do you? That's sure one thing that ain't caused by the profit system.

Duggan smiled his bitterest smile. If there's any misery in the world today that ain't kept alive by the profit system, I'd like to see it. Do you think dope sells itself? If there wasn't a profit in it, would it be sold to anyone but doctors?

Where'd you get your socialism anyhow? So Peter beat a hasty retreat. Oh sure, I know all that. But here you're shut up in jail because you want to change things. Ain't you got a right to give yourself a rest while you're in?

The poet looked at him as solemn as an owl. He shook his head. No, he said, just because we're fixed up nice and comfortable in jail, have we got the right to forget the misery of those outside? The others laughed, but Duggan did not mean to be funny at all.

He rose slowly to his feet, and with his arms outstretched, in the manner of one offering himself as a sacrifice, he proclaimed, While there is a lower class, I am in it. While there is a criminal element, I am of it. While there is a soul in jail, I am not free.

Then he sat down and buried his face in his hands. The group of rough fellows sat in solemn silence. Finally Gus, the Swedish sailor, feeling perhaps that the rebuke to Peter had been too severe, spoke timidly, Comrade Goegge, he been in jail twice already.

So the poet looked up again. He held out his hand to Peter. Sure I know that, he said, clasping Peter in the grip of comradeship. And then he added, I'll tell you a story with a smile.

Once upon a time, it appeared, Duggan had been working in a moving picture studio, where they needed tramps and outcasts and all sorts of people for crowds. They had been making a preparedness picture, and wanted to show the agitators and troublemakers mobbing the palace of a banker. They got two hundred bums and hobos, and took them in trucks to the palace of a real banker,

and on the front lawn the director made a speech to the crowd explaining his ideas. Now, said he, remember, the guy that owns this house is the guy that's got all the wealth that you fellows have produced. You are down and out, and you know that he's robbed you, so you hate him. You gather on his lawn, and you're going to mop his home.

If you can get hold of him, you're going to tear him to bits for what he's done to you. So the director went on until finally Duggan interrupted, Say boss, you don't have to teach us. This is a real palace and we're real bums. Apparently the others saw the smile in this story, for they chuckled for some time over it.

But it only added to Peter's hatred of these reds. It made him realize more than ever that they were a bunch of sore heads. They were green and yellow with jealousy. Everybody that had succeeded in the world, they hated. Just because they had succeeded.

Well, they would never succeed. They could go on forever with their grouching, but the massive workers in America had a normal attitude toward the big man who could do things. They did not want to wreck his palace. They admired him for having it, and they followed his leadership gladly.

It seemed as if Henderson, the lumberjack, had read Peter's thought. My God, he said, what a job it is to make the workers class conscious. He sat on the edge of his cot with his broad shoulders bowed, and his heavy brows knit in thought over the problem of how to increase the world's discontent. He told of one camp where he had worked,

so hard and dangerous was the toil that seven men had given up their lives in the course of one winter. The man who owned this tract and was exploiting it had gotten the land by the rankest kind of public frauds. There were filthy bunkhouses, vermin, rotten food, poor wages, and incessant abuse. And yet in the springtime here came the young son of this owner on a honeymoon trip with his bride. And Jesus, said Henderson, if you could have seen those stiffs turn out and cheer to split their

throats. They really meant it, you know. They just loved that pair of idle good-for-nothing kids. Gus, the sailor, spoke up, his broad, good-natured face wearing a grin which showed where three of his front teeth had been knocked out with a belaying pin. It was exactly the same with the seamen, he declared. They never saw the ship owners. They didn't know even the names of the people who were getting the profit of their toil,

but they had a crazy loyalty to their ship. Some old tanker would be sent out to sea on purpose to be sunk so that the owners might get the insurance, but the poor abies would love that old tub so that they would go down to the bottom with her, or perhaps they would save her to the owner's great disgust. Thus, for hours on end, Peter had to sit listening to this ding-donging about the wrongs of the poor and the crimes of the rich. Here he had been sentenced for 15 days

and nights to listen to socialist wrangles. Every one of these fellows had a different idea of how he wanted the world to be run and everyone had a different idea of how to bring about the change. Life was an endless struggle between the haves and the have-nots, and the question of how the have-nots were to turn out the haves was called tactics. When you talked about tactics, you used long technical terms which made your conversation unintelligible to a plain ordinary mortal.

It seemed to Peter that every time he fell asleep, it was to the music of proletariat and surplus value and unearned increment, possibleism and impossibilism, political action, direct action, mass action, and the perpetual circle of syndicalist anarchist, anarchist communist, communist socialist, and socialist syndicalist. End of sections 30 to 33.