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These are the OCR results for the 1907 published version of the book The Iron Heel written by Jack London. The OCR results have been produced with tesseract.
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<TEI xmlns="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><teiHeader><fileDesc><titleStmt><title>Untitled Document</title><author/></titleStmt><editionStmt><edition><date/></edition></editionStmt><publicationStmt><p>no publication statement available</p></publicationStmt><sourceDesc><p>Written by OpenOffice</p></sourceDesc></fileDesc><revisionDesc><listChange><change><name/><date/></change></listChange></revisionDesc></teiHeader><text><body><p>The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Iron Heel, by Jack London </p><p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with </p><p>almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or</p><p>re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included </p><p>with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org </p><p>Title: The Iron Heel </p><p>Author: Jack London </p><p>Release Date: May 3, 2006 [EBook #1164] </p><p>Language: English </p><p>Character set encoding: ASCII </p><p>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRON HEEL *** </p><p>Produced by Donald Lainson </p><p>THE IRON HEEL </p><p>by Jack London </p><p> "At first, this Earth, a stage so gloomed with woe</p><p> You almost sicken at the shifting of the scenes.</p><p> And yet be patient. Our Playwright may show</p><p> In some fifth act what this Wild Drama means."</p><p>CONTENTS </p><p> FORWARD</p><p> I. MY EAGLE</p><p> II. CHALLENGES</p><p> III. JOHNSON'S ARM</p><p> IV. SLAVES OF THE MACHINE</p><p> V. THE PHILOMATHS</p><p> VI. ADUMBRATIONS</p><p> VII. THE BISHOP'S VISION</p><p> VIII. THE MACHINE BREAKERS</p><p> IX. THE MATHEMATICS OF A DREAM</p><p> X. THE VORTEX</p><p> XI. THE GREAT ADVENTURE</p><p> XII. THE BISHOP</p><p> XIII. THE GENERAL STRIKE</p><p> XIV. THE BEGINNING OF THE END</p><p> XV. LAST DAYS</p><p> XVI. THE END</p><p> XVII. THE SCARLET LIVERY</p><p> XVIII. IN THE SHADOW OF SONOMA</p><p> XIX. TRANSFORMATION</p><p> XX. THE LAST OLIGARCH</p><p> XXI. THE ROARING ABYSMAL BEAST</p><p> XXII. THE CHICAGO COMMUNE</p><p> XXIII. THE PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS</p><p> XXIV. NIGHTMARE</p><p> XXV. THE TERRORISTS</p><p>THE IRON HEEL </p><p>FOREWORD </p><p>It cannot be said that the Everhard Manuscript is an important </p><p>historical document. To the historian it bristles with errors--not </p><p>errors of fact, but errors of interpretation. Looking back across the </p><p>seven centuries that have lapsed since Avis Everhard completed her </p><p>manuscript, events, and the bearings of events, that were confused and </p><p>veiled to her, are clear to us. She lacked perspective. She was too </p><p>close to the events she writes about. Nay, she was merged in the events </p><p>she has described. </p><p>Nevertheless, as a personal document, the Everhard Manuscript is of </p><p>inestimable value. But here again enter error of perspective, and </p><p>vitiation due to the bias of love. Yet we smile, indeed, and forgive </p><p>Avis Everhard for the heroic lines upon which she modelled her husband. </p><p>We know to-day that he was not so colossal, and that he loomed among the </p><p>events of his times less largely than the Manuscript would lead us to </p><p>believe. </p><p>We know that Ernest Everhard was an exceptionally strong man, but not so </p><p>exceptional as his wife thought him to be. He was, after all, but one of </p><p>a large number of heroes who, throughout the world, devoted their lives </p><p>to the Revolution; though it must be conceded that he did unusual </p><p>work, especially in his elaboration and interpretation of working-class </p><p>philosophy. "Proletarian science" and "proletarian philosophy" were his </p><p>phrases for it, and therein he shows the provincialism of his mind--a </p><p>defect, however, that was due to the times and that none in that day </p><p>could escape. </p><p>But to return to the Manuscript. Especially valuable is it in </p><p>communicating to us the FEEL of those terrible times. Nowhere do we find </p><p>more vividly portrayed the psychology of the persons that lived in </p><p>that turbulent period embraced between the years 1912 and 1932--their </p><p>mistakes and ignorance, their doubts and fears and misapprehensions, </p><p>their ethical delusions, their violent passions, their inconceivable </p><p>sordidness and selfishness. These are the things that are so hard for </p><p>us of this enlightened age to understand. History tells us that these </p><p>things were, and biology and psychology tell us why they were; but </p><p>history and biology and psychology do not make these things alive. We </p><p>accept them as facts, but we are left without sympathetic comprehension </p><p>of them.</p><p>This sympathy comes to us, however, as we peruse the Everhard </p><p>Manuscript. We enter into the minds of the actors in that long-ago </p><p>world-drama, and for the time being their mental processes are our </p><p>mental processes. Not alone do we understand Avis Everhard's love for </p><p>her hero-husband, but we feel, as he felt, in those first days, the </p><p>vague and terrible loom of the Oligarchy. The Iron Heel (well named) we </p><p>feel descending upon and crushing mankind. </p><p>And in passing we note that that historic phrase, the Iron Heel, </p><p>originated in Ernest Everhard's mind. This, we may say, is the one moot </p><p>question that this new-found document clears up. Previous to this, the </p><p>earliest-known use of the phrase occurred in the pamphlet, "Ye Slaves," </p><p>written by George Milford and published in December, 1912. This George </p><p>Milford was an obscure agitator about whom nothing is known, save the </p><p>one additional bit of information gained from the Manuscript, which </p><p>mentions that he was shot in the Chicago Commune. Evidently he had </p><p>heard Ernest Everhard make use of the phrase in some public speech, most </p><p>probably when he was running for Congress in the fall of 1912. From the </p><p>Manuscript we learn that Everhard used the phrase at a private dinner </p><p>in the spring of 1912. This is, without discussion, the earliest-known </p><p>occasion on which the Oligarchy was so designated. </p><p>The rise of the Oligarchy will always remain a cause of secret wonder </p><p>to the historian and the philosopher. Other great historical events </p><p>have their place in social evolution. They were inevitable. Their coming </p><p>could have been predicted with the same certitude that astronomers </p><p>to-day predict the outcome of the movements of stars. Without these </p><p>other great historical events, social evolution could not have </p><p>proceeded. Primitive communism, chattel slavery, serf slavery, and wage </p><p>slavery were necessary stepping-stones in the evolution of society. </p><p>But it were ridiculous to assert that the Iron Heel was a necessary </p><p>stepping-stone. Rather, to-day, is it adjudged a step aside, or a step </p><p>backward, to the social tyrannies that made the early world a hell, but </p><p>that were as necessary as the Iron Heel was unnecessary. </p><p>Black as Feudalism was, yet the coming of it was inevitable. What else </p><p>than Feudalism could have followed upon the breakdown of that great </p><p>centralized governmental machine known as the Roman Empire? Not </p><p>so, however, with the Iron Heel. In the orderly procedure of social </p><p>evolution there was no place for it. It was not necessary, and it was </p><p>not inevitable. It must always remain the great curiosity of history--a </p><p>whim, a fantasy, an apparition, a thing unexpected and undreamed; and </p><p>it should serve as a warning to those rash political theorists of to-day </p><p>who speak with certitude of social processes. </p><p>Capitalism was adjudged by the sociologists of the time to be the </p><p>culmination of bourgeois rule, the ripened fruit of the bourgeois </p><p>revolution. And we of to-day can but applaud that judgment. Following </p><p>upon Capitalism, it was held, even by such intellectual and antagonistic </p><p>giants as Herbert Spencer, that Socialism would come. Out of the decay </p><p>of self-seeking capitalism, it was held, would arise that flower of the </p><p>ages, the Brotherhood of Man. Instead of which, appalling alike to </p><p>us who look back and to those that lived at the time, capitalism, </p><p>rotten-ripe, sent forth that monstrous offshoot, the Oligarchy. </p><p>Too late did the socialist movement of the early twentieth century </p><p>divine the coming of the Oligarchy. Even as it was divined, the </p><p>Oligarchy was there--a fact established in blood, a stupendous and awful</p><p>reality. Nor even then, as the Everhard Manuscript well shows, was any </p><p>permanence attributed to the Iron Heel. Its overthrow was a matter of </p><p>a few short years, was the judgment of the revolutionists. It is true, </p><p>they realized that the Peasant Revolt was unplanned, and that the First </p><p>Revolt was premature; but they little realized that the Second Revolt, </p><p>planned and mature, was doomed to equal futility and more terrible </p><p>punishment. </p><p>It is apparent that Avis Everhard completed the Manuscript during the </p><p>last days of preparation for the Second Revolt; hence the fact that </p><p>there is no mention of the disastrous outcome of the Second Revolt. </p><p>It is quite clear that she intended the Manuscript for immediate </p><p>publication, as soon as the Iron Heel was overthrown, so that her </p><p>husband, so recently dead, should receive full credit for all that he </p><p>had ventured and accomplished. Then came the frightful crushing of the </p><p>Second Revolt, and it is probable that in the moment of danger, ere she </p><p>fled or was captured by the Mercenaries, she hid the Manuscript in the </p><p>hollow oak at Wake Robin Lodge. </p><p>Of Avis Everhard there is no further record. Undoubtedly she was </p><p>executed by the Mercenaries; and, as is well known, no record of such </p><p>executions was kept by the Iron Heel. But little did she realize, even </p><p>then, as she hid the Manuscript and prepared to flee, how terrible had </p><p>been the breakdown of the Second Revolt. Little did she realize that </p><p>the tortuous and distorted evolution of the next three centuries would </p><p>compel a Third Revolt and a Fourth Revolt, and many Revolts, all drowned </p><p>in seas of blood, ere the world-movement of labor should come into its </p><p>own. And little did she dream that for seven long centuries the tribute </p><p>of her love to Ernest Everhard would repose undisturbed in the heart of </p><p>the ancient oak of Wake Robin Lodge. </p><p>ANTHONY MEREDITH </p><p>Ardis, </p><p>November 27, 419 B.O.M. </p><p>THE IRON HEEL </p><p>CHAPTER I </p><p>MY EAGLE </p><p>The soft summer wind stirs the redwoods, and Wild-Water ripples sweet </p><p>cadences over its mossy stones. There are butterflies in the sunshine, </p><p>and from everywhere arises the drowsy hum of bees. It is so quiet and </p><p>peaceful, and I sit here, and ponder, and am restless. It is the quiet </p><p>that makes me restless. It seems unreal. All the world is quiet, but it </p><p>is the quiet before the storm. I strain my ears, and all my senses, for </p><p>some betrayal of that impending storm. Oh, that it may not be premature! </p><p>That it may not be premature!* </p><p> * The Second Revolt was largely the work of Ernest Everhard,</p><p> though he cooperated, of course, with the European leaders.</p><p> The capture and secret execution of Everhard was the great</p><p> event of the spring of 1932 A.D. Yet so thoroughly had he</p><p> prepared for the revolt, that his fellow-conspirators were</p><p> able, with little confusion or delay, to carry out his</p><p> plans. It was after Everhard's execution that his wife went</p><p> to Wake Robin Lodge, a small bungalow in the Sonoma Hills of</p><p> California.</p><p>Small wonder that I am restless. I think, and think, and I cannot </p><p>cease from thinking. I have been in the thick of life so long that I </p><p>am oppressed by the peace and quiet, and I cannot forbear from dwelling </p><p>upon that mad maelstrom of death and destruction so soon to burst forth. </p><p>In my ears are the cries of the stricken; and I can see, as I have </p><p>seen in the past,* all the marring and mangling of the sweet, beautiful </p><p>flesh, and the souls torn with violence from proud bodies and hurled to </p><p>God. Thus do we poor humans attain our ends, striving through carnage </p><p>and destruction to bring lasting peace and happiness upon the earth. </p><p> * Without doubt she here refers to the Chicago Commune.</p><p>And then I am lonely. When I do not think of what is to come, I think of </p><p>what has been and is no more--my Eagle, beating with tireless wings the </p><p>void, soaring toward what was ever his sun, the flaming ideal of human </p><p>freedom. I cannot sit idly by and wait the great event that is his </p><p>making, though he is not here to see. He devoted all the years of his </p><p>manhood to it, and for it he gave his life. It is his handiwork. He made </p><p>it.* </p><p> * With all respect to Avis Everhard, it must be pointed out</p><p> that Everhard was but one of many able leaders who planned</p><p> the Second Revolt. And we to-day, looking back across the</p><p> centuries, can safely say that even had he lived, the Second</p><p> Revolt would not have been less calamitous in its outcome</p><p> than it was.</p><p>And so it is, in this anxious time of waiting, that I shall write of </p><p>my husband. There is much light that I alone of all persons living can </p><p>throw upon his character, and so noble a character cannot be blazoned </p><p>forth too brightly. His was a great soul, and, when my love grows </p><p>unselfish, my chiefest regret is that he is not here to witness </p><p>to-morrow's dawn. We cannot fail. He has built too stoutly and too </p><p>surely for that. Woe to the Iron Heel! Soon shall it be thrust back from </p><p>off prostrate humanity. When the word goes forth, the labor hosts of all </p><p>the world shall rise. There has been nothing like it in the history of </p><p>the world. The solidarity of labor is assured, and for the first time </p><p>will there be an international revolution wide as the world is wide.* </p><p> * The Second Revolt was truly international. It was a</p><p> colossal plan--too colossal to be wrought by the genius of</p><p> one man alone. Labor, in all the oligarchies of the world,</p><p> was prepared to rise at the signal. Germany, Italy, France,</p><p> and all Australasia were labor countries--socialist states.</p><p> They were ready to lend aid to the revolution. Gallantly</p><p> they did; and it was for this reason, when the Second Revolt</p><p> was crushed, that they, too, were crushed by the united</p><p> oligarchies of the world, their socialist governments being</p><p> replaced by oligarchical governments.</p><p>You see, I am full of what is impending. I have lived it day and night </p><p>utterly and for so long that it is ever present in my mind. For that </p><p>matter, I cannot think of my husband without thinking of it. He was the </p><p>soul of it, and how can I possibly separate the two in thought? </p><p>As I have said, there is much light that I alone can throw upon his </p><p>character. It is well known that he toiled hard for liberty and suffered </p><p>sore. How hard he toiled and how greatly he suffered, I well know; for </p><p>I have been with him during these twenty anxious years and I know his </p><p>patience, his untiring effort, his infinite devotion to the Cause for </p><p>which, only two months gone, he laid down his life. </p><p>I shall try to write simply and to tell here how Ernest Everhard entered </p><p>my life--how I first met him, how he grew until I became a part of him, </p><p>and the tremendous changes he wrought in my life. In this way may you </p><p>look at him through my eyes and learn him as I learned him--in all save </p><p>the things too secret and sweet for me to tell. </p><p>It was in February, 1912, that I first met him, when, as a guest of my </p><p>father's* at dinner, he came to our house in Berkeley. I cannot say that </p><p>my very first impression of him was favorable. He was one of many at </p><p>dinner, and in the drawing-room where we gathered and waited for all </p><p>to arrive, he made a rather incongruous appearance. It was "preacher's </p><p>night," as my father privately called it, and Ernest was certainly out </p><p>of place in the midst of the churchmen. </p><p> * John Cunningham, Avis Everhard's father, was a professor</p><p> at the State University at Berkeley, California. His chosen</p><p> field was physics, and in addition he did much original</p><p> research and was greatly distinguished as a scientist. His</p><p> chief contribution to science was his studies of the</p><p> electron and his monumental work on the "Identification of</p><p> Matter and Energy," wherein he established, beyond cavil and</p><p> for all time, that the ultimate unit of matter and the</p><p> ultimate unit of force were identical. This idea had been</p><p> earlier advanced, but not demonstrated, by Sir Oliver Lodge</p><p> and other students in the new field of radio-activity.</p><p>In the first place, his clothes did not fit him. He wore a ready-made </p><p>suit of dark cloth that was ill adjusted to his body. In fact, no </p><p>ready-made suit of clothes ever could fit his body. And on this night, </p><p>as always, the cloth bulged with his muscles, while the coat between </p><p>the shoulders, what of the heavy shoulder-development, was a maze of </p><p>wrinkles. His neck was the neck of a prize-fighter,* thick and strong. </p><p>So this was the social philosopher and ex-horseshoer my father had </p><p>discovered, was my thought. And he certainly looked it with those </p><p>bulging muscles and that bull-throat. Immediately I classified him--a </p><p>sort of prodigy, I thought, a Blind Tom** of the working class. </p><p> * In that day it was the custom of men to compete for purses</p><p> of money. They fought with their hands. When one was</p><p> beaten into insensibility or killed, the survivor took the</p><p> money.</p><p> ** This obscure reference applies to a blind negro musician</p><p> who took the world by storm in the latter half of the</p><p> nineteenth century of the Christian Era.</p><p>And then, when he shook hands with me! His handshake was firm and</p><p>strong, but he looked at me boldly with his black eyes--too boldly, I </p><p>thought. You see, I was a creature of environment, and at that time had </p><p>strong class instincts. Such boldness on the part of a man of my own </p><p>class would have been almost unforgivable. I know that I could not avoid </p><p>dropping my eyes, and I was quite relieved when I passed him on and </p><p>turned to greet Bishop Morehouse--a favorite of mine, a sweet and </p><p>serious man of middle age, Christ-like in appearance and goodness, and a </p><p>scholar as well. </p><p>But this boldness that I took to be presumption was a vital clew to the </p><p>nature of Ernest Everhard. He was simple, direct, afraid of nothing, and </p><p>he refused to waste time on conventional mannerisms. "You pleased me," </p><p>he explained long afterward; "and why should I not fill my eyes with </p><p>that which pleases me?" I have said that he was afraid of nothing. He </p><p>was a natural aristocrat--and this in spite of the fact that he was in </p><p>the camp of the non-aristocrats. He was a superman, a blond beast </p><p>such as Nietzsche* has described, and in addition he was aflame with </p><p>democracy. </p><p> * Friederich Nietzsche, the mad philosopher of the</p><p> nineteenth century of the Christian Era, who caught wild</p><p> glimpses of truth, but who, before he was done, reasoned</p><p> himself around the great circle of human thought and off</p><p> into madness.</p><p>In the interest of meeting the other guests, and what of my unfavorable </p><p>impression, I forgot all about the working-class philosopher, though </p><p>once or twice at table I noticed him--especially the twinkle in his eye </p><p>as he listened to the talk first of one minister and then of another. He </p><p>has humor, I thought, and I almost forgave him his clothes. But the time </p><p>went by, and the dinner went by, and he never opened his mouth to speak, </p><p>while the ministers talked interminably about the working class and its </p><p>relation to the church, and what the church had done and was doing for </p><p>it. I noticed that my father was annoyed because Ernest did not talk. </p><p>Once father took advantage of a lull and asked him to say something; but </p><p>Ernest shrugged his shoulders and with an "I have nothing to say" went </p><p>on eating salted almonds. </p><p>But father was not to be denied. After a while he said: </p><p>"We have with us a member of the working class. I am sure that he can </p><p>present things from a new point of view that will be interesting and </p><p>refreshing. I refer to Mr. Everhard." </p><p>The others betrayed a well-mannered interest, and urged Ernest for </p><p>a statement of his views. Their attitude toward him was so broadly </p><p>tolerant and kindly that it was really patronizing. And I saw that </p><p>Ernest noted it and was amused. He looked slowly about him, and I saw </p><p>the glint of laughter in his eyes. </p><p>"I am not versed in the courtesies of ecclesiastical controversy," he </p><p>began, and then hesitated with modesty and indecision. </p><p>"Go on," they urged, and Dr. Hammerfield said: "We do not mind the truth </p><p>that is in any man. If it is sincere," he amended. </p><p>"Then you separate sincerity from truth?" Ernest laughed quickly. </p><p>Dr. Hammerfield gasped, and managed to answer, "The best of us may be</p><p>mistaken, young man, the best of us." </p><p>Ernest's manner changed on the instant. He became another man. </p><p>"All right, then," he answered; "and let me begin by saying that you </p><p>are all mistaken. You know nothing, and worse than nothing, about the </p><p>working class. Your sociology is as vicious and worthless as is your </p><p>method of thinking." </p><p>It was not so much what he said as how he said it. I roused at the first </p><p>sound of his voice. It was as bold as his eyes. It was a clarion-call </p><p>that thrilled me. And the whole table was aroused, shaken alive from </p><p>monotony and drowsiness. </p><p>"What is so dreadfully vicious and worthless in our method of thinking, </p><p>young man?" Dr. Hammerfield demanded, and already there was something </p><p>unpleasant in his voice and manner of utterance. </p><p>"You are metaphysicians. You can prove anything by metaphysics; and </p><p>having done so, every metaphysician can prove every other metaphysician </p><p>wrong--to his own satisfaction. You are anarchists in the realm of </p><p>thought. And you are mad cosmos-makers. Each of you dwells in a cosmos </p><p>of his own making, created out of his own fancies and desires. You do </p><p>not know the real world in which you live, and your thinking has no </p><p>place in the real world except in so far as it is phenomena of mental </p><p>aberration. </p><p>"Do you know what I was reminded of as I sat at table and listened to </p><p>you talk and talk? You reminded me for all the world of the scholastics </p><p>of the Middle Ages who gravely and learnedly debated the absorbing </p><p>question of how many angels could dance on the point of a needle. </p><p>Why, my dear sirs, you are as remote from the intellectual life of the </p><p>twentieth century as an Indian medicine-man making incantation in the </p><p>primeval forest ten thousand years ago." </p><p>As Ernest talked he seemed in a fine passion; his face glowed, his </p><p>eyes snapped and flashed, and his chin and jaw were eloquent with </p><p>aggressiveness. But it was only a way he had. It always aroused people. </p><p>His smashing, sledge-hammer manner of attack invariably made them forget </p><p>themselves. And they were forgetting themselves now. Bishop Morehouse </p><p>was leaning forward and listening intently. Exasperation and anger were </p><p>flushing the face of Dr. Hammerfield. And others were exasperated, too, </p><p>and some were smiling in an amused and superior way. As for myself, I </p><p>found it most enjoyable. I glanced at father, and I was afraid he was </p><p>going to giggle at the effect of this human bombshell he had been guilty </p><p>of launching amongst us. </p><p>"Your terms are rather vague," Dr. Hammerfield interrupted. "Just </p><p>precisely what do you mean when you call us metaphysicians?" </p><p>"I call you metaphysicians because you reason metaphysically," Ernest </p><p>went on. "Your method of reasoning is the opposite to that of science. </p><p>There is no validity to your conclusions. You can prove everything and </p><p>nothing, and no two of you can agree upon anything. Each of you goes </p><p>into his own consciousness to explain himself and the universe. As </p><p>well may you lift yourselves by your own bootstraps as to explain </p><p>consciousness by consciousness." </p><p>"I do not understand," Bishop Morehouse said. "It seems to me that all</p><p>things of the mind are metaphysical. That most exact and convincing </p><p>of all sciences, mathematics, is sheerly metaphysical. Each and every </p><p>thought-process of the scientific reasoner is metaphysical. Surely you </p><p>will agree with me?" </p><p>"As you say, you do not understand," Ernest replied. "The metaphysician </p><p>reasons deductively out of his own subjectivity. The scientist reasons </p><p>inductively from the facts of experience. The metaphysician reasons </p><p>from theory to facts, the scientist reasons from facts to theory. The </p><p>metaphysician explains the universe by himself, the scientist explains </p><p>himself by the universe." </p><p>"Thank God we are not scientists," Dr. Hammerfield murmured </p><p>complacently. </p><p>"What are you then?" Ernest demanded. </p><p>"Philosophers." </p><p>"There you go," Ernest laughed. "You have left the real and solid earth </p><p>and are up in the air with a word for a flying machine. Pray come down </p><p>to earth and tell me precisely what you do mean by philosophy." </p><p>"Philosophy is--" (Dr. Hammerfield paused and cleared his </p><p>throat)--"something that cannot be defined comprehensively except to </p><p>such minds and temperaments as are philosophical. The narrow scientist </p><p>with his nose in a test-tube cannot understand philosophy." </p><p>Ernest ignored the thrust. It was always his way to turn the point back </p><p>upon an opponent, and he did it now, with a beaming brotherliness of </p><p>face and utterance. </p><p>"Then you will undoubtedly understand the definition I shall now make </p><p>of philosophy. But before I make it, I shall challenge you to point out </p><p>error in it or to remain a silent metaphysician. Philosophy is merely </p><p>the widest science of all. Its reasoning method is the same as that of </p><p>any particular science and of all particular sciences. And by that </p><p>same method of reasoning, the inductive method, philosophy fuses all </p><p>particular sciences into one great science. As Spencer says, the data </p><p>of any particular science are partially unified knowledge. Philosophy </p><p>unifies the knowledge that is contributed by all the sciences. </p><p>Philosophy is the science of science, the master science, if you please. </p><p>How do you like my definition?" </p><p>"Very creditable, very creditable," Dr. Hammerfield muttered lamely. </p><p>But Ernest was merciless. </p><p>"Remember," he warned, "my definition is fatal to metaphysics. If you do </p><p>not now point out a flaw in my definition, you are disqualified later on </p><p>from advancing metaphysical arguments. You must go through life seeking </p><p>that flaw and remaining metaphysically silent until you have found it." </p><p>Ernest waited. The silence was painful. Dr. Hammerfield was pained. He </p><p>was also puzzled. Ernest's sledge-hammer attack disconcerted him. He </p><p>was not used to the simple and direct method of controversy. He looked </p><p>appealingly around the table, but no one answered for him. I caught </p><p>father grinning into his napkin. </p><p>"There is another way of disqualifying the metaphysicians," Ernest said, </p><p>when he had rendered Dr. Hammerfield's discomfiture complete. "Judge </p><p>them by their works. What have they done for mankind beyond the spinning </p><p>of airy fancies and the mistaking of their own shadows for gods? They </p><p>have added to the gayety of mankind, I grant; but what tangible good </p><p>have they wrought for mankind? They philosophized, if you will pardon my </p><p>misuse of the word, about the heart as the seat of the emotions, while </p><p>the scientists were formulating the circulation of the blood. They </p><p>declaimed about famine and pestilence as being scourges of God, while </p><p>the scientists were building granaries and draining cities. They </p><p>builded gods in their own shapes and out of their own desires, while </p><p>the scientists were building roads and bridges. They were describing </p><p>the earth as the centre of the universe, while the scientists were </p><p>discovering America and probing space for the stars and the laws of </p><p>the stars. In short, the metaphysicians have done nothing, absolutely </p><p>nothing, for mankind. Step by step, before the advance of science, they </p><p>have been driven back. As fast as the ascertained facts of science have </p><p>overthrown their subjective explanations of things, they have made new </p><p>subjective explanations of things, including explanations of the latest </p><p>ascertained facts. And this, I doubt not, they will go on doing to </p><p>the end of time. Gentlemen, a metaphysician is a medicine man. </p><p>The difference between you and the Eskimo who makes a fur-clad </p><p>blubber-eating god is merely a difference of several thousand years of </p><p>ascertained facts. That is all." </p><p>"Yet the thought of Aristotle ruled Europe for twelve centuries," Dr. </p><p>Ballingford announced pompously. "And Aristotle was a metaphysician." </p><p>Dr. Ballingford glanced around the table and was rewarded by nods and </p><p>smiles of approval. </p><p>"Your illustration is most unfortunate," Ernest replied. "You refer to a </p><p>very dark period in human history. In fact, we call that period the Dark </p><p>Ages. A period wherein science was raped by the metaphysicians, wherein </p><p>physics became a search for the Philosopher's Stone, wherein chemistry </p><p>became alchemy, and astronomy became astrology. Sorry the domination of </p><p>Aristotle's thought!" </p><p>Dr. Ballingford looked pained, then he brightened up and said: </p><p>"Granted this horrible picture you have drawn, yet you must confess that </p><p>metaphysics was inherently potent in so far as it drew humanity out </p><p>of this dark period and on into the illumination of the succeeding </p><p>centuries." </p><p>"Metaphysics had nothing to do with it," Ernest retorted. </p><p>"What?" Dr. Hammerfield cried. "It was not the thinking and the </p><p>speculation that led to the voyages of discovery?" </p><p>"Ah, my dear sir," Ernest smiled, "I thought you were disqualified. You </p><p>have not yet picked out the flaw in my definition of philosophy. You are </p><p>now on an unsubstantial basis. But it is the way of the metaphysicians, </p><p>and I forgive you. No, I repeat, metaphysics had nothing to do with </p><p>it. Bread and butter, silks and jewels, dollars and cents, and, </p><p>incidentally, the closing up of the overland trade-routes to India, </p><p>were the things that caused the voyages of discovery. With the fall of </p><p>Constantinople, in 1453, the Turks blocked the way of the caravans to </p><p>India. The traders of Europe had to find another route. Here was the</p><p>original cause for the voyages of discovery. Columbus sailed to find </p><p>a new route to the Indies. It is so stated in all the history books. </p><p>Incidentally, new facts were learned about the nature, size, and form of </p><p>the earth, and the Ptolemaic system went glimmering." </p><p>Dr. Hammerfield snorted. </p><p>"You do not agree with me?" Ernest queried. "Then wherein am I wrong?" </p><p>"I can only reaffirm my position," Dr. Hammerfield retorted tartly. "It </p><p>is too long a story to enter into now." </p><p>"No story is too long for the scientist," Ernest said sweetly. "That is </p><p>why the scientist gets to places. That is why he got to America." </p><p>I shall not describe the whole evening, though it is a joy to me to </p><p>recall every moment, every detail, of those first hours of my coming to </p><p>know Ernest Everhard. </p><p>Battle royal raged, and the ministers grew red-faced and excited, </p><p>especially at the moments when Ernest called them romantic philosophers, </p><p>shadow-projectors, and similar things. And always he checked them back </p><p>to facts. "The fact, man, the irrefragable fact!" he would proclaim </p><p>triumphantly, when he had brought one of them a cropper. He bristled </p><p>with facts. He tripped them up with facts, ambuscaded them with facts, </p><p>bombarded them with broadsides of facts. </p><p>"You seem to worship at the shrine of fact," Dr. Hammerfield taunted </p><p>him. </p><p>"There is no God but Fact, and Mr. Everhard is its prophet," Dr. </p><p>Ballingford paraphrased. </p><p>Ernest smilingly acquiesced. </p><p>"I'm like the man from Texas," he said. And, on being solicited, he </p><p>explained. "You see, the man from Missouri always says, 'You've got </p><p>to show me.' But the man from Texas says, 'You've got to put it in my </p><p>hand.' From which it is apparent that he is no metaphysician." </p><p>Another time, when Ernest had just said that the metaphysical </p><p>philosophers could never stand the test of truth, Dr. Hammerfield </p><p>suddenly demanded: </p><p>"What is the test of truth, young man? Will you kindly explain what has </p><p>so long puzzled wiser heads than yours?" </p><p>"Certainly," Ernest answered. His cocksureness irritated them. "The wise </p><p>heads have puzzled so sorely over truth because they went up into the </p><p>air after it. Had they remained on the solid earth, they would have </p><p>found it easily enough--ay, they would have found that they themselves </p><p>were precisely testing truth with every practical act and thought of </p><p>their lives." </p><p>"The test, the test," Dr. Hammerfield repeated impatiently. "Never mind </p><p>the preamble. Give us that which we have sought so long--the test of </p><p>truth. Give it us, and we will be as gods." </p><p>There was an impolite and sneering scepticism in his words and manner</p><p>that secretly pleased most of them at the table, though it seemed to </p><p>bother Bishop Morehouse. </p><p>"Dr. Jordan* has stated it very clearly," Ernest said. "His test of </p><p>truth is: 'Will it work? Will you trust your life to it?'" </p><p> * A noted educator of the late nineteenth and early</p><p> twentieth centuries of the Christian Era. He was president</p><p> of the Stanford University, a private benefaction of the</p><p> times.</p><p>"Pish!" Dr. Hammerfield sneered. "You have not taken Bishop Berkeley* </p><p>into account. He has never been answered." </p><p> * An idealistic monist who long puzzled the philosophers of</p><p> that time with his denial of the existence of matter, but</p><p> whose clever argument was finally demolished when the new</p><p> empiric facts of science were philosophically generalized.</p><p>"The noblest metaphysician of them all," Ernest laughed. "But your </p><p>example is unfortunate. As Berkeley himself attested, his metaphysics </p><p>didn't work." </p><p>Dr. Hammerfield was angry, righteously angry. It was as though he had </p><p>caught Ernest in a theft or a lie. </p><p>"Young man," he trumpeted, "that statement is on a par with all you have </p><p>uttered to-night. It is a base and unwarranted assumption." </p><p>"I am quite crushed," Ernest murmured meekly. "Only I don't know what </p><p>hit me. You'll have to put it in my hand, Doctor." </p><p>"I will, I will," Dr. Hammerfield spluttered. "How do you know? You </p><p>do not know that Bishop Berkeley attested that his metaphysics did not </p><p>work. You have no proof. Young man, they have always worked." </p><p>"I take it as proof that Berkeley's metaphysics did not work, because--" </p><p>Ernest paused calmly for a moment. "Because Berkeley made an invariable </p><p>practice of going through doors instead of walls. Because he trusted his </p><p>life to solid bread and butter and roast beef. Because he shaved himself </p><p>with a razor that worked when it removed the hair from his face." </p><p>"But those are actual things!" Dr. Hammerfield cried. "Metaphysics is of </p><p>the mind." </p><p>"And they work--in the mind?" Ernest queried softly. </p><p>The other nodded. </p><p>"And even a multitude of angels can dance on the point of a needle--in </p><p>the mind," Ernest went on reflectively. "And a blubber-eating, fur-clad </p><p>god can exist and work--in the mind; and there are no proofs to the </p><p>contrary--in the mind. I suppose, Doctor, you live in the mind?" </p><p>"My mind to me a kingdom is," was the answer. </p><p>"That's another way of saying that you live up in the air. But you come </p><p>back to earth at meal-time, I am sure, or when an earthquake happens </p><p>along. Or, tell me, Doctor, do you have no apprehension in an earthquake</p><p>that that incorporeal body of yours will be hit by an immaterial brick?" </p><p>Instantly, and quite unconsciously, Dr. Hammerfield's hand shot up to </p><p>his head, where a scar disappeared under the hair. It happened that </p><p>Ernest had blundered on an apposite illustration. Dr. Hammerfield </p><p>had been nearly killed in the Great Earthquake* by a falling chimney. </p><p>Everybody broke out into roars of laughter. </p><p> * The Great Earthquake of 1906 A.D. that destroyed San</p><p> Francisco.</p><p>"Well?" Ernest asked, when the merriment had subsided. "Proofs to the </p><p>contrary?" </p><p>And in the silence he asked again, "Well?" Then he added, "Still well, </p><p>but not so well, that argument of yours." </p><p>But Dr. Hammerfield was temporarily crushed, and the battle raged on in </p><p>new directions. On point after point, Ernest challenged the ministers. </p><p>When they affirmed that they knew the working class, he told them </p><p>fundamental truths about the working class that they did not know, and </p><p>challenged them for disproofs. He gave them facts, always facts, checked </p><p>their excursions into the air, and brought them back to the solid earth </p><p>and its facts. </p><p>How the scene comes back to me! I can hear him now, with that war-note </p><p>in his voice, flaying them with his facts, each fact a lash that stung </p><p>and stung again. And he was merciless. He took no quarter,* and gave </p><p>none. I can never forget the flaying he gave them at the end: </p><p> * This figure arises from the customs of the times. When,</p><p> among men fighting to the death in their wild-animal way, a</p><p> beaten man threw down his weapons, it was at the option of</p><p> the victor to slay him or spare him.</p><p>"You have repeatedly confessed to-night, by direct avowal or ignorant </p><p>statement, that you do not know the working class. But you are not to be </p><p>blamed for this. How can you know anything about the working class? You </p><p>do not live in the same locality with the working class. You herd </p><p>with the capitalist class in another locality. And why not? It is the </p><p>capitalist class that pays you, that feeds you, that puts the very </p><p>clothes on your backs that you are wearing to-night. And in return you </p><p>preach to your employers the brands of metaphysics that are especially </p><p>acceptable to them; and the especially acceptable brands are acceptable </p><p>because they do not menace the established order of society." </p><p>Here there was a stir of dissent around the table. </p><p>"Oh, I am not challenging your sincerity," Ernest continued. "You are </p><p>sincere. You preach what you believe. There lies your strength and your </p><p>value--to the capitalist class. But should you change your belief to </p><p>something that menaces the established order, your preaching would </p><p>be unacceptable to your employers, and you would be discharged. Every </p><p>little while some one or another of you is so discharged.* Am I not </p><p>right?" </p><p> * During this period there were many ministers cast out of</p><p> the church for preaching unacceptable doctrine. Especially</p><p> were they cast out when their preaching became tainted with</p><p> socialism.</p><p>This time there was no dissent. They sat dumbly acquiescent, with the </p><p>exception of Dr. Hammerfield, who said: </p><p>"It is when their thinking is wrong that they are asked to resign." </p><p>"Which is another way of saying when their thinking is unacceptable," </p><p>Ernest answered, and then went on. "So I say to you, go ahead and preach </p><p>and earn your pay, but for goodness' sake leave the working class alone. </p><p>You belong in the enemy's camp. You have nothing in common with the </p><p>working class. Your hands are soft with the work others have performed </p><p>for you. Your stomachs are round with the plenitude of eating." (Here </p><p>Dr. Ballingford winced, and every eye glanced at his prodigious girth. </p><p>It was said he had not seen his own feet in years.) "And your minds are </p><p>filled with doctrines that are buttresses of the established order. You </p><p>are as much mercenaries (sincere mercenaries, I grant) as were the men </p><p>of the Swiss Guard.* Be true to your salt and your hire; guard, with </p><p>your preaching, the interests of your employers; but do not come down to </p><p>the working class and serve as false leaders. You cannot honestly be in </p><p>the two camps at once. The working class has done without you. Believe </p><p>me, the working class will continue to do without you. And, furthermore, </p><p>the working class can do better without you than with you." </p><p> * The hired foreign palace guards of Louis XVI, a king of</p><p> France that was beheaded by his people.</p><p>CHAPTER II </p><p>CHALLENGES. </p><p>After the guests had gone, father threw himself into a chair and gave </p><p>vent to roars of Gargantuan laughter. Not since the death of my mother </p><p>had I known him to laugh so heartily. </p><p>"I'll wager Dr. Hammerfield was never up against anything like it in his </p><p>life," he laughed. "'The courtesies of ecclesiastical controversy!' Did </p><p>you notice how he began like a lamb--Everhard, I mean, and how quickly </p><p>he became a roaring lion? He has a splendidly disciplined mind. He would </p><p>have made a good scientist if his energies had been directed that way." </p><p>I need scarcely say that I was deeply interested in Ernest Everhard. It </p><p>was not alone what he had said and how he had said it, but it was the </p><p>man himself. I had never met a man like him. I suppose that was why, in </p><p>spite of my twenty-four years, I had not married. I liked him; I had to </p><p>confess it to myself. And my like for him was founded on things </p><p>beyond intellect and argument. Regardless of his bulging muscles and </p><p>prize-fighter's throat, he impressed me as an ingenuous boy. I felt </p><p>that under the guise of an intellectual swashbuckler was a delicate and </p><p>sensitive spirit. I sensed this, in ways I knew not, save that they were </p><p>my woman's intuitions. </p><p>There was something in that clarion-call of his that went to my heart. </p><p>It still rang in my ears, and I felt that I should like to hear it </p><p>again--and to see again that glint of laughter in his eyes that belied </p><p>the impassioned seriousness of his face. And there were further reaches</p><p>of vague and indeterminate feelings that stirred in me. I almost loved </p><p>him then, though I am confident, had I never seen him again, that the </p><p>vague feelings would have passed away and that I should easily have </p><p>forgotten him. </p><p>But I was not destined never to see him again. My father's new-born </p><p>interest in sociology and the dinner parties he gave would not permit. </p><p>Father was not a sociologist. His marriage with my mother had been very </p><p>happy, and in the researches of his own science, physics, he had been </p><p>very happy. But when mother died, his own work could not fill the </p><p>emptiness. At first, in a mild way, he had dabbled in philosophy; then, </p><p>becoming interested, he had drifted on into economics and sociology. He </p><p>had a strong sense of justice, and he soon became fired with a passion </p><p>to redress wrong. It was with gratitude that I hailed these signs of a </p><p>new interest in life, though I little dreamed what the outcome would </p><p>be. With the enthusiasm of a boy he plunged excitedly into these new </p><p>pursuits, regardless of whither they led him. </p><p>He had been used always to the laboratory, and so it was that he turned </p><p>the dining room into a sociological laboratory. Here came to dinner </p><p>all sorts and conditions of men,--scientists, politicians, bankers, </p><p>merchants, professors, labor leaders, socialists, and anarchists. He </p><p>stirred them to discussion, and analyzed their thoughts of life and </p><p>society. </p><p>He had met Ernest shortly prior to the "preacher's night." And after the </p><p>guests were gone, I learned how he had met him, passing down a street at </p><p>night and stopping to listen to a man on a soap-box who was addressing </p><p>a crowd of workingmen. The man on the box was Ernest. Not that he was </p><p>a mere soap-box orator. He stood high in the councils of the socialist </p><p>party, was one of the leaders, and was the acknowledged leader in the </p><p>philosophy of socialism. But he had a certain clear way of stating the </p><p>abstruse in simple language, was a born expositor and teacher, and </p><p>was not above the soap-box as a means of interpreting economics to the </p><p>workingmen. </p><p>My father stopped to listen, became interested, effected a meeting, and, </p><p>after quite an acquaintance, invited him to the ministers' dinner. It </p><p>was after the dinner that father told me what little he knew about him. </p><p>He had been born in the working class, though he was a descendant of </p><p>the old line of Everhards that for over two hundred years had lived </p><p>in America.* At ten years of age he had gone to work in the mills, </p><p>and later he served his apprenticeship and became a horseshoer. He was </p><p>self-educated, had taught himself German and French, and at that time </p><p>was earning a meagre living by translating scientific and philosophical </p><p>works for a struggling socialist publishing house in Chicago. Also, his </p><p>earnings were added to by the royalties from the small sales of his own </p><p>economic and philosophic works. </p><p> * The distinction between being native born and foreign born</p><p> was sharp and invidious in those days.</p><p>This much I learned of him before I went to bed, and I lay long awake, </p><p>listening in memory to the sound of his voice. I grew frightened at </p><p>my thoughts. He was so unlike the men of my own class, so alien and so </p><p>strong. His masterfulness delighted me and terrified me, for my fancies </p><p>wantonly roved until I found myself considering him as a lover, as a </p><p>husband. I had always heard that the strength of men was an irresistible </p><p>attraction to women; but he was too strong. "No! no!" I cried out. "It</p><p>is impossible, absurd!" And on the morrow I awoke to find in myself </p><p>a longing to see him again. I wanted to see him mastering men in </p><p>discussion, the war-note in his voice; to see him, in all his certitude </p><p>and strength, shattering their complacency, shaking them out of their </p><p>ruts of thinking. What if he did swashbuckle? To use his own phrase, "it </p><p>worked," it produced effects. And, besides, his swashbuckling was a fine </p><p>thing to see. It stirred one like the onset of battle. </p><p>Several days passed during which I read Ernest's books, borrowed from my </p><p>father. His written word was as his spoken word, clear and convincing. </p><p>It was its absolute simplicity that convinced even while one continued </p><p>to doubt. He had the gift of lucidity. He was the perfect expositor. </p><p>Yet, in spite of his style, there was much that I did not like. He laid </p><p>too great stress on what he called the class struggle, the antagonism </p><p>between labor and capital, the conflict of interest. </p><p>Father reported with glee Dr. Hammerfield's judgment of Ernest, which </p><p>was to the effect that he was "an insolent young puppy, made bumptious </p><p>by a little and very inadequate learning." Also, Dr. Hammerfield </p><p>declined to meet Ernest again. </p><p>But Bishop Morehouse turned out to have become interested in Ernest, </p><p>and was anxious for another meeting. "A strong young man," he said; "and </p><p>very much alive, very much alive. But he is too sure, too sure." </p><p>Ernest came one afternoon with father. The Bishop had already arrived, </p><p>and we were having tea on the veranda. Ernest's continued presence in </p><p>Berkeley, by the way, was accounted for by the fact that he was taking </p><p>special courses in biology at the university, and also that he was hard </p><p>at work on a new book entitled "Philosophy and Revolution."* </p><p> * This book continued to be secretly printed throughout the</p><p> three centuries of the Iron Heel. There are several copies</p><p> of various editions in the National Library of Ardis.</p><p>The veranda seemed suddenly to have become small when Ernest arrived. </p><p>Not that he was so very large--he stood only five feet nine inches; but </p><p>that he seemed to radiate an atmosphere of largeness. As he stopped to </p><p>meet me, he betrayed a certain slight awkwardness that was strangely at </p><p>variance with his bold-looking eyes and his firm, sure hand that clasped </p><p>for a moment in greeting. And in that moment his eyes were just as </p><p>steady and sure. There seemed a question in them this time, and as </p><p>before he looked at me over long. </p><p>"I have been reading your 'Working-class Philosophy,'" I said, and his </p><p>eyes lighted in a pleased way. </p><p>"Of course," he answered, "you took into consideration the audience to </p><p>which it was addressed." </p><p>"I did, and it is because I did that I have a quarrel with you," I </p><p>challenged. </p><p>"I, too, have a quarrel with you, Mr. Everhard," Bishop Morehouse said. </p><p>Ernest shrugged his shoulders whimsically and accepted a cup of tea. </p><p>The Bishop bowed and gave me precedence. </p><p>"You foment class hatred," I said. "I consider it wrong and criminal </p><p>to appeal to all that is narrow and brutal in the working class. Class </p><p>hatred is anti-social, and, it seems to me, anti-socialistic." </p><p>"Not guilty," he answered. "Class hatred is neither in the text nor in </p><p>the spirit of anything I have every written." </p><p>"Oh!" I cried reproachfully, and reached for his book and opened it. </p><p>He sipped his tea and smiled at me while I ran over the pages. </p><p>"Page one hundred and thirty-two," I read aloud: "'The class struggle, </p><p>therefore, presents itself in the present stage of social development </p><p>between the wage-paying and the wage-paid classes.'" </p><p>I looked at him triumphantly. </p><p>"No mention there of class hatred," he smiled back. </p><p>"But," I answered, "you say 'class struggle.'" </p><p>"A different thing from class hatred," he replied. "And, believe me, </p><p>we foment no hatred. We say that the class struggle is a law of social </p><p>development. We are not responsible for it. We do not make the class </p><p>struggle. We merely explain it, as Newton explained gravitation. We </p><p>explain the nature of the conflict of interest that produces the class </p><p>struggle." </p><p>"But there should be no conflict of interest!" I cried. </p><p>"I agree with you heartily," he answered. "That is what we socialists </p><p>are trying to bring about,--the abolition of the conflict of interest. </p><p>Pardon me. Let me read an extract." He took his book and turned back </p><p>several pages. "Page one hundred and twenty-six: 'The cycle of class </p><p>struggles which began with the dissolution of rude, tribal communism </p><p>and the rise of private property will end with the passing of private </p><p>property in the means of social existence.'" </p><p>"But I disagree with you," the Bishop interposed, his pale, ascetic face </p><p>betraying by a faint glow the intensity of his feelings. "Your premise </p><p>is wrong. There is no such thing as a conflict of interest between labor </p><p>and capital--or, rather, there ought not to be." </p><p>"Thank you," Ernest said gravely. "By that last statement you have given </p><p>me back my premise." </p><p>"But why should there be a conflict?" the Bishop demanded warmly. </p><p>Ernest shrugged his shoulders. "Because we are so made, I guess." </p><p>"But we are not so made!" cried the other. </p><p>"Are you discussing the ideal man?" Ernest asked, "--unselfish and </p><p>godlike, and so few in numbers as to be practically non-existent, or are </p><p>you discussing the common and ordinary average man?" </p><p>"The common and ordinary man," was the answer. </p><p>"Who is weak and fallible, prone to error?"</p><p>Bishop Morehouse nodded. </p><p>"And petty and selfish?" </p><p>Again he nodded. </p><p>"Watch out!" Ernest warned. "I said 'selfish.'" </p><p>"The average man IS selfish," the Bishop affirmed valiantly. </p><p>"Wants all he can get?" </p><p>"Wants all he can get--true but deplorable." </p><p>"Then I've got you." Ernest's jaw snapped like a trap. "Let me show you. </p><p>Here is a man who works on the street railways." </p><p>"He couldn't work if it weren't for capital," the Bishop interrupted. </p><p>"True, and you will grant that capital would perish if there were no </p><p>labor to earn the dividends." </p><p>The Bishop was silent. </p><p>"Won't you?" Ernest insisted. </p><p>The Bishop nodded. </p><p>"Then our statements cancel each other," Ernest said in a matter-of-fact </p><p>tone, "and we are where we were. Now to begin again. The workingmen </p><p>on the street railway furnish the labor. The stockholders furnish the </p><p>capital. By the joint effort of the workingmen and the capital, money is </p><p>earned.* They divide between them this money that is earned. Capital's </p><p>share is called 'dividends.' Labor's share is called 'wages.'" </p><p> * In those days, groups of predatory individuals controlled</p><p> all the means of transportation, and for the use of same</p><p> levied toll upon the public.</p><p>"Very good," the Bishop interposed. "And there is no reason that the </p><p>division should not be amicable." </p><p>"You have already forgotten what we had agreed upon," Ernest replied. </p><p>"We agreed that the average man is selfish. He is the man that is. You </p><p>have gone up in the air and are arranging a division between the kind </p><p>of men that ought to be but are not. But to return to the earth, the </p><p>workingman, being selfish, wants all he can get in the division. The </p><p>capitalist, being selfish, wants all he can get in the division. When </p><p>there is only so much of the same thing, and when two men want all they </p><p>can get of the same thing, there is a conflict of interest between labor </p><p>and capital. And it is an irreconcilable conflict. As long as workingmen </p><p>and capitalists exist, they will continue to quarrel over the division. </p><p>If you were in San Francisco this afternoon, you'd have to walk. There </p><p>isn't a street car running." </p><p>"Another strike?"* the Bishop queried with alarm. </p><p> * These quarrels were very common in those irrational and</p><p> anarchic times. Sometimes the laborers refused to work.</p><p> Sometimes the capitalists refused to let the laborers work.</p><p> In the violence and turbulence of such disagreements much</p><p> property was destroyed and many lives lost. All this is</p><p> inconceivable to us--as inconceivable as another custom of</p><p> that time, namely, the habit the men of the lower classes</p><p> had of breaking the furniture when they quarrelled with</p><p> their wives.</p><p>"Yes, they're quarrelling over the division of the earnings of the </p><p>street railways." </p><p>Bishop Morehouse became excited. </p><p>"It is wrong!" he cried. "It is so short-sighted on the part of the </p><p>workingmen. How can they hope to keep our sympathy--" </p><p>"When we are compelled to walk," Ernest said slyly. </p><p>But Bishop Morehouse ignored him and went on: </p><p>"Their outlook is too narrow. Men should be men, not brutes. There will </p><p>be violence and murder now, and sorrowing widows and orphans. Capital </p><p>and labor should be friends. They should work hand in hand and to their </p><p>mutual benefit." </p><p>"Ah, now you are up in the air again," Ernest remarked dryly. "Come back </p><p>to earth. Remember, we agreed that the average man is selfish." </p><p>"But he ought not to be!" the Bishop cried. </p><p>"And there I agree with you," was Ernest's rejoinder. "He ought not to </p><p>be selfish, but he will continue to be selfish as long as he lives in a </p><p>social system that is based on pig-ethics." </p><p>The Bishop was aghast, and my father chuckled. </p><p>"Yes, pig-ethics," Ernest went on remorselessly. "That is the meaning </p><p>of the capitalist system. And that is what your church is standing </p><p>for, what you are preaching for every time you get up in the pulpit. </p><p>Pig-ethics! There is no other name for it." </p><p>Bishop Morehouse turned appealingly to my father, but he laughed and </p><p>nodded his head. </p><p>"I'm afraid Mr. Everhard is right," he said. "LAISSEZ-FAIRE, the </p><p>let-alone policy of each for himself and devil take the hindmost. As Mr. </p><p>Everhard said the other night, the function you churchmen perform is to </p><p>maintain the established order of society, and society is established on </p><p>that foundation." </p><p>"But that is not the teaching of Christ!" cried the Bishop. </p><p>"The Church is not teaching Christ these days," Ernest put in quickly. </p><p>"That is why the workingmen will have nothing to do with the Church. </p><p>The Church condones the frightful brutality and savagery with which the </p><p>capitalist class treats the working class." </p><p>"The Church does not condone it," the Bishop objected.</p><p>"The Church does not protest against it," Ernest replied. "And in so far </p><p>as the Church does not protest, it condones, for remember the Church is </p><p>supported by the capitalist class." </p><p>"I had not looked at it in that light," the Bishop said naively. "You </p><p>must be wrong. I know that there is much that is sad and wicked in </p><p>this world. I know that the Church has lost the--what you call the </p><p>proletariat."* </p><p> * Proletariat: Derived originally from the Latin PROLETARII,</p><p> the name given in the census of Servius Tullius to those who</p><p> were of value to the state only as the rearers of offspring</p><p> (PROLES); in other words, they were of no importance either</p><p> for wealth, or position, or exceptional ability.</p><p>"You never had the proletariat," Ernest cried. "The proletariat has </p><p>grown up outside the Church and without the Church." </p><p>"I do not follow you," the Bishop said faintly. </p><p>"Then let me explain. With the introduction of machinery and the factory </p><p>system in the latter part of the eighteenth century, the great mass of </p><p>the working people was separated from the land. The old system of labor </p><p>was broken down. The working people were driven from their villages and </p><p>herded in factory towns. The mothers and children were put to work at </p><p>the new machines. Family life ceased. The conditions were frightful. It </p><p>is a tale of blood." </p><p>"I know, I know," Bishop Morehouse interrupted with an agonized </p><p>expression on his face. "It was terrible. But it occurred a century and </p><p>a half ago." </p><p>"And there, a century and a half ago, originated the modern </p><p>proletariat," Ernest continued. "And the Church ignored it. While a </p><p>slaughter-house was made of the nation by the capitalist, the Church </p><p>was dumb. It did not protest, as to-day it does not protest. As Austin </p><p>Lewis* says, speaking of that time, those to whom the command 'Feed my </p><p>lambs' had been given, saw those lambs sold into slavery and worked to </p><p>death without a protest.** The Church was dumb, then, and before I go on </p><p>I want you either flatly to agree with me or flatly to disagree with me. </p><p>Was the Church dumb then?" </p><p> * Candidate for Governor of California on the Socialist</p><p> ticket in the fall election of 1906 Christian Era. An</p><p> Englishman by birth, a writer of many books on political</p><p> economy and philosophy, and one of the Socialist leaders of</p><p> the times.</p><p> ** There is no more horrible page in history than the</p><p> treatment of the child and women slaves in the English</p><p> factories in the latter half of the eighteenth century of</p><p> the Christian Era. In such industrial hells arose some of</p><p> the proudest fortunes of that day.</p><p>Bishop Morehouse hesitated. Like Dr. Hammerfield, he was unused to this </p><p>fierce "infighting," as Ernest called it. </p><p>"The history of the eighteenth century is written," Ernest prompted. "If</p><p>the Church was not dumb, it will be found not dumb in the books." </p><p>"I am afraid the Church was dumb," the Bishop confessed. </p><p>"And the Church is dumb to-day." </p><p>"There I disagree," said the Bishop. </p><p>Ernest paused, looked at him searchingly, and accepted the challenge. </p><p>"All right," he said. "Let us see. In Chicago there are women who toil </p><p>all the week for ninety cents. Has the Church protested?" </p><p>"This is news to me," was the answer. "Ninety cents per week! It is </p><p>horrible!" </p><p>"Has the Church protested?" Ernest insisted. </p><p>"The Church does not know." The Bishop was struggling hard. </p><p>"Yet the command to the Church was, 'Feed my lambs,'" Ernest sneered. </p><p>And then, the next moment, "Pardon my sneer, Bishop. But can you </p><p>wonder that we lose patience with you? When have you protested to your </p><p>capitalistic congregations at the working of children in the Southern </p><p>cotton mills?* Children, six and seven years of age, working every night </p><p>at twelve-hour shifts? They never see the blessed sunshine. They die </p><p>like flies. The dividends are paid out of their blood. And out of the </p><p>dividends magnificent churches are builded in New England, wherein your </p><p>kind preaches pleasant platitudes to the sleek, full-bellied recipients </p><p>of those dividends." </p><p> * Everhard might have drawn a better illustration from the</p><p> Southern Church's outspoken defence of chattel slavery prior</p><p> to what is known as the "War of the Rebellion." Several</p><p> such illustrations, culled from the documents of the times,</p><p> are here appended. In 1835 A.D., the General Assembly of</p><p> the Presbyterian Church resolved that: "slavery is</p><p> recognized in both the Old and the New Testaments, and is</p><p> not condemned by the authority of God." The Charleston</p><p> Baptist Association issued the following, in an address, in</p><p> 1835 A.D.: "The right of masters to dispose of the time of</p><p> their slaves has been distinctly recognized by the Creator</p><p> of all things, who is surely at liberty to vest the right of</p><p> property over any object whomsoever He pleases." The Rev.</p><p> E. D. Simon, Doctor of Divinity and professor in the</p><p> Randolph-Macon Methodist College of Virginia, wrote:</p><p> "Extracts from Holy Writ unequivocally assert the right of</p><p> property in slaves, together with the usual incidents to</p><p> that right. The right to buy and sell is clearly stated.</p><p> Upon the whole, then, whether we consult the Jewish policy</p><p> instituted by God himself, or the uniform opinion and</p><p> practice of mankind in all ages, or the injunctions of the</p><p> New Testament and the moral law, we are brought to the</p><p> conclusion that slavery is not immoral. Having established</p><p> the point that the first African slaves were legally brought</p><p> into bondage, the right to detain their children in bondage</p><p> follows as an indispensable consequence. Thus we see that</p><p> the slavery that exists in America was founded in right."</p><p> It is not at all remarkable that this same note should have</p><p> been struck by the Church a generation or so later in</p><p> relation to the defence of capitalistic property. In the</p><p> great museum at Asgard there is a book entitled "Essays in</p><p> Application," written by Henry van Dyke. The book was</p><p> published in 1905 of the Christian Era. From what we can</p><p> make out, Van Dyke must have been a churchman. The book is a</p><p> good example of what Everhard would have called bourgeois</p><p> thinking. Note the similarity between the utterance of the</p><p> Charleston Baptist Association quoted above, and the</p><p> following utterance of Van Dyke seventy years later: "The</p><p> Bible teaches that God owns the world. He distributes to</p><p> every man according to His own good pleasure, conformably to</p><p> general laws."</p><p>"I did not know," the Bishop murmured faintly. His face was pale, and he </p><p>seemed suffering from nausea. </p><p>"Then you have not protested?" </p><p>The Bishop shook his head. </p><p>"Then the Church is dumb to-day, as it was in the eighteenth century?" </p><p>The Bishop was silent, and for once Ernest forbore to press the point. </p><p>"And do not forget, whenever a churchman does protest, that he is </p><p>discharged." </p><p>"I hardly think that is fair," was the objection. </p><p>"Will you protest?" Ernest demanded. </p><p>"Show me evils, such as you mention, in our own community, and I will </p><p>protest." </p><p>"I'll show you," Ernest said quietly. "I am at your disposal. I will </p><p>take you on a journey through hell." </p><p>"And I shall protest." The Bishop straightened himself in his chair, and </p><p>over his gentle face spread the harshness of the warrior. "The Church </p><p>shall not be dumb!" </p><p>"You will be discharged," was the warning. </p><p>"I shall prove the contrary," was the retort. "I shall prove, if </p><p>what you say is so, that the Church has erred through ignorance. And, </p><p>furthermore, I hold that whatever is horrible in industrial society is </p><p>due to the ignorance of the capitalist class. It will mend all that is </p><p>wrong as soon as it receives the message. And this message it shall be </p><p>the duty of the Church to deliver." </p><p>Ernest laughed. He laughed brutally, and I was driven to the Bishop's </p><p>defence. </p><p>"Remember," I said, "you see but one side of the shield. There is </p><p>much good in us, though you give us credit for no good at all. Bishop </p><p>Morehouse is right. The industrial wrong, terrible as you say it is, </p><p>is due to ignorance. The divisions of society have become too widely</p><p>separated." </p><p>"The wild Indian is not so brutal and savage as the capitalist class," </p><p>he answered; and in that moment I hated him. </p><p>"You do not know us," I answered. "We are not brutal and savage." </p><p>"Prove it," he challenged. </p><p>"How can I prove it . . . to you?" I was growing angry. </p><p>He shook his head. "I do not ask you to prove it to me. I ask you to </p><p>prove it to yourself." </p><p>"I know," I said. </p><p>"You know nothing," was his rude reply. </p><p>"There, there, children," father said soothingly. </p><p>"I don't care--" I began indignantly, but Ernest interrupted. </p><p>"I understand you have money, or your father has, which is the same </p><p>thing--money invested in the Sierra Mills." </p><p>"What has that to do with it?" I cried. </p><p>"Nothing much," he began slowly, "except that the gown you wear is </p><p>stained with blood. The food you eat is a bloody stew. The blood of </p><p>little children and of strong men is dripping from your very roof-beams. </p><p>I can close my eyes, now, and hear it drip, drop, drip, drop, all about </p><p>me." </p><p>And suiting the action to the words, he closed his eyes and leaned back </p><p>in his chair. I burst into tears of mortification and hurt vanity. I had </p><p>never been so brutally treated in my life. Both the Bishop and my father </p><p>were embarrassed and perturbed. They tried to lead the conversation </p><p>away into easier channels; but Ernest opened his eyes, looked at me, </p><p>and waved them aside. His mouth was stern, and his eyes too; and in the </p><p>latter there was no glint of laughter. What he was about to say, what </p><p>terrible castigation he was going to give me, I never knew; for at that </p><p>moment a man, passing along the sidewalk, stopped and glanced in at us. </p><p>He was a large man, poorly dressed, and on his back was a great load of </p><p>rattan and bamboo stands, chairs, and screens. He looked at the house as </p><p>if debating whether or not he should come in and try to sell some of his </p><p>wares. </p><p>"That man's name is Jackson," Ernest said. </p><p>"With that strong body of his he should be at work, and not peddling,"* </p><p>I answered curtly. </p><p> * In that day there were many thousands of these poor</p><p> merchants called PEDLERS. They carried their whole stock in</p><p> trade from door to door. It was a most wasteful expenditure</p><p> of energy. Distribution was as confused and irrational as</p><p> the whole general system of society.</p><p>"Notice the sleeve of his left arm," Ernest said gently.</p><p>I looked, and saw that the sleeve was empty. </p><p>"It was some of the blood from that arm that I heard dripping from your </p><p>roof-beams," Ernest said with continued gentleness. "He lost his arm in </p><p>the Sierra Mills, and like a broken-down horse you turned him out on </p><p>the highway to die. When I say 'you,' I mean the superintendent and the </p><p>officials that you and the other stockholders pay to manage the mills </p><p>for you. It was an accident. It was caused by his trying to save the </p><p>company a few dollars. The toothed drum of the picker caught his arm. He </p><p>might have let the small flint that he saw in the teeth go through. It </p><p>would have smashed out a double row of spikes. But he reached for the </p><p>flint, and his arm was picked and clawed to shreds from the finger tips </p><p>to the shoulder. It was at night. The mills were working overtime. They </p><p>paid a fat dividend that quarter. Jackson had been working many hours, </p><p>and his muscles had lost their resiliency and snap. They made his </p><p>movements a bit slow. That was why the machine caught him. He had a wife </p><p>and three children." </p><p>"And what did the company do for him?" I asked. </p><p>"Nothing. Oh, yes, they did do something. They successfully fought the </p><p>damage suit he brought when he came out of hospital. The company employs </p><p>very efficient lawyers, you know." </p><p>"You have not told the whole story," I said with conviction. "Or else </p><p>you do not know the whole story. Maybe the man was insolent." </p><p>"Insolent! Ha! ha!" His laughter was Mephistophelian. "Great God! </p><p>Insolent! And with his arm chewed off! Nevertheless he was a meek and </p><p>lowly servant, and there is no record of his having been insolent." </p><p>"But the courts," I urged. "The case would not have been decided against </p><p>him had there been no more to the affair than you have mentioned." </p><p>"Colonel Ingram is leading counsel for the company. He is a shrewd </p><p>lawyer." Ernest looked at me intently for a moment, then went on. "I'll </p><p>tell you what you do, Miss Cunningham. You investigate Jackson's case." </p><p>"I had already determined to," I said coldly. </p><p>"All right," he beamed good-naturedly, "and I'll tell you where to </p><p>find him. But I tremble for you when I think of all you are to prove by </p><p>Jackson's arm." </p><p>And so it came about that both the Bishop and I accepted Ernest's </p><p>challenges. They went away together, leaving me smarting with a sense </p><p>of injustice that had been done me and my class. The man was a beast. I </p><p>hated him, then, and consoled myself with the thought that his behavior </p><p>was what was to be expected from a man of the working class. </p><p>CHAPTER III </p><p>JACKSON'S ARM. </p><p>Little did I dream the fateful part Jackson's arm was to play in my</p><p>life. Jackson himself did not impress me when I hunted him out. I found </p><p>him in a crazy, ramshackle* house down near the bay on the edge of the </p><p>marsh. Pools of stagnant water stood around the house, their surfaces </p><p>covered with a green and putrid-looking scum, while the stench that </p><p>arose from them was intolerable. </p><p> * An adjective descriptive of ruined and dilapidated houses</p><p> in which great numbers of the working people found shelter</p><p> in those days. They invariably paid rent, and, considering</p><p> the value of such houses, enormous rent, to the landlords.</p><p>I found Jackson the meek and lowly man he had been described. He was </p><p>making some sort of rattan-work, and he toiled on stolidly while I </p><p>talked with him. But in spite of his meekness and lowliness, I fancied I </p><p>caught the first note of a nascent bitterness in him when he said: </p><p>"They might a-given me a job as watchman,* anyway." </p><p> * In those days thievery was incredibly prevalent.</p><p> Everybody stole property from everybody else. The lords of</p><p> society stole legally or else legalized their stealing,</p><p> while the poorer classes stole illegally. Nothing was safe</p><p> unless guarded. Enormous numbers of men were employed as</p><p> watchmen to protect property. The houses of the well-to-do</p><p> were a combination of safe deposit vault and fortress. The</p><p> appropriation of the personal belongings of others by our</p><p> own children of to-day is looked upon as a rudimentary</p><p> survival of the theft-characteristic that in those early</p><p> times was universal.</p><p>I got little out of him. He struck me as stupid, and yet the deftness </p><p>with which he worked with his one hand seemed to belie his stupidity. </p><p>This suggested an idea to me. </p><p>"How did you happen to get your arm caught in the machine?" I asked. </p><p>He looked at me in a slow and pondering way, and shook his head. "I </p><p>don't know. It just happened." </p><p>"Carelessness?" I prompted. </p><p>"No," he answered, "I ain't for callin' it that. I was workin' overtime, </p><p>an' I guess I was tired out some. I worked seventeen years in them </p><p>mills, an' I've took notice that most of the accidents happens just </p><p>before whistle-blow.* I'm willin' to bet that more accidents happens </p><p>in the hour before whistle-blow than in all the rest of the day. A man </p><p>ain't so quick after workin' steady for hours. I've seen too many of 'em </p><p>cut up an' gouged an' chawed not to know." </p><p> * The laborers were called to work and dismissed by savage,</p><p> screaming, nerve-racking steam-whistles.</p><p>"Many of them?" I queried. </p><p>"Hundreds an' hundreds, an' children, too." </p><p>With the exception of the terrible details, Jackson's story of his </p><p>accident was the same as that I had already heard. When I asked him if </p><p>he had broken some rule of working the machinery, he shook his head.</p><p>"I chucked off the belt with my right hand," he said, "an' made a reach </p><p>for the flint with my left. I didn't stop to see if the belt was off. I </p><p>thought my right hand had done it--only it didn't. I reached quick, and </p><p>the belt wasn't all the way off. And then my arm was chewed off." </p><p>"It must have been painful," I said sympathetically. </p><p>"The crunchin' of the bones wasn't nice," was his answer. </p><p>His mind was rather hazy concerning the damage suit. Only one thing was </p><p>clear to him, and that was that he had not got any damages. He had a </p><p>feeling that the testimony of the foremen and the superintendent had </p><p>brought about the adverse decision of the court. Their testimony, as he </p><p>put it, "wasn't what it ought to have ben." And to them I resolved to </p><p>go. </p><p>One thing was plain, Jackson's situation was wretched. His wife was in </p><p>ill health, and he was unable to earn, by his rattan-work and peddling, </p><p>sufficient food for the family. He was back in his rent, and the oldest </p><p>boy, a lad of eleven, had started to work in the mills. </p><p>"They might a-given me that watchman's job," were his last words as I </p><p>went away. </p><p>By the time I had seen the lawyer who had handled Jackson's case, and </p><p>the two foremen and the superintendent at the mills who had testified, I </p><p>began to feel that there was something after all in Ernest's contention. </p><p>He was a weak and inefficient-looking man, the lawyer, and at sight of </p><p>him I did not wonder that Jackson's case had been lost. My first thought </p><p>was that it had served Jackson right for getting such a lawyer. But </p><p>the next moment two of Ernest's statements came flashing into my </p><p>consciousness: "The company employs very efficient lawyers" and "Colonel </p><p>Ingram is a shrewd lawyer." I did some rapid thinking. It dawned upon me </p><p>that of course the company could afford finer legal talent than could a </p><p>workingman like Jackson. But this was merely a minor detail. There was </p><p>some very good reason, I was sure, why Jackson's case had gone against </p><p>him. </p><p>"Why did you lose the case?" I asked. </p><p>The lawyer was perplexed and worried for a moment, and I found it in my </p><p>heart to pity the wretched little creature. Then he began to whine. I </p><p>do believe his whine was congenital. He was a man beaten at birth. He </p><p>whined about the testimony. The witnesses had given only the evidence </p><p>that helped the other side. Not one word could he get out of them that </p><p>would have helped Jackson. They knew which side their bread was buttered </p><p>on. Jackson was a fool. He had been brow-beaten and confused by Colonel </p><p>Ingram. Colonel Ingram was brilliant at cross-examination. He had made </p><p>Jackson answer damaging questions. </p><p>"How could his answers be damaging if he had the right on his side?" I </p><p>demanded. </p><p>"What's right got to do with it?" he demanded back. "You see all those </p><p>books." He moved his hand over the array of volumes on the walls of his </p><p>tiny office. "All my reading and studying of them has taught me that </p><p>law is one thing and right is another thing. Ask any lawyer. You go to</p><p>Sunday-school to learn what is right. But you go to those books to learn </p><p>. . . law." </p><p>"Do you mean to tell me that Jackson had the right on his side and yet </p><p>was beaten?" I queried tentatively. "Do you mean to tell me that there </p><p>is no justice in Judge Caldwell's court?" </p><p>The little lawyer glared at me a moment, and then the belligerence faded </p><p>out of his face. </p><p>"I hadn't a fair chance," he began whining again. "They made a fool out </p><p>of Jackson and out of me, too. What chance had I? Colonel Ingram is </p><p>a great lawyer. If he wasn't great, would he have charge of the law </p><p>business of the Sierra Mills, of the Erston Land Syndicate, of the </p><p>Berkeley Consolidated, of the Oakland, San Leandro, and Pleasanton </p><p>Electric? He's a corporation lawyer, and corporation lawyers are not </p><p>paid for being fools.* What do you think the Sierra Mills alone give him </p><p>twenty thousand dollars a year for? Because he's worth twenty thousand </p><p>dollars a year to them, that's what for. I'm not worth that much. If </p><p>I was, I wouldn't be on the outside, starving and taking cases like </p><p>Jackson's. What do you think I'd have got if I'd won Jackson's case?" </p><p> * The function of the corporation lawyer was to serve, by</p><p> corrupt methods, the money-grabbing propensities of the</p><p> corporations. It is on record that Theodore Roosevelt, at</p><p> that time President of the United States, said in 1905 A.D.,</p><p> in his address at Harvard Commencement: "We all know that,</p><p> as things actually are, many of the most influential and</p><p> most highly remunerated members of the Bar in every centre</p><p> of wealth, make it their special task to work out bold and</p><p> ingenious schemes by which their wealthy clients, individual</p><p> or corporate, can evade the laws which were made to</p><p> regulate, in the interests of the public, the uses of great</p><p> wealth."</p><p>"You'd have robbed him, most probably," I answered. </p><p>"Of course I would," he cried angrily. "I've got to live, haven't I?"* </p><p> * A typical illustration of the internecine strife that</p><p> permeated all society. Men preyed upon one another like</p><p> ravening wolves. The big wolves ate the little wolves, and</p><p> in the social pack Jackson was one of the least of the</p><p> little wolves.</p><p>"He has a wife and children," I chided. </p><p>"So have I a wife and children," he retorted. "And there's not a soul in </p><p>this world except myself that cares whether they starve or not." </p><p>His face suddenly softened, and he opened his watch and showed me a </p><p>small photograph of a woman and two little girls pasted inside the case. </p><p>"There they are. Look at them. We've had a hard time, a hard time. I </p><p>had hoped to send them away to the country if I'd won Jackson's case. </p><p>They're not healthy here, but I can't afford to send them away." </p><p>When I started to leave, he dropped back into his whine. </p><p>"I hadn't the ghost of a chance. Colonel Ingram and Judge Caldwell </p><p>are pretty friendly. I'm not saying that if I'd got the right kind of </p><p>testimony out of their witnesses on cross-examination, that friendship </p><p>would have decided the case. And yet I must say that Judge Caldwell </p><p>did a whole lot to prevent my getting that very testimony. Why, Judge </p><p>Caldwell and Colonel Ingram belong to the same lodge and the same club. </p><p>They live in the same neighborhood--one I can't afford. And their wives </p><p>are always in and out of each other's houses. They're always having </p><p>whist parties and such things back and forth." </p><p>"And yet you think Jackson had the right of it?" I asked, pausing for </p><p>the moment on the threshold. </p><p>"I don't think; I know it," was his answer. "And at first I thought </p><p>he had some show, too. But I didn't tell my wife. I didn't want to </p><p>disappoint her. She had her heart set on a trip to the country hard </p><p>enough as it was." </p><p>"Why did you not call attention to the fact that Jackson was trying to </p><p>save the machinery from being injured?" I asked Peter Donnelly, one of </p><p>the foremen who had testified at the trial. </p><p>He pondered a long time before replying. Then he cast an anxious look </p><p>about him and said: </p><p>"Because I've a good wife an' three of the sweetest children ye ever </p><p>laid eyes on, that's why." </p><p>"I do not understand," I said. </p><p>"In other words, because it wouldn't a-ben healthy," he answered. </p><p>"You mean--" I began. </p><p>But he interrupted passionately. </p><p>"I mean what I said. It's long years I've worked in the mills. I began </p><p>as a little lad on the spindles. I worked up ever since. It's by hard </p><p>work I got to my present exalted position. I'm a foreman, if you please. </p><p>An' I doubt me if there's a man in the mills that'd put out a hand to </p><p>drag me from drownin'. I used to belong to the union. But I've stayed </p><p>by the company through two strikes. They called me 'scab.' There's not </p><p>a man among 'em to-day to take a drink with me if I asked him. D'ye see </p><p>the scars on me head where I was struck with flying bricks? There ain't </p><p>a child at the spindles but what would curse me name. Me only friend is </p><p>the company. It's not me duty, but me bread an' butter an' the life of </p><p>me children to stand by the mills. That's why." </p><p>"Was Jackson to blame?" I asked. </p><p>"He should a-got the damages. He was a good worker an' never made </p><p>trouble." </p><p>"Then you were not at liberty to tell the whole truth, as you had sworn </p><p>to do?" </p><p>He shook his head. </p><p>"The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" I said</p><p>solemnly. </p><p>Again his face became impassioned, and he lifted it, not to me, but to </p><p>heaven. </p><p>"I'd let me soul an' body burn in everlastin' hell for them children of </p><p>mine," was his answer. </p><p>Henry Dallas, the superintendent, was a vulpine-faced creature who </p><p>regarded me insolently and refused to talk. Not a word could I get from </p><p>him concerning the trial and his testimony. But with the other foreman I </p><p>had better luck. James Smith was a hard-faced man, and my heart sank </p><p>as I encountered him. He, too, gave me the impression that he was not a </p><p>free agent, as we talked I began to see that he was mentally superior </p><p>to the average of his kind. He agreed with Peter Donnelly that Jackson </p><p>should have got damages, and he went farther and called the action </p><p>heartless and cold-blooded that had turned the worker adrift after he </p><p>had been made helpless by the accident. Also, he explained that there </p><p>were many accidents in the mills, and that the company's policy was to </p><p>fight to the bitter end all consequent damage suits. </p><p>"It means hundreds of thousands a year to the stockholders," he said; </p><p>and as he spoke I remembered the last dividend that had been paid my </p><p>father, and the pretty gown for me and the books for him that had been </p><p>bought out of that dividend. I remembered Ernest's charge that my </p><p>gown was stained with blood, and my flesh began to crawl underneath my </p><p>garments. </p><p>"When you testified at the trial, you didn't point out that Jackson </p><p>received his accident through trying to save the machinery from damage?" </p><p>I said. </p><p>"No, I did not," was the answer, and his mouth set bitterly. "I </p><p>testified to the effect that Jackson injured himself by neglect and </p><p>carelessness, and that the company was not in any way to blame or </p><p>liable." </p><p>"Was it carelessness?" I asked. </p><p>"Call it that, or anything you want to call it. The fact is, a man gets </p><p>tired after he's been working for hours." </p><p>I was becoming interested in the man. He certainly was of a superior </p><p>kind. </p><p>"You are better educated than most workingmen," I said. </p><p>"I went through high school," he replied. "I worked my way through doing </p><p>janitor-work. I wanted to go through the university. But my father died, </p><p>and I came to work in the mills. </p><p>"I wanted to become a naturalist," he explained shyly, as though </p><p>confessing a weakness. "I love animals. But I came to work in the mills. </p><p>When I was promoted to foreman I got married, then the family came, and </p><p>. . . well, I wasn't my own boss any more." </p><p>"What do you mean by that?" I asked. </p><p>"I was explaining why I testified at the trial the way I did--why I</p><p>followed instructions." </p><p>"Whose instructions?" </p><p>"Colonel Ingram. He outlined the evidence I was to give." </p><p>"And it lost Jackson's case for him." </p><p>He nodded, and the blood began to rise darkly in his face. </p><p>"And Jackson had a wife and two children dependent on him." </p><p>"I know," he said quietly, though his face was growing darker. </p><p>"Tell me," I went on, "was it easy to make yourself over from what you </p><p>were, say in high school, to the man you must have become to do such a </p><p>thing at the trial?" </p><p>The suddenness of his outburst startled and frightened me. He ripped* </p><p>out a savage oath, and clenched his fist as though about to strike me. </p><p> * It is interesting to note the virilities of language that</p><p> were common speech in that day, as indicative of the life,</p><p> 'red of claw and fang,' that was then lived. Reference is</p><p> here made, of course, not to the oath of Smith, but to the</p><p> verb ripped used by Avis Everhard.</p><p>"I beg your pardon," he said the next moment. "No, it was not easy. And </p><p>now I guess you can go away. You've got all you wanted out of me. But </p><p>let me tell you this before you go. It won't do you any good to repeat </p><p>anything I've said. I'll deny it, and there are no witnesses. I'll deny </p><p>every word of it; and if I have to, I'll do it under oath on the witness </p><p>stand." </p><p>After my interview with Smith I went to my father's office in </p><p>the Chemistry Building and there encountered Ernest. It was quite </p><p>unexpected, but he met me with his bold eyes and firm hand-clasp, and </p><p>with that curious blend of his awkwardness and ease. It was as though </p><p>our last stormy meeting was forgotten; but I was not in the mood to have </p><p>it forgotten. </p><p>"I have been looking up Jackson's case," I said abruptly. </p><p>He was all interested attention, and waited for me to go on, though I </p><p>could see in his eyes the certitude that my convictions had been shaken. </p><p>"He seems to have been badly treated," I confessed. "I--I--think some of </p><p>his blood is dripping from our roof-beams." </p><p>"Of course," he answered. "If Jackson and all his fellows were treated </p><p>mercifully, the dividends would not be so large." </p><p>"I shall never be able to take pleasure in pretty gowns again," I added. </p><p>I felt humble and contrite, and was aware of a sweet feeling that </p><p>Ernest was a sort of father confessor. Then, as ever after, his strength </p><p>appealed to me. It seemed to radiate a promise of peace and protection. </p><p>"Nor will you be able to take pleasure in sackcloth," he said gravely.</p><p>"There are the jute mills, you know, and the same thing goes on there. </p><p>It goes on everywhere. Our boasted civilization is based upon blood, </p><p>soaked in blood, and neither you nor I nor any of us can escape the </p><p>scarlet stain. The men you talked with--who were they?" </p><p>I told him all that had taken place. </p><p>"And not one of them was a free agent," he said. "They were all tied to </p><p>the merciless industrial machine. And the pathos of it and the tragedy </p><p>is that they are tied by their heartstrings. Their children--always </p><p>the young life that it is their instinct to protect. This instinct is </p><p>stronger than any ethic they possess. My father! He lied, he stole, he </p><p>did all sorts of dishonorable things to put bread into my mouth and into </p><p>the mouths of my brothers and sisters. He was a slave to the industrial </p><p>machine, and it stamped his life out, worked him to death." </p><p>"But you," I interjected. "You are surely a free agent." </p><p>"Not wholly," he replied. "I am not tied by my heartstrings. I am often </p><p>thankful that I have no children, and I dearly love children. Yet if I </p><p>married I should not dare to have any." </p><p>"That surely is bad doctrine," I cried. </p><p>"I know it is," he said sadly. "But it is expedient doctrine. I am a </p><p>revolutionist, and it is a perilous vocation." </p><p>I laughed incredulously. </p><p>"If I tried to enter your father's house at night to steal his dividends </p><p>from the Sierra Mills, what would he do?" </p><p>"He sleeps with a revolver on the stand by the bed," I answered. "He </p><p>would most probably shoot you." </p><p>"And if I and a few others should lead a million and a half of men* </p><p>into the houses of all the well-to-do, there would be a great deal of </p><p>shooting, wouldn't there?" </p><p> * This reference is to the socialist vote cast in the United</p><p> States in 1910. The rise of this vote clearly indicates the</p><p> swift growth of the party of revolution. Its voting</p><p> strength in the United States in 1888 was 2068; in 1902,</p><p> 127,713; in 1904, 435,040; in 1908, 1,108,427; and in 1910,</p><p> 1,688,211.</p><p>"Yes, but you are not doing that," I objected. </p><p>"It is precisely what I am doing. And we intend to take, not the mere </p><p>wealth in the houses, but all the sources of that wealth, all the </p><p>mines, and railroads, and factories, and banks, and stores. That is </p><p>the revolution. It is truly perilous. There will be more shooting, I am </p><p>afraid, than even I dream of. But as I was saying, no one to-day is </p><p>a free agent. We are all caught up in the wheels and cogs of the </p><p>industrial machine. You found that you were, and that the men you talked </p><p>with were. Talk with more of them. Go and see Colonel Ingram. Look </p><p>up the reporters that kept Jackson's case out of the papers, and the </p><p>editors that run the papers. You will find them all slaves of the </p><p>machine."</p><p>A little later in our conversation I asked him a simple little </p><p>question about the liability of workingmen to accidents, and received a </p><p>statistical lecture in return. </p><p>"It is all in the books," he said. "The figures have been gathered, and </p><p>it has been proved conclusively that accidents rarely occur in the </p><p>first hours of the morning work, but that they increase rapidly in the </p><p>succeeding hours as the workers grow tired and slower in both their </p><p>muscular and mental processes. </p><p>"Why, do you know that your father has three times as many chances for </p><p>safety of life and limb than has a working-man? He has. The insurance* </p><p>companies know. They will charge him four dollars and twenty cents a </p><p>year on a thousand-dollar accident policy, and for the same policy they </p><p>will charge a laborer fifteen dollars." </p><p> * In the terrible wolf-struggle of those centuries, no man</p><p> was permanently safe, no matter how much wealth he amassed.</p><p> Out of fear for the welfare of their families, men devised</p><p> the scheme of insurance. To us, in this intelligent age,</p><p> such a device is laughably absurd and primitive. But in</p><p> that age insurance was a very serious matter. The amusing</p><p> part of it is that the funds of the insurance companies were</p><p> frequently plundered and wasted by the very officials who</p><p> were intrusted with the management of them.</p><p>"And you?" I asked; and in the moment of asking I was aware of a </p><p>solicitude that was something more than slight. </p><p>"Oh, as a revolutionist, I have about eight chances to the workingman's </p><p>one of being injured or killed," he answered carelessly. "The insurance </p><p>companies charge the highly trained chemists that handle explosives </p><p>eight times what they charge the workingmen. I don't think they'd insure </p><p>me at all. Why did you ask?" </p><p>My eyes fluttered, and I could feel the blood warm in my face. It </p><p>was not that he had caught me in my solicitude, but that I had caught </p><p>myself, and in his presence. </p><p>Just then my father came in and began making preparations to depart with </p><p>me. Ernest returned some books he had borrowed, and went away first. But </p><p>just as he was going, he turned and said: </p><p>"Oh, by the way, while you are ruining your own peace of mind and I </p><p>am ruining the Bishop's, you'd better look up Mrs. Wickson and </p><p>Mrs. Pertonwaithe. Their husbands, you know, are the two principal </p><p>stockholders in the Mills. Like all the rest of humanity, those two </p><p>women are tied to the machine, but they are so tied that they sit on top </p><p>of it." </p><p>CHAPTER IV </p><p>SLAVES OF THE MACHINE </p><p>The more I thought of Jackson's arm, the more shaken I was. I was</p><p>confronted by the concrete. For the first time I was seeing life. My </p><p>university life, and study and culture, had not been real. I had learned </p><p>nothing but theories of life and society that looked all very well on </p><p>the printed page, but now I had seen life itself. Jackson's arm was a </p><p>fact of life. "The fact, man, the irrefragable fact!" of Ernest's was </p><p>ringing in my consciousness. </p><p>It seemed monstrous, impossible, that our whole society was based </p><p>upon blood. And yet there was Jackson. I could not get away from him. </p><p>Constantly my thought swung back to him as the compass to the Pole. He </p><p>had been monstrously treated. His blood had not been paid for in order </p><p>that a larger dividend might be paid. And I knew a score of happy </p><p>complacent families that had received those dividends and by that much </p><p>had profited by Jackson's blood. If one man could be so monstrously </p><p>treated and society move on its way unheeding, might not many men be so </p><p>monstrously treated? I remembered Ernest's women of Chicago who toiled </p><p>for ninety cents a week, and the child slaves of the Southern cotton </p><p>mills he had described. And I could see their wan white hands, from </p><p>which the blood had been pressed, at work upon the cloth out of which </p><p>had been made my gown. And then I thought of the Sierra Mills and the </p><p>dividends that had been paid, and I saw the blood of Jackson upon my </p><p>gown as well. Jackson I could not escape. Always my meditations led me </p><p>back to him. </p><p>Down in the depths of me I had a feeling that I stood on the edge of </p><p>a precipice. It was as though I were about to see a new and awful </p><p>revelation of life. And not I alone. My whole world was turning over. </p><p>There was my father. I could see the effect Ernest was beginning to have </p><p>on him. And then there was the Bishop. When I had last seen him he had </p><p>looked a sick man. He was at high nervous tension, and in his eyes there </p><p>was unspeakable horror. From the little I learned I knew that Ernest had </p><p>been keeping his promise of taking him through hell. But what scenes of </p><p>hell the Bishop's eyes had seen, I knew not, for he seemed too stunned </p><p>to speak about them. </p><p>Once, the feeling strong upon me that my little world and all the world </p><p>was turning over, I thought of Ernest as the cause of it; and also I </p><p>thought, "We were so happy and peaceful before he came!" And the next </p><p>moment I was aware that the thought was a treason against truth, and </p><p>Ernest rose before me transfigured, the apostle of truth, with shining </p><p>brows and the fearlessness of one of Gods own angels, battling for the </p><p>truth and the right, and battling for the succor of the poor and lonely </p><p>and oppressed. And then there arose before me another figure, the </p><p>Christ! He, too, had taken the part of the lowly and oppressed, </p><p>and against all the established power of priest and pharisee. And I </p><p>remembered his end upon the cross, and my heart contracted with a pang </p><p>as I thought of Ernest. Was he, too, destined for a cross?--he, with his </p><p>clarion call and war-noted voice, and all the fine man's vigor of him! </p><p>And in that moment I knew that I loved him, and that I was melting </p><p>with desire to comfort him. I thought of his life. A sordid, harsh, and </p><p>meagre life it must have been. And I thought of his father, who had lied </p><p>and stolen for him and been worked to death. And he himself had gone </p><p>into the mills when he was ten! All my heart seemed bursting with desire </p><p>to fold my arms around him, and to rest his head on my breast--his head </p><p>that must be weary with so many thoughts; and to give him rest--just </p><p>rest--and easement and forgetfulness for a tender space. </p><p>I met Colonel Ingram at a church reception. Him I knew well and had</p><p>known well for many years. I trapped him behind large palms and rubber </p><p>plants, though he did not know he was trapped. He met me with the </p><p>conventional gayety and gallantry. He was ever a graceful man, </p><p>diplomatic, tactful, and considerate. And as for appearance, he was </p><p>the most distinguished-looking man in our society. Beside him even the </p><p>venerable head of the university looked tawdry and small. </p><p>And yet I found Colonel Ingram situated the same as the unlettered </p><p>mechanics. He was not a free agent. He, too, was bound upon the wheel. </p><p>I shall never forget the change in him when I mentioned Jackson's case. </p><p>His smiling good nature vanished like a ghost. A sudden, frightful </p><p>expression distorted his well-bred face. I felt the same alarm that I </p><p>had felt when James Smith broke out. But Colonel Ingram did not curse. </p><p>That was the slight difference that was left between the workingman and </p><p>him. He was famed as a wit, but he had no wit now. And, unconsciously, </p><p>this way and that he glanced for avenues of escape. But he was trapped </p><p>amid the palms and rubber trees. </p><p>Oh, he was sick of the sound of Jackson's name. Why had I brought the </p><p>matter up? He did not relish my joke. It was poor taste on my part, </p><p>and very inconsiderate. Did I not know that in his profession personal </p><p>feelings did not count? He left his personal feelings at home when </p><p>he went down to the office. At the office he had only professional </p><p>feelings. </p><p>"Should Jackson have received damages?" I asked. </p><p>"Certainly," he answered. "That is, personally, I have a feeling that he </p><p>should. But that has nothing to do with the legal aspects of the case." </p><p>He was getting his scattered wits slightly in hand. </p><p>"Tell me, has right anything to do with the law?" I asked. </p><p>"You have used the wrong initial consonant," he smiled in answer. </p><p>"Might?" I queried; and he nodded his head. "And yet we are supposed to </p><p>get justice by means of the law?" </p><p>"That is the paradox of it," he countered. "We do get justice." </p><p>"You are speaking professionally now, are you not?" I asked. </p><p>Colonel Ingram blushed, actually blushed, and again he looked anxiously </p><p>about him for a way of escape. But I blocked his path and did not offer </p><p>to move. </p><p>"Tell me," I said, "when one surrenders his personal feelings to his </p><p>professional feelings, may not the action be defined as a sort of </p><p>spiritual mayhem?" </p><p>I did not get an answer. Colonel Ingram had ingloriously bolted, </p><p>overturning a palm in his flight. </p><p>Next I tried the newspapers. I wrote a quiet, restrained, dispassionate </p><p>account of Jackson's case. I made no charges against the men with whom </p><p>I had talked, nor, for that matter, did I even mention them. I gave </p><p>the actual facts of the case, the long years Jackson had worked in the </p><p>mills, his effort to save the machinery from damage and the consequent</p><p>accident, and his own present wretched and starving condition. The </p><p>three local newspapers rejected my communication, likewise did the two </p><p>weeklies. </p><p>I got hold of Percy Layton. He was a graduate of the university, had </p><p>gone in for journalism, and was then serving his apprenticeship as </p><p>reporter on the most influential of the three newspapers. He smiled when </p><p>I asked him the reason the newspapers suppressed all mention of Jackson </p><p>or his case. </p><p>"Editorial policy," he said. "We have nothing to do with that. It's up </p><p>to the editors." </p><p>"But why is it policy?" I asked. </p><p>"We're all solid with the corporations," he answered. "If you paid </p><p>advertising rates, you couldn't get any such matter into the papers. A </p><p>man who tried to smuggle it in would lose his job. You couldn't get it </p><p>in if you paid ten times the regular advertising rates." </p><p>"How about your own policy?" I questioned. "It would seem your function </p><p>is to twist truth at the command of your employers, who, in turn, obey </p><p>the behests of the corporations." </p><p>"I haven't anything to do with that." He looked uncomfortable for the </p><p>moment, then brightened as he saw his way out. "I, myself, do not write </p><p>untruthful things. I keep square all right with my own conscience. Of </p><p>course, there's lots that's repugnant in the course of the day's work. </p><p>But then, you see, that's all part of the day's work," he wound up </p><p>boyishly. </p><p>"Yet you expect to sit at an editor's desk some day and conduct a </p><p>policy." </p><p>"I'll be case-hardened by that time," was his reply. </p><p>"Since you are not yet case-hardened, tell me what you think right now </p><p>about the general editorial policy." </p><p>"I don't think," he answered quickly. "One can't kick over the ropes </p><p>if he's going to succeed in journalism. I've learned that much, at any </p><p>rate." </p><p>And he nodded his young head sagely. </p><p>"But the right?" I persisted. </p><p>"You don't understand the game. Of course it's all right, because it </p><p>comes out all right, don't you see?" </p><p>"Delightfully vague," I murmured; but my heart was aching for the youth </p><p>of him, and I felt that I must either scream or burst into tears. </p><p>I was beginning to see through the appearances of the society in which I </p><p>had always lived, and to find the frightful realities that were beneath. </p><p>There seemed a tacit conspiracy against Jackson, and I was aware of a </p><p>thrill of sympathy for the whining lawyer who had ingloriously fought </p><p>his case. But this tacit conspiracy grew large. Not alone was it aimed </p><p>against Jackson. It was aimed against every workingman who was maimed in</p><p>the mills. And if against every man in the mills, why not against every </p><p>man in all the other mills and factories? In fact, was it not true of </p><p>all the industries? </p><p>And if this was so, then society was a lie. I shrank back from my own </p><p>conclusions. It was too terrible and awful to be true. But there was </p><p>Jackson, and Jackson's arm, and the blood that stained my gown and </p><p>dripped from my own roof-beams. And there were many Jacksons--hundreds </p><p>of them in the mills alone, as Jackson himself had said. Jackson I could </p><p>not escape. </p><p>I saw Mr. Wickson and Mr. Pertonwaithe, the two men who held most of the </p><p>stock in the Sierra Mills. But I could not shake them as I had shaken </p><p>the mechanics in their employ. I discovered that they had an ethic </p><p>superior to that of the rest of society. It was what I may call the </p><p>aristocratic ethic or the master ethic.* They talked in large ways of </p><p>policy, and they identified policy and right. And to me they talked in </p><p>fatherly ways, patronizing my youth and inexperience. They were the most </p><p>hopeless of all I had encountered in my quest. They believed absolutely </p><p>that their conduct was right. There was no question about it, no </p><p>discussion. They were convinced that they were the saviours of society, </p><p>and that it was they who made happiness for the many. And they drew </p><p>pathetic pictures of what would be the sufferings of the working class </p><p>were it not for the employment that they, and they alone, by their </p><p>wisdom, provided for it. </p><p> * Before Avis Everhard was born, John Stuart Mill, in his</p><p> essay, ON LIBERTY, wrote: "Wherever there is an ascendant</p><p> class, a large portion of the morality emanates from its</p><p> class interests and its class feelings of superiority."</p><p>Fresh from these two masters, I met Ernest and related my experience. He </p><p>looked at me with a pleased expression, and said: </p><p>"Really, this is fine. You are beginning to dig truth for yourself. It </p><p>is your own empirical generalization, and it is correct. No man in the </p><p>industrial machine is a free-will agent, except the large capitalist, </p><p>and he isn't, if you'll pardon the Irishism.* You see, the masters </p><p>are quite sure that they are right in what they are doing. That is the </p><p>crowning absurdity of the whole situation. They are so tied by their </p><p>human nature that they can't do a thing unless they think it is right. </p><p>They must have a sanction for their acts. </p><p> * Verbal contradictions, called BULLS, were long an amiable</p><p> weakness of the ancient Irish.</p><p>"When they want to do a thing, in business of course, they must wait </p><p>till there arises in their brains, somehow, a religious, or ethical, or </p><p>scientific, or philosophic, concept that the thing is right. And then </p><p>they go ahead and do it, unwitting that one of the weaknesses of the </p><p>human mind is that the wish is parent to the thought. No matter what </p><p>they want to do, the sanction always comes. They are superficial </p><p>casuists. They are Jesuitical. They even see their way to doing wrong </p><p>that right may come of it. One of the pleasant and axiomatic fictions </p><p>they have created is that they are superior to the rest of mankind in </p><p>wisdom and efficiency. Therefrom comes their sanction to manage the </p><p>bread and butter of the rest of mankind. They have even resurrected the </p><p>theory of the divine right of kings--commercial kings in their case.* </p><p> * The newspapers, in 1902 of that era, credited the</p><p> president of the Anthracite Coal Trust, George F. Baer, with</p><p> the enunciation of the following principle: "The rights and</p><p> interests of the laboring man will be protected by the</p><p> Christian men to whom God in His infinite wisdom has given</p><p> the property interests of the country."</p><p>"The weakness in their position lies in that they are merely </p><p>business men. They are not philosophers. They are not biologists nor </p><p>sociologists. If they were, of course all would be well. A business man </p><p>who was also a biologist and a sociologist would know, approximately, </p><p>the right thing to do for humanity. But, outside the realm of business, </p><p>these men are stupid. They know only business. They do not know mankind </p><p>nor society, and yet they set themselves up as arbiters of the fates of </p><p>the hungry millions and all the other millions thrown in. History, some </p><p>day, will have an excruciating laugh at their expense." </p><p>I was not surprised when I had my talk out with Mrs. Wickson and Mrs. </p><p>Pertonwaithe. They were society women.* Their homes were palaces. They </p><p>had many homes scattered over the country, in the mountains, on lakes, </p><p>and by the sea. They were tended by armies of servants, and their social </p><p>activities were bewildering. They patronized the university and the </p><p>churches, and the pastors especially bowed at their knees in meek </p><p>subservience.** They were powers, these two women, what of the money </p><p>that was theirs. The power of subsidization of thought was theirs to a </p><p>remarkable degree, as I was soon to learn under Ernest's tuition. </p><p> * SOCIETY is here used in a restricted sense, a common usage</p><p> of the times to denote the gilded drones that did no labor,</p><p> but only glutted themselves at the honey-vats of the</p><p> workers. Neither the business men nor the laborers had time</p><p> or opportunity for SOCIETY. SOCIETY was the creation of the</p><p> idle rich who toiled not and who in this way played.</p><p> ** "Bring on your tainted money," was the expressed</p><p> sentiment of the Church during this period.</p><p>They aped their husbands, and talked in the same large ways about </p><p>policy, and the duties and responsibilities of the rich. They were </p><p>swayed by the same ethic that dominated their husbands--the ethic of </p><p>their class; and they uttered glib phrases that their own ears did not </p><p>understand. </p><p>Also, they grew irritated when I told them of the deplorable condition </p><p>of Jackson's family, and when I wondered that they had made no </p><p>voluntary provision for the man. I was told that they thanked no one </p><p>for instructing them in their social duties. When I asked them flatly </p><p>to assist Jackson, they as flatly refused. The astounding thing about it </p><p>was that they refused in almost identically the same language, and this </p><p>in face of the fact that I interviewed them separately and that one did </p><p>not know that I had seen or was going to see the other. Their common </p><p>reply was that they were glad of the opportunity to make it perfectly </p><p>plain that no premium would ever be put on carelessness by them; nor </p><p>would they, by paying for accident, tempt the poor to hurt themselves in </p><p>the machinery.* </p><p> * In the files of the OUTLOOK, a critical weekly of the</p><p> period, in the number dated August 18, 1906, is related the</p><p> circumstance of a workingman losing his arm, the details of</p><p> which are quite similar to those of Jackson's case as</p><p> related by Avis Everhard.</p><p>And they were sincere, these two women. They were drunk with conviction </p><p>of the superiority of their class and of themselves. They had a </p><p>sanction, in their own class-ethic, for every act they performed. As I </p><p>drove away from Mrs. Pertonwaithe's great house, I looked back at </p><p>it, and I remembered Ernest's expression that they were bound to the </p><p>machine, but that they were so bound that they sat on top of it. </p><p>CHAPTER V </p><p>THE PHILOMATHS </p><p>Ernest was often at the house. Nor was it my father, merely, nor </p><p>the controversial dinners, that drew him there. Even at that time I </p><p>flattered myself that I played some part in causing his visits, and it </p><p>was not long before I learned the correctness of my surmise. For never </p><p>was there such a lover as Ernest Everhard. His gaze and his hand-clasp </p><p>grew firmer and steadier, if that were possible; and the question that </p><p>had grown from the first in his eyes, grew only the more imperative. </p><p>My impression of him, the first time I saw him, had been unfavorable. </p><p>Then I had found myself attracted toward him. Next came my repulsion, </p><p>when he so savagely attacked my class and me. After that, as I saw that </p><p>he had not maligned my class, and that the harsh and bitter things he </p><p>said about it were justified, I had drawn closer to him again. He became </p><p>my oracle. For me he tore the sham from the face of society and gave </p><p>me glimpses of reality that were as unpleasant as they were undeniably </p><p>true. </p><p>As I have said, there was never such a lover as he. No girl could </p><p>live in a university town till she was twenty-four and not have love </p><p>experiences. I had been made love to by beardless sophomores and gray </p><p>professors, and by the athletes and the football giants. But not one </p><p>of them made love to me as Ernest did. His arms were around me before I </p><p>knew. His lips were on mine before I could protest or resist. Before his </p><p>earnestness conventional maiden dignity was ridiculous. He swept me off </p><p>my feet by the splendid invincible rush of him. He did not propose. He </p><p>put his arms around me and kissed me and took it for granted that </p><p>we should be married. There was no discussion about it. The only </p><p>discussion--and that arose afterward--was when we should be married. </p><p>It was unprecedented. It was unreal. Yet, in accordance with Ernest's </p><p>test of truth, it worked. I trusted my life to it. And fortunate was the </p><p>trust. Yet during those first days of our love, fear of the future </p><p>came often to me when I thought of the violence and impetuosity of his </p><p>love-making. Yet such fears were groundless. No woman was ever blessed </p><p>with a gentler, tenderer husband. This gentleness and violence on </p><p>his part was a curious blend similar to the one in his carriage of </p><p>awkwardness and ease. That slight awkwardness! He never got over it, </p><p>and it was delicious. His behavior in our drawing-room reminded me of a </p><p>careful bull in a china shop.* </p><p> * In those days it was still the custom to fill the living</p><p> rooms with bric-a-brac. They had not discovered simplicity</p><p> of living. Such rooms were museums, entailing endless labor</p><p> to keep clean. The dust-demon was the lord of the household.</p><p> There were a myriad devices for catching dust, and only a</p><p> few devices for getting rid of it.</p><p>It was at this time that vanished my last doubt of the completeness of </p><p>my love for him (a subconscious doubt, at most). It was at the Philomath </p><p>Club--a wonderful night of battle, wherein Ernest bearded the masters </p><p>in their lair. Now the Philomath Club was the most select on the Pacific </p><p>Coast. It was the creation of Miss Brentwood, an enormously wealthy old </p><p>maid; and it was her husband, and family, and toy. Its members were the </p><p>wealthiest in the community, and the strongest-minded of the wealthy, </p><p>with, of course, a sprinkling of scholars to give it intellectual tone. </p><p>The Philomath had no club house. It was not that kind of a club. Once a </p><p>month its members gathered at some one of their private houses to listen </p><p>to a lecture. The lecturers were usually, though not always, hired. If a </p><p>chemist in New York made a new discovery in say radium, all his expenses </p><p>across the continent were paid, and as well he received a princely fee </p><p>for his time. The same with a returning explorer from the polar regions, </p><p>or the latest literary or artistic success. No visitors were allowed, </p><p>while it was the Philomath's policy to permit none of its discussions </p><p>to get into the papers. Thus great statesmen--and there had been such </p><p>occasions--were able fully to speak their minds. </p><p>I spread before me a wrinkled letter, written to me by Ernest twenty </p><p>years ago, and from it I copy the following: </p><p>"Your father is a member of the Philomath, so you are able to come. </p><p>Therefore come next Tuesday night. I promise you that you will have the </p><p>time of your life. In your recent encounters, you failed to shake the </p><p>masters. If you come, I'll shake them for you. I'll make them snarl like </p><p>wolves. You merely questioned their morality. When their morality is </p><p>questioned, they grow only the more complacent and superior. But I shall </p><p>menace their money-bags. That will shake them to the roots of their </p><p>primitive natures. If you can come, you will see the cave-man, in </p><p>evening dress, snarling and snapping over a bone. I promise you a great </p><p>caterwauling and an illuminating insight into the nature of the beast. </p><p>"They've invited me in order to tear me to pieces. This is the idea of </p><p>Miss Brentwood. She clumsily hinted as much when she invited me. </p><p>She's given them that kind of fun before. They delight in getting </p><p>trustful-souled gentle reformers before them. Miss Brentwood thinks I </p><p>am as mild as a kitten and as good-natured and stolid as the family cow. </p><p>I'll not deny that I helped to give her that impression. She was very </p><p>tentative at first, until she divined my harmlessness. I am to receive </p><p>a handsome fee--two hundred and fifty dollars--as befits the man who, </p><p>though a radical, once ran for governor. Also, I am to wear evening </p><p>dress. This is compulsory. I never was so apparelled in my life. I </p><p>suppose I'll have to hire one somewhere. But I'd do more than that to </p><p>get a chance at the Philomaths." </p><p>Of all places, the Club gathered that night at the Pertonwaithe house. </p><p>Extra chairs had been brought into the great drawing-room, and in </p><p>all there must have been two hundred Philomaths that sat down to hear </p><p>Ernest. They were truly lords of society. I amused myself with running </p><p>over in my mind the sum of the fortunes represented, and it ran well </p><p>into the hundreds of millions. And the possessors were not of the idle </p><p>rich. They were men of affairs who took most active parts in industrial</p><p>and political life. </p><p>We were all seated when Miss Brentwood brought Ernest in. They moved </p><p>at once to the head of the room, from where he was to speak. He was </p><p>in evening dress, and, what of his broad shoulders and kingly head, he </p><p>looked magnificent. And then there was that faint and unmistakable touch </p><p>of awkwardness in his movements. I almost think I could have loved him </p><p>for that alone. And as I looked at him I was aware of a great joy. I </p><p>felt again the pulse of his palm on mine, the touch of his lips; and </p><p>such pride was mine that I felt I must rise up and cry out to the </p><p>assembled company: "He is mine! He has held me in his arms, and I, </p><p>mere I, have filled that mind of his to the exclusion of all his </p><p>multitudinous and kingly thoughts!" </p><p>At the head of the room, Miss Brentwood introduced him to Colonel Van </p><p>Gilbert, and I knew that the latter was to preside. Colonel Van Gilbert </p><p>was a great corporation lawyer. In addition, he was immensely wealthy. </p><p>The smallest fee he would deign to notice was a hundred thousand </p><p>dollars. He was a master of law. The law was a puppet with which he </p><p>played. He moulded it like clay, twisted and distorted it like a Chinese </p><p>puzzle into any design he chose. In appearance and rhetoric he was </p><p>old-fashioned, but in imagination and knowledge and resource he was as </p><p>young as the latest statute. His first prominence had come when he broke </p><p>the Shardwell will.* His fee for this one act was five hundred thousand </p><p>dollars. From then on he had risen like a rocket. He was often called </p><p>the greatest lawyer in the country--corporation lawyer, of course; and </p><p>no classification of the three greatest lawyers in the United States </p><p>could have excluded him. </p><p> * This breaking of wills was a peculiar feature of the</p><p> period. With the accumulation of vast fortunes, the problem</p><p> of disposing of these fortunes after death was a vexing one</p><p> to the accumulators. Will-making and will-breaking became</p><p> complementary trades, like armor-making and gun-making. The</p><p> shrewdest will-making lawyers were called in to make wills</p><p> that could not be broken. But these wills were always</p><p> broken, and very often by the very lawyers that had drawn</p><p> them up. Nevertheless the delusion persisted in the wealthy</p><p> class that an absolutely unbreakable will could be cast; and</p><p> so, through the generations, clients and lawyers pursued the</p><p> illusion. It was a pursuit like unto that of the Universal</p><p> Solvent of the mediaeval alchemists.</p><p>He arose and began, in a few well-chosen phrases that carried an </p><p>undertone of faint irony, to introduce Ernest. Colonel Van Gilbert was </p><p>subtly facetious in his introduction of the social reformer and member </p><p>of the working class, and the audience smiled. It made me angry, and </p><p>I glanced at Ernest. The sight of him made me doubly angry. He did not </p><p>seem to resent the delicate slurs. Worse than that, he did not seem to </p><p>be aware of them. There he sat, gentle, and stolid, and somnolent. He </p><p>really looked stupid. And for a moment the thought rose in my mind, What </p><p>if he were overawed by this imposing array of power and brains? Then I </p><p>smiled. He couldn't fool me. But he fooled the others, just as he had </p><p>fooled Miss Brentwood. She occupied a chair right up to the front, and </p><p>several times she turned her head toward one or another of her CONFRERES </p><p>and smiled her appreciation of the remarks. </p><p>Colonel Van Gilbert done, Ernest arose and began to speak. He began in </p><p>a low voice, haltingly and modestly, and with an air of evident</p><p>embarrassment. He spoke of his birth in the working class, and of the </p><p>sordidness and wretchedness of his environment, where flesh and spirit </p><p>were alike starved and tormented. He described his ambitions and ideals, </p><p>and his conception of the paradise wherein lived the people of the upper </p><p>classes. As he said: </p><p>"Up above me, I knew, were unselfishnesses of the spirit, clean and </p><p>noble thinking, keen intellectual living. I knew all this because I read </p><p>'Seaside Library'* novels, in which, with the exception of the villains </p><p>and adventuresses, all men and women thought beautiful thoughts, spoke a </p><p>beautiful tongue, and performed glorious deeds. In short, as I accepted </p><p>the rising of the sun, I accepted that up above me was all that was fine </p><p>and noble and gracious, all that gave decency and dignity to life, all </p><p>that made life worth living and that remunerated one for his travail and </p><p>misery." </p><p> * A curious and amazing literature that served to make the</p><p> working class utterly misapprehend the nature of the leisure</p><p> class.</p><p>He went on and traced his life in the mills, the learning of the </p><p>horseshoeing trade, and his meeting with the socialists. Among them, he </p><p>said, he had found keen intellects and brilliant wits, ministers of the </p><p>Gospel who had been broken because their Christianity was too wide for </p><p>any congregation of mammon-worshippers, and professors who had been </p><p>broken on the wheel of university subservience to the ruling class. The </p><p>socialists were revolutionists, he said, struggling to overthrow the </p><p>irrational society of the present and out of the material to build the </p><p>rational society of the future. Much more he said that would take too </p><p>long to write, but I shall never forget how he described the life among </p><p>the revolutionists. All halting utterance vanished. His voice grew </p><p>strong and confident, and it glowed as he glowed, and as the thoughts </p><p>glowed that poured out from him. He said: </p><p>"Amongst the revolutionists I found, also, warm faith in the human, </p><p>ardent idealism, sweetnesses of unselfishness, renunciation, and </p><p>martyrdom--all the splendid, stinging things of the spirit. Here life </p><p>was clean, noble, and alive. I was in touch with great souls who exalted </p><p>flesh and spirit over dollars and cents, and to whom the thin wail of </p><p>the starved slum child meant more than all the pomp and circumstance of </p><p>commercial expansion and world empire. All about me were nobleness of </p><p>purpose and heroism of effort, and my days and nights were sunshine </p><p>and starshine, all fire and dew, with before my eyes, ever burning </p><p>and blazing, the Holy Grail, Christ's own Grail, the warm human, </p><p>long-suffering and maltreated but to be rescued and saved at the last." </p><p>As before I had seen him transfigured, so now he stood transfigured </p><p>before me. His brows were bright with the divine that was in him, and </p><p>brighter yet shone his eyes from the midst of the radiance that seemed </p><p>to envelop him as a mantle. But the others did not see this radiance, </p><p>and I assumed that it was due to the tears of joy and love that dimmed </p><p>my vision. At any rate, Mr. Wickson, who sat behind me, was unaffected, </p><p>for I heard him sneer aloud, "Utopian."* </p><p> * The people of that age were phrase slaves. The abjectness</p><p> of their servitude is incomprehensible to us. There was a</p><p> magic in words greater than the conjurer's art. So</p><p> befuddled and chaotic were their minds that the utterance of</p><p> a single word could negative the generalizations of a</p><p> lifetime of serious research and thought. Such a word was</p><p> the adjective UTOPIAN. The mere utterance of it could damn</p><p> any scheme, no matter how sanely conceived, of economic</p><p> amelioration or regeneration. Vast populations grew</p><p> frenzied over such phrases as "an honest dollar" and "a full</p><p> dinner pail." The coinage of such phrases was considered</p><p> strokes of genius.</p><p>Ernest went on to his rise in society, till at last he came in touch </p><p>with members of the upper classes, and rubbed shoulders with the men </p><p>who sat in the high places. Then came his disillusionment, and this </p><p>disillusionment he described in terms that did not flatter his audience. </p><p>He was surprised at the commonness of the clay. Life proved not to be </p><p>fine and gracious. He was appalled by the selfishness he encountered, </p><p>and what had surprised him even more than that was the absence of </p><p>intellectual life. Fresh from his revolutionists, he was shocked by the </p><p>intellectual stupidity of the master class. And then, in spite of their </p><p>magnificent churches and well-paid preachers, he had found the masters, </p><p>men and women, grossly material. It was true that they prattled sweet </p><p>little ideals and dear little moralities, but in spite of their prattle </p><p>the dominant key of the life they lived was materialistic. And they were </p><p>without real morality--for instance, that which Christ had preached but </p><p>which was no longer preached. </p><p>"I met men," he said, "who invoked the name of the Prince of Peace </p><p>in their diatribes against war, and who put rifles in the hands of </p><p>Pinkertons* with which to shoot down strikers in their own factories. I </p><p>met men incoherent with indignation at the brutality of prize-fighting, </p><p>and who, at the same time, were parties to the adulteration of food that </p><p>killed each year more babes than even red-handed Herod had killed. </p><p> * Originally, they were private detectives; but they quickly</p><p> became hired fighting men of the capitalists, and ultimately</p><p> developed into the Mercenaries of the Oligarchy.</p><p>"This delicate, aristocratic-featured gentleman was a dummy director </p><p>and a tool of corporations that secretly robbed widows and orphans. This </p><p>gentleman, who collected fine editions and was a patron of literature, </p><p>paid blackmail to a heavy-jowled, black-browed boss of a municipal </p><p>machine. This editor, who published patent medicine advertisements, </p><p>called me a scoundrelly demagogue because I dared him to print in his </p><p>paper the truth about patent medicines.* This man, talking soberly and </p><p>earnestly about the beauties of idealism and the goodness of God, had </p><p>just betrayed his comrades in a business deal. This man, a pillar of the </p><p>church and heavy contributor to foreign missions, worked his shop girls </p><p>ten hours a day on a starvation wage and thereby directly encouraged </p><p>prostitution. This man, who endowed chairs in universities and erected </p><p>magnificent chapels, perjured himself in courts of law over dollars </p><p>and cents. This railroad magnate broke his word as a citizen, as a </p><p>gentleman, and as a Christian, when he granted a secret rebate, and he </p><p>granted many secret rebates. This senator was the tool and the slave, </p><p>the little puppet, of a brutal uneducated machine boss;** so was this </p><p>governor and this supreme court judge; and all three rode on railroad </p><p>passes; and, also, this sleek capitalist owned the machine, the machine </p><p>boss, and the railroads that issued the passes. </p><p> * PATENT MEDICINES were patent lies, but, like the charms</p><p> and indulgences of the Middle Ages, they deceived the</p><p> people. The only difference lay in that the patent</p><p> medicines were more harmful and more costly.</p><p> ** Even as late as 1912, A.D., the great mass of the people</p><p> still persisted in the belief that they ruled the country by</p><p> virtue of their ballots. In reality, the country was ruled</p><p> by what were called POLITICAL MACHINES. At first the</p><p> machine bosses charged the master capitalists extortionate</p><p> tolls for legislation; but in a short time the master</p><p> capitalists found it cheaper to own the political machines</p><p> themselves and to hire the machine bosses.</p><p>"And so it was, instead of in paradise, that I found myself in the </p><p>arid desert of commercialism. I found nothing but stupidity, except for </p><p>business. I found none clean, noble, and alive, though I found many who </p><p>were alive--with rottenness. What I did find was monstrous selfishness </p><p>and heartlessness, and a gross, gluttonous, practised, and practical </p><p>materialism." </p><p>Much more Ernest told them of themselves and of his disillusionment. </p><p>Intellectually they had bored him; morally and spiritually they had </p><p>sickened him; so that he was glad to go back to his revolutionists, who </p><p>were clean, noble, and alive, and all that the capitalists were not. </p><p>"And now," he said, "let me tell you about that revolution." </p><p>But first I must say that his terrible diatribe had not touched them. I </p><p>looked about me at their faces and saw that they remained complacently </p><p>superior to what he had charged. And I remembered what he had told me: </p><p>that no indictment of their morality could shake them. However, I could </p><p>see that the boldness of his language had affected Miss Brentwood. She </p><p>was looking worried and apprehensive. </p><p>Ernest began by describing the army of revolution, and as he gave the </p><p>figures of its strength (the votes cast in the various countries), the </p><p>assemblage began to grow restless. Concern showed in their faces, and I </p><p>noticed a tightening of lips. At last the gage of battle had been thrown </p><p>down. He described the international organization of the socialists that </p><p>united the million and a half in the United States with the twenty-three </p><p>millions and a half in the rest of the world. </p><p>"Such an army of revolution," he said, "twenty-five millions strong, is </p><p>a thing to make rulers and ruling classes pause and consider. The cry </p><p>of this army is: 'No quarter! We want all that you possess. We will </p><p>be content with nothing less than all that you possess. We want in our </p><p>hands the reins of power and the destiny of mankind. Here are our hands. </p><p>They are strong hands. We are going to take your governments, your </p><p>palaces, and all your purpled ease away from you, and in that day </p><p>you shall work for your bread even as the peasant in the field or the </p><p>starved and runty clerk in your metropolises. Here are our hands. They </p><p>are strong hands!'" </p><p>And as he spoke he extended from his splendid shoulders his two great </p><p>arms, and the horseshoer's hands were clutching the air like eagle's </p><p>talons. He was the spirit of regnant labor as he stood there, his hands </p><p>outreaching to rend and crush his audience. I was aware of a faintly </p><p>perceptible shrinking on the part of the listeners before this figure </p><p>of revolution, concrete, potential, and menacing. That is, the women </p><p>shrank, and fear was in their faces. Not so with the men. They were </p><p>of the active rich, and not the idle, and they were fighters. A low,</p><p>throaty rumble arose, lingered on the air a moment, and ceased. It </p><p>was the forerunner of the snarl, and I was to hear it many times that </p><p>night--the token of the brute in man, the earnest of his primitive </p><p>passions. And they were unconscious that they had made this sound. </p><p>It was the growl of the pack, mouthed by the pack, and mouthed in all </p><p>unconsciousness. And in that moment, as I saw the harshness form in </p><p>their faces and saw the fight-light flashing in their eyes, I realized </p><p>that not easily would they let their lordship of the world be wrested </p><p>from them. </p><p>Ernest proceeded with his attack. He accounted for the existence of the </p><p>million and a half of revolutionists in the United States by charging </p><p>the capitalist class with having mismanaged society. He sketched the </p><p>economic condition of the cave-man and of the savage peoples of to-day, </p><p>pointing out that they possessed neither tools nor machines, and </p><p>possessed only a natural efficiency of one in producing power. Then </p><p>he traced the development of machinery and social organization so that </p><p>to-day the producing power of civilized man was a thousand times greater </p><p>than that of the savage. </p><p>"Five men," he said, "can produce bread for a thousand. One man can </p><p>produce cotton cloth for two hundred and fifty people, woollens for </p><p>three hundred, and boots and shoes for a thousand. One would conclude </p><p>from this that under a capable management of society modern civilized </p><p>man would be a great deal better off than the cave-man. But is he? Let </p><p>us see. In the United States to-day there are fifteen million* people </p><p>living in poverty; and by poverty is meant that condition in life in </p><p>which, through lack of food and adequate shelter, the mere standard of </p><p>working efficiency cannot be maintained. In the United States to-day, in </p><p>spite of all your so-called labor legislation, there are three millions </p><p>of child laborers.** In twelve years their numbers have been doubled. </p><p>And in passing I will ask you managers of society why you did not make </p><p>public the census figures of 1910? And I will answer for you, that </p><p>you were afraid. The figures of misery would have precipitated the </p><p>revolution that even now is gathering. </p><p> * Robert Hunter, in 1906, in a book entitled "Poverty,"</p><p> pointed out that at that time there were ten millions in the</p><p> United States living in poverty.</p><p> ** In the United States Census of 1900 (the last census the</p><p> figures of which were made public), the number of child</p><p> laborers was placed at 1,752,187.</p><p>"But to return to my indictment. If modern man's producing power is </p><p>a thousand times greater than that of the cave-man, why then, in the </p><p>United States to-day, are there fifteen million people who are not </p><p>properly sheltered and properly fed? Why then, in the United States </p><p>to-day, are there three million child laborers? It is a true indictment. </p><p>The capitalist class has mismanaged. In face of the facts that modern </p><p>man lives more wretchedly than the cave-man, and that his producing </p><p>power is a thousand times greater than that of the cave-man, no other </p><p>conclusion is possible than that the capitalist class has mismanaged, </p><p>that you have mismanaged, my masters, that you have criminally and </p><p>selfishly mismanaged. And on this count you cannot answer me here </p><p>to-night, face to face, any more than can your whole class answer the </p><p>million and a half of revolutionists in the United States. You cannot </p><p>answer. I challenge you to answer. And furthermore, I dare to say to </p><p>you now that when I have finished you will not answer. On that point</p><p>you will be tongue-tied, though you will talk wordily enough about other </p><p>things. </p><p>"You have failed in your management. You have made a shambles of </p><p>civilization. You have been blind and greedy. You have risen up (as you </p><p>to-day rise up), shamelessly, in our legislative halls, and declared </p><p>that profits were impossible without the toil of children and babes. </p><p>Don't take my word for it. It is all in the records against you. You </p><p>have lulled your conscience to sleep with prattle of sweet ideals and </p><p>dear moralities. You are fat with power and possession, drunken with </p><p>success; and you have no more hope against us than have the drones, </p><p>clustered about the honey-vats, when the worker-bees spring upon them </p><p>to end their rotund existence. You have failed in your management of </p><p>society, and your management is to be taken away from you. A million and </p><p>a half of the men of the working class say that they are going to get </p><p>the rest of the working class to join with them and take the management </p><p>away from you. This is the revolution, my masters. Stop it if you can." </p><p>For an appreciable lapse of time Ernest's voice continued to ring </p><p>through the great room. Then arose the throaty rumble I had heard </p><p>before, and a dozen men were on their feet clamoring for recognition </p><p>from Colonel Van Gilbert. I noticed Miss Brentwood's shoulders moving </p><p>convulsively, and for the moment I was angry, for I thought that she was </p><p>laughing at Ernest. And then I discovered that it was not laughter, </p><p>but hysteria. She was appalled by what she had done in bringing this </p><p>firebrand before her blessed Philomath Club. </p><p>Colonel Van Gilbert did not notice the dozen men, with passion-wrought </p><p>faces, who strove to get permission from him to speak. His own face </p><p>was passion-wrought. He sprang to his feet, waving his arms, and for a </p><p>moment could utter only incoherent sounds. Then speech poured from him. </p><p>But it was not the speech of a one-hundred-thousand-dollar lawyer, nor </p><p>was the rhetoric old-fashioned. </p><p>"Fallacy upon fallacy!" he cried. "Never in all my life have I heard so </p><p>many fallacies uttered in one short hour. And besides, young man, I must </p><p>tell you that you have said nothing new. I learned all that at college </p><p>before you were born. Jean Jacques Rousseau enunciated your socialistic </p><p>theory nearly two centuries ago. A return to the soil, forsooth! </p><p>Reversion! Our biology teaches the absurdity of it. It has been </p><p>truly said that a little learning is a dangerous thing, and you have </p><p>exemplified it to-night with your madcap theories. Fallacy upon fallacy! </p><p>I was never so nauseated in my life with overplus of fallacy. That for </p><p>your immature generalizations and childish reasonings!" </p><p>He snapped his fingers contemptuously and proceeded to sit down. There </p><p>were lip-exclamations of approval on the part of the women, and hoarser </p><p>notes of confirmation came from the men. As for the dozen men who </p><p>were clamoring for the floor, half of them began speaking at once. The </p><p>confusion and babel was indescribable. Never had Mrs. Pertonwaithe's </p><p>spacious walls beheld such a spectacle. These, then, were the cool </p><p>captains of industry and lords of society, these snarling, growling </p><p>savages in evening clothes. Truly Ernest had shaken them when he </p><p>stretched out his hands for their moneybags, his hands that had </p><p>appeared in their eyes as the hands of the fifteen hundred thousand </p><p>revolutionists. </p><p>But Ernest never lost his head in a situation. Before Colonel Van </p><p>Gilbert had succeeded in sitting down, Ernest was on his feet and had</p><p>sprung forward. </p><p>"One at a time!" he roared at them. </p><p>The sound arose from his great lungs and dominated the human tempest. By </p><p>sheer compulsion of personality he commanded silence. </p><p>"One at a time," he repeated softly. "Let me answer Colonel Van Gilbert. </p><p>After that the rest of you can come at me--but one at a time, remember. </p><p>No mass-plays here. This is not a football field. </p><p>"As for you," he went on, turning toward Colonel Van Gilbert, "you have </p><p>replied to nothing I have said. You have merely made a few excited and </p><p>dogmatic assertions about my mental caliber. That may serve you in your </p><p>business, but you can't talk to me like that. I am not a workingman, </p><p>cap in hand, asking you to increase my wages or to protect me from the </p><p>machine at which I work. You cannot be dogmatic with truth when you deal </p><p>with me. Save that for dealing with your wage-slaves. They will not dare </p><p>reply to you because you hold their bread and butter, their lives, in </p><p>your hands. </p><p>"As for this return to nature that you say you learned at college before </p><p>I was born, permit me to point out that on the face of it you cannot </p><p>have learned anything since. Socialism has no more to do with the state </p><p>of nature than has differential calculus with a Bible class. I have </p><p>called your class stupid when outside the realm of business. You, sir, </p><p>have brilliantly exemplified my statement." </p><p>This terrible castigation of her hundred-thousand-dollar lawyer was too </p><p>much for Miss Brentwood's nerves. Her hysteria became violent, and she </p><p>was helped, weeping and laughing, out of the room. It was just as well, </p><p>for there was worse to follow. </p><p>"Don't take my word for it," Ernest continued, when the interruption had </p><p>been led away. "Your own authorities with one unanimous voice will prove </p><p>you stupid. Your own hired purveyors of knowledge will tell you that you </p><p>are wrong. Go to your meekest little assistant instructor of sociology </p><p>and ask him what is the difference between Rousseau's theory of the </p><p>return to nature and the theory of socialism; ask your greatest orthodox </p><p>bourgeois political economists and sociologists; question through </p><p>the pages of every text-book written on the subject and stored on the </p><p>shelves of your subsidized libraries; and from one and all the answer </p><p>will be that there is nothing congruous between the return to nature and </p><p>socialism. On the other hand, the unanimous affirmative answer will be </p><p>that the return to nature and socialism are diametrically opposed to </p><p>each other. As I say, don't take my word for it. The record of your </p><p>stupidity is there in the books, your own books that you never read. And </p><p>so far as your stupidity is concerned, you are but the exemplar of your </p><p>class. </p><p>"You know law and business, Colonel Van Gilbert. You know how to serve </p><p>corporations and increase dividends by twisting the law. Very good. </p><p>Stick to it. You are quite a figure. You are a very good lawyer, but you </p><p>are a poor historian, you know nothing of sociology, and your biology is </p><p>contemporaneous with Pliny." </p><p>Here Colonel Van Gilbert writhed in his chair. There was perfect quiet </p><p>in the room. Everybody sat fascinated--paralyzed, I may say. Such </p><p>fearful treatment of the great Colonel Van Gilbert was unheard of,</p><p>undreamed of, impossible to believe--the great Colonel Van Gilbert </p><p>before whom judges trembled when he arose in court. But Ernest never </p><p>gave quarter to an enemy. </p><p>"This is, of course, no reflection on you," Ernest said. "Every man to </p><p>his trade. Only you stick to your trade, and I'll stick to mine. You </p><p>have specialized. When it comes to a knowledge of the law, of how </p><p>best to evade the law or make new law for the benefit of thieving </p><p>corporations, I am down in the dirt at your feet. But when it comes to </p><p>sociology--my trade--you are down in the dirt at my feet. Remember that. </p><p>Remember, also, that your law is the stuff of a day, and that you are </p><p>not versatile in the stuff of more than a day. Therefore your </p><p>dogmatic assertions and rash generalizations on things historical and </p><p>sociological are not worth the breath you waste on them." </p><p>Ernest paused for a moment and regarded him thoughtfully, noting his </p><p>face dark and twisted with anger, his panting chest, his writhing body, </p><p>and his slim white hands nervously clenching and unclenching. </p><p>"But it seems you have breath to use, and I'll give you a chance to </p><p>use it. I indicted your class. Show me that my indictment is wrong. I </p><p>pointed out to you the wretchedness of modern man--three million child </p><p>slaves in the United States, without whose labor profits would not be </p><p>possible, and fifteen million under-fed, ill-clothed, and worse-housed </p><p>people. I pointed out that modern man's producing power through social </p><p>organization and the use of machinery was a thousand times greater than </p><p>that of the cave-man. And I stated that from these two facts no other </p><p>conclusion was possible than that the capitalist class had mismanaged. </p><p>This was my indictment, and I specifically and at length challenged you </p><p>to answer it. Nay, I did more. I prophesied that you would not answer. </p><p>It remains for your breath to smash my prophecy. You called my speech </p><p>fallacy. Show the fallacy, Colonel Van Gilbert. Answer the indictment </p><p>that I and my fifteen hundred thousand comrades have brought against </p><p>your class and you." </p><p>Colonel Van Gilbert quite forgot that he was presiding, and that in </p><p>courtesy he should permit the other clamorers to speak. He was on his </p><p>feet, flinging his arms, his rhetoric, and his control to the winds, </p><p>alternately abusing Ernest for his youth and demagoguery, and </p><p>savagely attacking the working class, elaborating its inefficiency and </p><p>worthlessness. </p><p>"For a lawyer, you are the hardest man to keep to a point I ever saw," </p><p>Ernest began his answer to the tirade. "My youth has nothing to do with </p><p>what I have enunciated. Nor has the worthlessness of the working class. </p><p>I charged the capitalist class with having mismanaged society. You have </p><p>not answered. You have made no attempt to answer. Why? Is it because you </p><p>have no answer? You are the champion of this whole audience. Every </p><p>one here, except me, is hanging on your lips for that answer. They </p><p>are hanging on your lips for that answer because they have no answer </p><p>themselves. As for me, as I said before, I know that you not only cannot </p><p>answer, but that you will not attempt an answer." </p><p>"This is intolerable!" Colonel Van Gilbert cried out. "This is insult!" </p><p>"That you should not answer is intolerable," Ernest replied gravely. </p><p>"No man can be intellectually insulted. Insult, in its very nature, </p><p>is emotional. Recover yourself. Give me an intellectual answer to my </p><p>intellectual charge that the capitalist class has mismanaged society."</p><p>Colonel Van Gilbert remained silent, a sullen, superior expression on </p><p>his face, such as will appear on the face of a man who will not bandy </p><p>words with a ruffian. </p><p>"Do not be downcast," Ernest said. "Take consolation in the fact that </p><p>no member of your class has ever yet answered that charge." He turned to </p><p>the other men who were anxious to speak. "And now it's your chance. Fire </p><p>away, and do not forget that I here challenge you to give the answer </p><p>that Colonel Van Gilbert has failed to give." </p><p>It would be impossible for me to write all that was said in the </p><p>discussion. I never realized before how many words could be spoken in </p><p>three short hours. At any rate, it was glorious. The more his opponents </p><p>grew excited, the more Ernest deliberately excited them. He had an </p><p>encyclopaedic command of the field of knowledge, and by a word or a </p><p>phrase, by delicate rapier thrusts, he punctured them. He named the </p><p>points of their illogic. This was a false syllogism, that conclusion had </p><p>no connection with the premise, while that next premise was an impostor </p><p>because it had cunningly hidden in it the conclusion that was being </p><p>attempted to be proved. This was an error, that was an assumption, and </p><p>the next was an assertion contrary to ascertained truth as printed in </p><p>all the text-books. </p><p>And so it went. Sometimes he exchanged the rapier for the club and went </p><p>smashing amongst their thoughts right and left. And always he demanded </p><p>facts and refused to discuss theories. And his facts made for them a </p><p>Waterloo. When they attacked the working class, he always retorted, "The </p><p>pot calling the kettle black; that is no answer to the charge that </p><p>your own face is dirty." And to one and all he said: "Why have you not </p><p>answered the charge that your class has mismanaged? You have talked </p><p>about other things and things concerning other things, but you have not </p><p>answered. Is it because you have no answer?" </p><p>It was at the end of the discussion that Mr. Wickson spoke. He was the </p><p>only one that was cool, and Ernest treated him with a respect he had not </p><p>accorded the others. </p><p>"No answer is necessary," Mr. Wickson said with slow deliberation. "I </p><p>have followed the whole discussion with amazement and disgust. I am </p><p>disgusted with you gentlemen, members of my class. You have behaved like </p><p>foolish little schoolboys, what with intruding ethics and the thunder </p><p>of the common politician into such a discussion. You have been </p><p>outgeneralled and outclassed. You have been very wordy, and all you have </p><p>done is buzz. You have buzzed like gnats about a bear. Gentlemen, there </p><p>stands the bear" (he pointed at Ernest), "and your buzzing has only </p><p>tickled his ears. </p><p>"Believe me, the situation is serious. That bear reached out his paws </p><p>tonight to crush us. He has said there are a million and a half of </p><p>revolutionists in the United States. That is a fact. He has said that </p><p>it is their intention to take away from us our governments, our palaces, </p><p>and all our purpled ease. That, also, is a fact. A change, a great </p><p>change, is coming in society; but, haply, it may not be the change the </p><p>bear anticipates. The bear has said that he will crush us. What if we </p><p>crush the bear?" </p><p>The throat-rumble arose in the great room, and man nodded to man </p><p>with indorsement and certitude. Their faces were set hard. They were</p><p>fighters, that was certain. </p><p>"But not by buzzing will we crush the bear," Mr. Wickson went on coldly </p><p>and dispassionately. "We will hunt the bear. We will not reply to the </p><p>bear in words. Our reply shall be couched in terms of lead. We are in </p><p>power. Nobody will deny it. By virtue of that power we shall remain in </p><p>power." </p><p>He turned suddenly upon Ernest. The moment was dramatic. </p><p>"This, then, is our answer. We have no words to waste on you. When you </p><p>reach out your vaunted strong hands for our palaces and purpled ease, </p><p>we will show you what strength is. In roar of shell and shrapnel and </p><p>in whine of machine-guns will our answer be couched.* We will grind you </p><p>revolutionists down under our heel, and we shall walk upon your faces. </p><p>The world is ours, we are its lords, and ours it shall remain. As for </p><p>the host of labor, it has been in the dirt since history began, and I </p><p>read history aright. And in the dirt it shall remain so long as I and </p><p>mine and those that come after us have the power. There is the word. </p><p>It is the king of words--Power. Not God, not Mammon, but Power. Pour it </p><p>over your tongue till it tingles with it. Power." </p><p> * To show the tenor of thought, the following definition is</p><p> quoted from "The Cynic's Word Book" (1906 A.D.), written by</p><p> one Ambrose Bierce, an avowed and confirmed misanthrope of</p><p> the period: "Grapeshot, n. An argument which the future is</p><p> preparing in answer to the demands of American Socialism."</p><p>"I am answered," Ernest said quietly. "It is the only answer that could </p><p>be given. Power. It is what we of the working class preach. We know, </p><p>and well we know by bitter experience, that no appeal for the right, for </p><p>justice, for humanity, can ever touch you. Your hearts are hard as </p><p>your heels with which you tread upon the faces of the poor. So we have </p><p>preached power. By the power of our ballots on election day will we take </p><p>your government away from you--" </p><p>"What if you do get a majority, a sweeping majority, on election </p><p>day?" Mr. Wickson broke in to demand. "Suppose we refuse to turn the </p><p>government over to you after you have captured it at the ballot-box?" </p><p>"That, also, have we considered," Ernest replied. "And we shall give you </p><p>an answer in terms of lead. Power you have proclaimed the king of words. </p><p>Very good. Power it shall be. And in the day that we sweep to victory at </p><p>the ballot-box, and you refuse to turn over to us the government we have </p><p>constitutionally and peacefully captured, and you demand what we are </p><p>going to do about it--in that day, I say, we shall answer you; and in </p><p>roar of shell and shrapnel and in whine of machine-guns shall our answer </p><p>be couched. </p><p>"You cannot escape us. It is true that you have read history aright. It </p><p>is true that labor has from the beginning of history been in the dirt. </p><p>And it is equally true that so long as you and yours and those that come </p><p>after you have power, that labor shall remain in the dirt. I agree with </p><p>you. I agree with all that you have said. Power will be the arbiter, </p><p>as it always has been the arbiter. It is a struggle of classes. Just as </p><p>your class dragged down the old feudal nobility, so shall it be dragged </p><p>down by my class, the working class. If you will read your biology and </p><p>your sociology as clearly as you do your history, you will see that this </p><p>end I have described is inevitable. It does not matter whether it is in</p><p>one year, ten, or a thousand--your class shall be dragged down. And it </p><p>shall be done by power. We of the labor hosts have conned that word over </p><p>till our minds are all a-tingle with it. Power. It is a kingly word." </p><p>And so ended the night with the Philomaths. </p><p>CHAPTER VI </p><p>ADUMBRATIONS </p><p>It was about this time that the warnings of coming events began to fall </p><p>about us thick and fast. Ernest had already questioned father's policy </p><p>of having socialists and labor leaders at his house, and of openly </p><p>attending socialist meetings; and father had only laughed at him for </p><p>his pains. As for myself, I was learning much from this contact with the </p><p>working-class leaders and thinkers. I was seeing the other side of </p><p>the shield. I was delighted with the unselfishness and high idealism </p><p>I encountered, though I was appalled by the vast philosophic and </p><p>scientific literature of socialism that was opened up to me. I was </p><p>learning fast, but I learned not fast enough to realize then the peril </p><p>of our position. </p><p>There were warnings, but I did not heed them. For instance, Mrs. </p><p>Pertonwaithe and Mrs. Wickson exercised tremendous social power in </p><p>the university town, and from them emanated the sentiment that I was a </p><p>too-forward and self-assertive young woman with a mischievous penchant </p><p>for officiousness and interference in other persons' affairs. This </p><p>I thought no more than natural, considering the part I had played </p><p>in investigating the case of Jackson's arm. But the effect of such </p><p>a sentiment, enunciated by two such powerful social arbiters, I </p><p>underestimated. </p><p>True, I noticed a certain aloofness on the part of my general friends, </p><p>but this I ascribed to the disapproval that was prevalent in my circles </p><p>of my intended marriage with Ernest. It was not till some time afterward </p><p>that Ernest pointed out to me clearly that this general attitude of </p><p>my class was something more than spontaneous, that behind it were the </p><p>hidden springs of an organized conduct. "You have given shelter to an </p><p>enemy of your class," he said. "And not alone shelter, for you have </p><p>given your love, yourself. This is treason to your class. Think not that </p><p>you will escape being penalized." </p><p>But it was before this that father returned one afternoon. Ernest was </p><p>with me, and we could see that father was angry--philosophically angry. </p><p>He was rarely really angry; but a certain measure of controlled anger </p><p>he allowed himself. He called it a tonic. And we could see that he was </p><p>tonic-angry when he entered the room. </p><p>"What do you think?" he demanded. "I had luncheon with Wilcox." </p><p>Wilcox was the superannuated president of the university, whose withered </p><p>mind was stored with generalizations that were young in 1870, and which </p><p>he had since failed to revise. </p><p>"I was invited," father announced. "I was sent for." </p><p>He paused, and we waited. </p><p>"Oh, it was done very nicely, I'll allow; but I was reprimanded. I! And </p><p>by that old fossil!" </p><p>"I'll wager I know what you were reprimanded for," Ernest said. </p><p>"Not in three guesses," father laughed. </p><p>"One guess will do," Ernest retorted. "And it won't be a guess. It will </p><p>be a deduction. You were reprimanded for your private life." </p><p>"The very thing!" father cried. "How did you guess?" </p><p>"I knew it was coming. I warned you before about it." </p><p>"Yes, you did," father meditated. "But I couldn't believe it. At any </p><p>rate, it is only so much more clinching evidence for my book." </p><p>"It is nothing to what will come," Ernest went on, "if you persist in </p><p>your policy of having these socialists and radicals of all sorts at your </p><p>house, myself included." </p><p>"Just what old Wilcox said. And of all unwarranted things! He said it </p><p>was in poor taste, utterly profitless, anyway, and not in harmony with </p><p>university traditions and policy. He said much more of the same vague </p><p>sort, and I couldn't pin him down to anything specific. I made it pretty </p><p>awkward for him, and he could only go on repeating himself and telling </p><p>me how much he honored me, and all the world honored me, as a scientist. </p><p>It wasn't an agreeable task for him. I could see he didn't like it." </p><p>"He was not a free agent," Ernest said. "The leg-bar* is not always worn </p><p>graciously." </p><p> * LEG-BAR--the African slaves were so manacled; also</p><p> criminals. It was not until the coming of the Brotherhood</p><p> of Man that the leg-bar passed out of use.</p><p>"Yes. I got that much out of him. He said the university needed ever </p><p>so much more money this year than the state was willing to furnish; and </p><p>that it must come from wealthy personages who could not but be offended </p><p>by the swerving of the university from its high ideal of the passionless </p><p>pursuit of passionless intelligence. When I tried to pin him down to </p><p>what my home life had to do with swerving the university from its high </p><p>ideal, he offered me a two years' vacation, on full pay, in Europe, </p><p>for recreation and research. Of course I couldn't accept it under the </p><p>circumstances." </p><p>"It would have been far better if you had," Ernest said gravely. </p><p>"It was a bribe," father protested; and Ernest nodded. </p><p>"Also, the beggar said that there was talk, tea-table gossip and so </p><p>forth, about my daughter being seen in public with so notorious a </p><p>character as you, and that it was not in keeping with university tone </p><p>and dignity. Not that he personally objected--oh, no; but that there was </p><p>talk and that I would understand." </p><p>Ernest considered this announcement for a moment, and then said, and his</p><p>face was very grave, withal there was a sombre wrath in it: </p><p>"There is more behind this than a mere university ideal. Somebody has </p><p>put pressure on President Wilcox." </p><p>"Do you think so?" father asked, and his face showed that he was </p><p>interested rather than frightened. </p><p>"I wish I could convey to you the conception that is dimly forming in my </p><p>own mind," Ernest said. "Never in the history of the world was society </p><p>in so terrific flux as it is right now. The swift changes in our </p><p>industrial system are causing equally swift changes in our religious, </p><p>political, and social structures. An unseen and fearful revolution is </p><p>taking place in the fibre and structure of society. One can only dimly </p><p>feel these things. But they are in the air, now, to-day. One can feel </p><p>the loom of them--things vast, vague, and terrible. My mind recoils from </p><p>contemplation of what they may crystallize into. You heard Wickson talk </p><p>the other night. Behind what he said were the same nameless, formless </p><p>things that I feel. He spoke out of a superconscious apprehension of </p><p>them." </p><p>"You mean . . . ?" father began, then paused. </p><p>"I mean that there is a shadow of something colossal and menacing that </p><p>even now is beginning to fall across the land. Call it the shadow of an </p><p>oligarchy, if you will; it is the nearest I dare approximate it. What </p><p>its nature may be I refuse to imagine.* But what I wanted to say was </p><p>this: You are in a perilous position--a peril that my own fear enhances </p><p>because I am not able even to measure it. Take my advice and accept the </p><p>vacation." </p><p> * Though, like Everhard, they did not dream of the nature of</p><p> it, there were men, even before his time, who caught</p><p> glimpses of the shadow. John C. Calhoun said: "A power has</p><p> risen up in the government greater than the people</p><p> themselves, consisting of many and various and powerful</p><p> interests, combined into one mass, and held together by the</p><p> cohesive power of the vast surplus in the banks." And that</p><p> great humanist, Abraham Lincoln, said, just before his</p><p> assassination: "I see in the near future a crisis</p><p> approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for</p><p> the safety of my country. . . . Corporations have been</p><p> enthroned, an era of corruption in high places will follow,</p><p> and the money-power of the country will endeavor to prolong</p><p> its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until</p><p> the wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the Republic is</p><p> destroyed."</p><p>"But it would be cowardly," was the protest. </p><p>"Not at all. You are an old man. You have done your work in the world, </p><p>and a great work. Leave the present battle to youth and strength. We </p><p>young fellows have our work yet to do. Avis will stand by my side in </p><p>what is to come. She will be your representative in the battle-front." </p><p>"But they can't hurt me," father objected. "Thank God I am independent. </p><p>Oh, I assure you, I know the frightful persecution they can wage on </p><p>a professor who is economically dependent on his university. But I am </p><p>independent. I have not been a professor for the sake of my salary. I</p><p>can get along very comfortably on my own income, and the salary is all </p><p>they can take away from me." </p><p>"But you do not realize," Ernest answered. "If all that I fear be so, </p><p>your private income, your principal itself, can be taken from you just </p><p>as easily as your salary." </p><p>Father was silent for a few minutes. He was thinking deeply, and I could </p><p>see the lines of decision forming in his face. At last he spoke. </p><p>"I shall not take the vacation." He paused again. "I shall go on with </p><p>my book.* You may be wrong, but whether you are wrong or right, I shall </p><p>stand by my guns." </p><p> * This book, "Economics and Education," was published in</p><p> that year. Three copies of it are extant; two at Ardis, and</p><p> one at Asgard. It dealt, in elaborate detail, with one</p><p> factor in the persistence of the established, namely, the</p><p> capitalistic bias of the universities and common schools.</p><p> It was a logical and crushing indictment of the whole system</p><p> of education that developed in the minds of the students</p><p> only such ideas as were favorable to the capitalistic</p><p> regime, to the exclusion of all ideas that were inimical and</p><p> subversive. The book created a furor, and was promptly</p><p> suppressed by the Oligarchy.</p><p>"All right," Ernest said. "You are travelling the same path that Bishop </p><p>Morehouse is, and toward a similar smash-up. You'll both be proletarians </p><p>before you're done with it." </p><p>The conversation turned upon the Bishop, and we got Ernest to explain </p><p>what he had been doing with him. </p><p>"He is soul-sick from the journey through hell I have given him. I took </p><p>him through the homes of a few of our factory workers. I showed him the </p><p>human wrecks cast aside by the industrial machine, and he listened to </p><p>their life stories. I took him through the slums of San Francisco, and </p><p>in drunkenness, prostitution, and criminality he learned a deeper cause </p><p>than innate depravity. He is very sick, and, worse than that, he has got </p><p>out of hand. He is too ethical. He has been too severely touched. And, </p><p>as usual, he is unpractical. He is up in the air with all kinds of </p><p>ethical delusions and plans for mission work among the cultured. He </p><p>feels it is his bounden duty to resurrect the ancient spirit of the </p><p>Church and to deliver its message to the masters. He is overwrought. </p><p>Sooner or later he is going to break out, and then there's going to be </p><p>a smash-up. What form it will take I can't even guess. He is a pure, </p><p>exalted soul, but he is so unpractical. He's beyond me. I can't keep </p><p>his feet on the earth. And through the air he is rushing on to his </p><p>Gethsemane. And after this his crucifixion. Such high souls are made for </p><p>crucifixion." </p><p>"And you?" I asked; and beneath my smile was the seriousness of the </p><p>anxiety of love. </p><p>"Not I," he laughed back. "I may be executed, or assassinated, but I </p><p>shall never be crucified. I am planted too solidly and stolidly upon the </p><p>earth." </p><p>"But why should you bring about the crucifixion of the Bishop?" I asked.</p><p>"You will not deny that you are the cause of it." </p><p>"Why should I leave one comfortable soul in comfort when there are </p><p>millions in travail and misery?" he demanded back. </p><p>"Then why did you advise father to accept the vacation?" </p><p>"Because I am not a pure, exalted soul," was the answer. "Because I am </p><p>solid and stolid and selfish. Because I love you and, like Ruth of </p><p>old, thy people are my people. As for the Bishop, he has no daughter. </p><p>Besides, no matter how small the good, nevertheless his little </p><p>inadequate wail will be productive of some good in the revolution, and </p><p>every little bit counts." </p><p>I could not agree with Ernest. I knew well the noble nature of </p><p>Bishop Morehouse, and I could not conceive that his voice raised for </p><p>righteousness would be no more than a little inadequate wail. But I did </p><p>not yet have the harsh facts of life at my fingers' ends as Ernest had. </p><p>He saw clearly the futility of the Bishop's great soul, as coming events </p><p>were soon to show as clearly to me. </p><p>It was shortly after this day that Ernest told me, as a good story, the </p><p>offer he had received from the government, namely, an appointment as </p><p>United States Commissioner of Labor. I was overjoyed. The salary was </p><p>comparatively large, and would make safe our marriage. And then it </p><p>surely was congenial work for Ernest, and, furthermore, my jealous pride </p><p>in him made me hail the proffered appointment as a recognition of his </p><p>abilities. </p><p>Then I noticed the twinkle in his eyes. He was laughing at me. </p><p>"You are not going to . . . to decline?" I quavered. </p><p>"It is a bribe," he said. "Behind it is the fine hand of Wickson, and </p><p>behind him the hands of greater men than he. It is an old trick, old as </p><p>the class struggle is old--stealing the captains from the army of labor. </p><p>Poor betrayed labor! If you but knew how many of its leaders have been </p><p>bought out in similar ways in the past. It is cheaper, so much cheaper, </p><p>to buy a general than to fight him and his whole army. There was--but </p><p>I'll not call any names. I'm bitter enough over it as it is. Dear heart, </p><p>I am a captain of labor. I could not sell out. If for no other reason, </p><p>the memory of my poor old father and the way he was worked to death </p><p>would prevent." </p><p>The tears were in his eyes, this great, strong hero of mine. He never </p><p>could forgive the way his father had been malformed--the sordid lies and </p><p>the petty thefts he had been compelled to, in order to put food in his </p><p>children's mouths. </p><p>"My father was a good man," Ernest once said to me. "The soul of him was </p><p>good, and yet it was twisted, and maimed, and blunted by the savagery </p><p>of his life. He was made into a broken-down beast by his masters, the </p><p>arch-beasts. He should be alive to-day, like your father. He had a </p><p>strong constitution. But he was caught in the machine and worked to </p><p>death--for profit. Think of it. For profit--his life blood transmuted </p><p>into a wine-supper, or a jewelled gewgaw, or some similar sense-orgy of </p><p>the parasitic and idle rich, his masters, the arch-beasts." </p><p>CHAPTER VII </p><p>THE BISHOP'S VISION </p><p>"The Bishop is out of hand," Ernest wrote me. "He is clear up in the </p><p>air. Tonight he is going to begin putting to rights this very miserable </p><p>world of ours. He is going to deliver his message. He has told me so, </p><p>and I cannot dissuade him. To-night he is chairman of the I.P.H.,* and </p><p>he will embody his message in his introductory remarks. </p><p> * There is no clew to the name of the organization for which</p><p> these initials stand.</p><p>"May I bring you to hear him? Of course, he is foredoomed to futility. </p><p>It will break your heart--it will break his; but for you it will be an </p><p>excellent object lesson. You know, dear heart, how proud I am because </p><p>you love me. And because of that I want you to know my fullest value, I </p><p>want to redeem, in your eyes, some small measure of my unworthiness. </p><p>And so it is that my pride desires that you shall know my thinking is </p><p>correct and right. My views are harsh; the futility of so noble a soul </p><p>as the Bishop will show you the compulsion for such harshness. So come </p><p>to-night. Sad though this night's happening will be, I feel that it will </p><p>but draw you more closely to me." </p><p>The I.P.H. held its convention that night in San Francisco.* This </p><p>convention had been called to consider public immorality and the remedy </p><p>for it. Bishop Morehouse presided. He was very nervous as he sat on the </p><p>platform, and I could see the high tension he was under. By his side </p><p>were Bishop Dickinson; H. H. Jones, the head of the ethical department </p><p>in the University of California; Mrs. W. W. Hurd, the great charity </p><p>organizer; Philip Ward, the equally great philanthropist; and several </p><p>lesser luminaries in the field of morality and charity. Bishop Morehouse </p><p>arose and abruptly began: </p><p> * It took but a few minutes to cross by ferry from Berkeley</p><p> to San Francisco. These, and the other bay cities,</p><p> practically composed one community.</p><p>"I was in my brougham, driving through the streets. It was night-time. </p><p>Now and then I looked through the carriage windows, and suddenly my eyes </p><p>seemed to be opened, and I saw things as they really are. At first I </p><p>covered my eyes with my hands to shut out the awful sight, and then, in </p><p>the darkness, the question came to me: What is to be done? What is to be </p><p>done? A little later the question came to me in another way: What would </p><p>the Master do? And with the question a great light seemed to fill </p><p>the place, and I saw my duty sun-clear, as Saul saw his on the way to </p><p>Damascus. </p><p>"I stopped the carriage, got out, and, after a few minutes' </p><p>conversation, persuaded two of the public women to get into the brougham </p><p>with me. If Jesus was right, then these two unfortunates were my </p><p>sisters, and the only hope of their purification was in my affection and </p><p>tenderness. </p><p>"I live in one of the loveliest localities of San Francisco. The house </p><p>in which I live cost a hundred thousand dollars, and its furnishings, </p><p>books, and works of art cost as much more. The house is a mansion.</p><p>No, it is a palace, wherein there are many servants. I never knew what </p><p>palaces were good for. I had thought they were to live in. But now I </p><p>know. I took the two women of the street to my palace, and they are </p><p>going to stay with me. I hope to fill every room in my palace with such </p><p>sisters as they." </p><p>The audience had been growing more and more restless and unsettled, and </p><p>the faces of those that sat on the platform had been betraying greater </p><p>and greater dismay and consternation. And at this point Bishop Dickinson </p><p>arose, and with an expression of disgust on his face, fled from the </p><p>platform and the hall. But Bishop Morehouse, oblivious to all, his eyes </p><p>filled with his vision, continued: </p><p>"Oh, sisters and brothers, in this act of mine I find the solution of </p><p>all my difficulties. I didn't know what broughams were made for, but now </p><p>I know. They are made to carry the weak, the sick, and the aged; they </p><p>are made to show honor to those who have lost the sense even of shame. </p><p>"I did not know what palaces were made for, but now I have found a use </p><p>for them. The palaces of the Church should be hospitals and nurseries </p><p>for those who have fallen by the wayside and are perishing." </p><p>He made a long pause, plainly overcome by the thought that was in him, </p><p>and nervous how best to express it. </p><p>"I am not fit, dear brethren, to tell you anything about morality. I </p><p>have lived in shame and hypocrisies too long to be able to help others; </p><p>but my action with those women, sisters of mine, shows me that the </p><p>better way is easy to find. To those who believe in Jesus and his gospel </p><p>there can be no other relation between man and man than the relation </p><p>of affection. Love alone is stronger than sin--stronger than death. I </p><p>therefore say to the rich among you that it is their duty to do what I </p><p>have done and am doing. Let each one of you who is prosperous take into </p><p>his house some thief and treat him as his brother, some unfortunate and </p><p>treat her as his sister, and San Francisco will need no police force </p><p>and no magistrates; the prisons will be turned into hospitals, and the </p><p>criminal will disappear with his crime. </p><p>"We must give ourselves and not our money alone. We must do as Christ </p><p>did; that is the message of the Church today. We have wandered far from </p><p>the Master's teaching. We are consumed in our own flesh-pots. We have </p><p>put mammon in the place of Christ. I have here a poem that tells the </p><p>whole story. I should like to read it to you. It was written by an </p><p>erring soul who yet saw clearly.* It must not be mistaken for an attack </p><p>upon the Catholic Church. It is an attack upon all churches, upon the </p><p>pomp and splendor of all churches that have wandered from the Master's </p><p>path and hedged themselves in from his lambs. Here it is: </p><p> "The silver trumpets rang across the Dome;</p><p> The people knelt upon the ground with awe;</p><p> And borne upon the necks of men I saw,</p><p> Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.</p><p> "Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,</p><p> And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,</p><p> Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head;</p><p> In splendor and in light the Pope passed home.</p><p> "My heart stole back across wide wastes of years</p><p> To One who wandered by a lonely sea;</p><p> And sought in vain for any place of rest:</p><p> 'Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,</p><p> I, only I, must wander wearily,</p><p> And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.'"</p><p> * Oscar Wilde, one of the lords of language of the</p><p> nineteenth century of the Christian Era.</p><p>The audience was agitated, but unresponsive. Yet Bishop Morehouse was </p><p>not aware of it. He held steadily on his way. </p><p>"And so I say to the rich among you, and to all the rich, that bitterly </p><p>you oppress the Master's lambs. You have hardened your hearts. You have </p><p>closed your ears to the voices that are crying in the land--the voices </p><p>of pain and sorrow that you will not hear but that some day will be </p><p>heard. And so I say--" </p><p>But at this point H. H. Jones and Philip Ward, who had already risen </p><p>from their chairs, led the Bishop off the platform, while the audience </p><p>sat breathless and shocked. </p><p>Ernest laughed harshly and savagely when he had gained the street. His </p><p>laughter jarred upon me. My heart seemed ready to burst with suppressed </p><p>tears. </p><p>"He has delivered his message," Ernest cried. "The manhood and the </p><p>deep-hidden, tender nature of their Bishop burst out, and his Christian </p><p>audience, that loved him, concluded that he was crazy! Did you see them </p><p>leading him so solicitously from the platform? There must have been </p><p>laughter in hell at the spectacle." </p><p>"Nevertheless, it will make a great impression, what the Bishop did and </p><p>said to-night," I said. </p><p>"Think so?" Ernest queried mockingly. </p><p>"It will make a sensation," I asserted. "Didn't you see the reporters </p><p>scribbling like mad while he was speaking?" </p><p>"Not a line of which will appear in to-morrow's papers." </p><p>"I can't believe it," I cried. </p><p>"Just wait and see," was the answer. "Not a line, not a thought that he </p><p>uttered. The daily press? The daily suppressage!" </p><p>"But the reporters," I objected. "I saw them." </p><p>"Not a word that he uttered will see print. You have forgotten the </p><p>editors. They draw their salaries for the policy they maintain. Their </p><p>policy is to print nothing that is a vital menace to the established. </p><p>The Bishop's utterance was a violent assault upon the established </p><p>morality. It was heresy. They led him from the platform to prevent him </p><p>from uttering more heresy. The newspapers will purge his heresy in the </p><p>oblivion of silence. The press of the United States? It is a parasitic </p><p>growth that battens on the capitalist class. Its function is to serve </p><p>the established by moulding public opinion, and right well it serves it. </p><p>"Let me prophesy. To-morrow's papers will merely mention that the Bishop </p><p>is in poor health, that he has been working too hard, and that he broke </p><p>down last night. The next mention, some days hence, will be to the </p><p>effect that he is suffering from nervous prostration and has been given </p><p>a vacation by his grateful flock. After that, one of two things will </p><p>happen: either the Bishop will see the error of his way and return from </p><p>his vacation a well man in whose eyes there are no more visions, or else </p><p>he will persist in his madness, and then you may expect to see in the </p><p>papers, couched pathetically and tenderly, the announcement of his </p><p>insanity. After that he will be left to gibber his visions to padded </p><p>walls." </p><p>"Now there you go too far!" I cried out. </p><p>"In the eyes of society it will truly be insanity," he replied. "What </p><p>honest man, who is not insane, would take lost women and thieves into </p><p>his house to dwell with him sisterly and brotherly? True, Christ died </p><p>between two thieves, but that is another story. Insanity? The mental </p><p>processes of the man with whom one disagrees, are always wrong. </p><p>Therefore the mind of the man is wrong. Where is the line between </p><p>wrong mind and insane mind? It is inconceivable that any sane man can </p><p>radically disagree with one's most sane conclusions. </p><p>"There is a good example of it in this evening's paper. Mary McKenna </p><p>lives south of Market Street. She is a poor but honest woman. She is </p><p>also patriotic. But she has erroneous ideas concerning the American flag </p><p>and the protection it is supposed to symbolize. And here's what happened </p><p>to her. Her husband had an accident and was laid up in hospital three </p><p>months. In spite of taking in washing, she got behind in her rent. </p><p>Yesterday they evicted her. But first, she hoisted an American flag, and </p><p>from under its folds she announced that by virtue of its protection they </p><p>could not turn her out on to the cold street. What was done? She was </p><p>arrested and arraigned for insanity. To-day she was examined by the </p><p>regular insanity experts. She was found insane. She was consigned to the </p><p>Napa Asylum." </p><p>"But that is far-fetched," I objected. "Suppose I should disagree with </p><p>everybody about the literary style of a book. They wouldn't send me to </p><p>an asylum for that." </p><p>"Very true," he replied. "But such divergence of opinion would </p><p>constitute no menace to society. Therein lies the difference. The </p><p>divergence of opinion on the parts of Mary McKenna and the Bishop do </p><p>menace society. What if all the poor people should refuse to pay rent </p><p>and shelter themselves under the American flag? Landlordism would go </p><p>crumbling. The Bishop's views are just as perilous to society. Ergo, to </p><p>the asylum with him." </p><p>But still I refused to believe. </p><p>"Wait and see," Ernest said, and I waited. </p><p>Next morning I sent out for all the papers. So far Ernest was right. Not </p><p>a word that Bishop Morehouse had uttered was in print. Mention was made </p><p>in one or two of the papers that he had been overcome by his feelings. </p><p>Yet the platitudes of the speakers that followed him were reported at </p><p>length. </p><p>Several days later the brief announcement was made that he had gone away</p><p>on a vacation to recover from the effects of overwork. So far so good, </p><p>but there had been no hint of insanity, nor even of nervous collapse. </p><p>Little did I dream the terrible road the Bishop was destined to </p><p>travel--the Gethsemane and crucifixion that Ernest had pondered about. </p><p>CHAPTER VIII </p><p>THE MACHINE BREAKERS </p><p>It was just before Ernest ran for Congress, on the socialist ticket, </p><p>that father gave what he privately called his "Profit and Loss" dinner. </p><p>Ernest called it the dinner of the Machine Breakers. In point of fact, </p><p>it was merely a dinner for business men--small business men, of </p><p>course. I doubt if one of them was interested in any business the total </p><p>capitalization of which exceeded a couple of hundred thousand dollars. </p><p>They were truly representative middle-class business men. </p><p>There was Owen, of Silverberg, Owen & Company--a large grocery firm with </p><p>several branch stores. We bought our groceries from them. There were </p><p>both partners of the big drug firm of Kowalt & Washburn, and Mr. </p><p>Asmunsen, the owner of a large granite quarry in Contra Costa County. </p><p>And there were many similar men, owners or part-owners in small </p><p>factories, small businesses and small industries--small capitalists, in </p><p>short. </p><p>They were shrewd-faced, interesting men, and they talked with simplicity </p><p>and clearness. Their unanimous complaint was against the corporations </p><p>and trusts. Their creed was, "Bust the Trusts." All oppression </p><p>originated in the trusts, and one and all told the same tale of woe. </p><p>They advocated government ownership of such trusts as the railroads </p><p>and telegraphs, and excessive income taxes, graduated with ferocity, </p><p>to destroy large accumulations. Likewise they advocated, as a cure for </p><p>local ills, municipal ownership of such public utilities as water, gas, </p><p>telephones, and street railways. </p><p>Especially interesting was Mr. Asmunsen's narrative of his tribulations </p><p>as a quarry owner. He confessed that he never made any profits out of </p><p>his quarry, and this, in spite of the enormous volume of business </p><p>that had been caused by the destruction of San Francisco by the big </p><p>earthquake. For six years the rebuilding of San Francisco had been going </p><p>on, and his business had quadrupled and octupled, and yet he was no </p><p>better off. </p><p>"The railroad knows my business just a little bit better than I do," he </p><p>said. "It knows my operating expenses to a cent, and it knows the terms </p><p>of my contracts. How it knows these things I can only guess. It must </p><p>have spies in my employ, and it must have access to the parties to all </p><p>my contracts. For look you, when I place a big contract, the terms </p><p>of which favor me a goodly profit, the freight rate from my quarry to </p><p>market is promptly raised. No explanation is made. The railroad gets my </p><p>profit. Under such circumstances I have never succeeded in getting the </p><p>railroad to reconsider its raise. On the other hand, when there have </p><p>been accidents, increased expenses of operating, or contracts with less </p><p>profitable terms, I have always succeeded in getting the railroad to </p><p>lower its rate. What is the result? Large or small, the railroad always </p><p>gets my profits."</p><p>"What remains to you over and above," Ernest interrupted to ask, "would </p><p>roughly be the equivalent of your salary as a manager did the railroad </p><p>own the quarry." </p><p>"The very thing," Mr. Asmunsen replied. "Only a short time ago I had my </p><p>books gone through for the past ten years. I discovered that for </p><p>those ten years my gain was just equivalent to a manager's salary. The </p><p>railroad might just as well have owned my quarry and hired me to run </p><p>it." </p><p>"But with this difference," Ernest laughed; "the railroad would have had </p><p>to assume all the risk which you so obligingly assumed for it." </p><p>"Very true," Mr. Asmunsen answered sadly. </p><p>Having let them have they say, Ernest began asking questions right and </p><p>left. He began with Mr. Owen. </p><p>"You started a branch store here in Berkeley about six months ago?" </p><p>"Yes," Mr. Owen answered. </p><p>"And since then I've noticed that three little corner groceries have </p><p>gone out of business. Was your branch store the cause of it?" </p><p>Mr. Owen affirmed with a complacent smile. "They had no chance against </p><p>us." </p><p>"Why not?" </p><p>"We had greater capital. With a large business there is always less </p><p>waste and greater efficiency." </p><p>"And your branch store absorbed the profits of the three small ones. I </p><p>see. But tell me, what became of the owners of the three stores?" </p><p>"One is driving a delivery wagon for us. I don't know what happened to </p><p>the other two." </p><p>Ernest turned abruptly on Mr. Kowalt. </p><p>"You sell a great deal at cut-rates.* What have become of the owners of </p><p>the small drug stores that you forced to the wall?" </p><p> * A lowering of selling price to cost, and even to less than</p><p> cost. Thus, a large company could sell at a loss for a</p><p> longer period than a small company, and so drive the small</p><p> company out of business. A common device of competition.</p><p>"One of them, Mr. Haasfurther, has charge now of our prescription </p><p>department," was the answer. </p><p>"And you absorbed the profits they had been making?" </p><p>"Surely. That is what we are in business for." </p><p>"And you?" Ernest said suddenly to Mr. Asmunsen. "You are disgusted </p><p>because the railroad has absorbed your profits?"</p><p>Mr. Asmunsen nodded. </p><p>"What you want is to make profits yourself?" </p><p>Again Mr. Asmunsen nodded. </p><p>"Out of others?" </p><p>There was no answer. </p><p>"Out of others?" Ernest insisted. </p><p>"That is the way profits are made," Mr. Asmunsen replied curtly. </p><p>"Then the business game is to make profits out of others, and to prevent </p><p>others from making profits out of you. That's it, isn't it?" </p><p>Ernest had to repeat his question before Mr. Asmunsen gave an answer, </p><p>and then he said: </p><p>"Yes, that's it, except that we do not object to the others making </p><p>profits so long as they are not extortionate." </p><p>"By extortionate you mean large; yet you do not object to making large </p><p>profits yourself? . . . Surely not?" </p><p>And Mr. Asmunsen amiably confessed to the weakness. There was one other </p><p>man who was quizzed by Ernest at this juncture, a Mr. Calvin, who had </p><p>once been a great dairy-owner. </p><p>"Some time ago you were fighting the Milk Trust," Ernest said to him; </p><p>"and now you are in Grange politics.* How did it happen?" </p><p> * Many efforts were made during this period to organize the</p><p> perishing farmer class into a political party, the aim of</p><p> which was destroy the trusts and corporations by drastic</p><p> legislation. All such attempts ended in failure.</p><p>"Oh, I haven't quit the fight," Mr. Calvin answered, and he looked </p><p>belligerent enough. "I'm fighting the Trust on the only field where it </p><p>is possible to fight--the political field. Let me show you. A few years </p><p>ago we dairymen had everything our own way." </p><p>"But you competed among yourselves?" Ernest interrupted. </p><p>"Yes, that was what kept the profits down. We did try to organize, but </p><p>independent dairymen always broke through us. Then came the Milk Trust." </p><p>"Financed by surplus capital from Standard Oil,"* Ernest said. </p><p> * The first successful great trust--almost a generation in</p><p> advance of the rest.</p><p>"Yes," Mr. Calvin acknowledged. "But we did not know it at the time. </p><p>Its agents approached us with a club. "Come in and be fat," was their </p><p>proposition, "or stay out and starve." Most of us came in. Those that </p><p>didn't, starved. Oh, it paid us . . . at first. Milk was raised a cent a </p><p>quart. One-quarter of this cent came to us. Three-quarters of it went to</p><p>the Trust. Then milk was raised another cent, only we didn't get any </p><p>of that cent. Our complaints were useless. The Trust was in control. We </p><p>discovered that we were pawns. Finally, the additional quarter of a cent </p><p>was denied us. Then the Trust began to squeeze us out. What could we do? </p><p>We were squeezed out. There were no dairymen, only a Milk Trust." </p><p>"But with milk two cents higher, I should think you could have </p><p>competed," Ernest suggested slyly. </p><p>"So we thought. We tried it." Mr. Calvin paused a moment. "It broke us. </p><p>The Trust could put milk upon the market more cheaply than we. It could </p><p>sell still at a slight profit when we were selling at actual loss. </p><p>I dropped fifty thousand dollars in that venture. Most of us went </p><p>bankrupt.* The dairymen were wiped out of existence." </p><p> * Bankruptcy--a peculiar institution that enabled an</p><p> individual, who had failed in competitive industry, to</p><p> forego paying his debts. The effect was to ameliorate the</p><p> too savage conditions of the fang-and-claw social struggle.</p><p>"So the Trust took your profits away from you," Ernest said, "and you've </p><p>gone into politics in order to legislate the Trust out of existence and </p><p>get the profits back?" </p><p>Mr. Calvin's face lighted up. "That is precisely what I say in my </p><p>speeches to the farmers. That's our whole idea in a nutshell." </p><p>"And yet the Trust produces milk more cheaply than could the independent </p><p>dairymen?" Ernest queried. </p><p>"Why shouldn't it, with the splendid organization and new machinery its </p><p>large capital makes possible?" </p><p>"There is no discussion," Ernest answered. "It certainly should, and, </p><p>furthermore, it does." </p><p>Mr. Calvin here launched out into a political speech in exposition of </p><p>his views. He was warmly followed by a number of the others, and the cry </p><p>of all was to destroy the trusts. </p><p>"Poor simple folk," Ernest said to me in an undertone. "They see clearly </p><p>as far as they see, but they see only to the ends of their noses." </p><p>A little later he got the floor again, and in his characteristic way </p><p>controlled it for the rest of the evening. </p><p>"I have listened carefully to all of you," he began, "and I see plainly </p><p>that you play the business game in the orthodox fashion. Life sums </p><p>itself up to you in profits. You have a firm and abiding belief that </p><p>you were created for the sole purpose of making profits. Only there is a </p><p>hitch. In the midst of your own profit-making along comes the trust </p><p>and takes your profits away from you. This is a dilemma that interferes </p><p>somehow with the aim of creation, and the only way out, as it seems to </p><p>you, is to destroy that which takes from you your profits. </p><p>"I have listened carefully, and there is only one name that will </p><p>epitomize you. I shall call you that name. You are machine-breakers. Do </p><p>you know what a machine-breaker is? Let me tell you. In the eighteenth </p><p>century, in England, men and women wove cloth on hand-looms in their own</p><p>cottages. It was a slow, clumsy, and costly way of weaving cloth, </p><p>this cottage system of manufacture. Along came the steam-engine and </p><p>labor-saving machinery. A thousand looms assembled in a large factory, </p><p>and driven by a central engine wove cloth vastly more cheaply than </p><p>could the cottage weavers on their hand-looms. Here in the factory was </p><p>combination, and before it competition faded away. The men and women who </p><p>had worked the hand-looms for themselves now went into the factories </p><p>and worked the machine-looms, not for themselves, but for the capitalist </p><p>owners. Furthermore, little children went to work on the machine-looms, </p><p>at lower wages, and displaced the men. This made hard times for the men. </p><p>Their standard of living fell. They starved. And they said it was </p><p>all the fault of the machines. Therefore, they proceeded to break the </p><p>machines. They did not succeed, and they were very stupid. </p><p>"Yet you have not learned their lesson. Here are you, a century and a </p><p>half later, trying to break machines. By your own confession the trust </p><p>machines do the work more efficiently and more cheaply than you can. </p><p>That is why you cannot compete with them. And yet you would break those </p><p>machines. You are even more stupid than the stupid workmen of England. </p><p>And while you maunder about restoring competition, the trusts go on </p><p>destroying you. </p><p>"One and all you tell the same story,--the passing away of competition </p><p>and the coming on of combination. You, Mr. Owen, destroyed competition </p><p>here in Berkeley when your branch store drove the three small groceries </p><p>out of business. Your combination was more effective. Yet you feel the </p><p>pressure of other combinations on you, the trust combinations, and you </p><p>cry out. It is because you are not a trust. If you were a grocery trust </p><p>for the whole United States, you would be singing another song. And the </p><p>song would be, 'Blessed are the trusts.' And yet again, not only is your </p><p>small combination not a trust, but you are aware yourself of its lack </p><p>of strength. You are beginning to divine your own end. You feel </p><p>yourself and your branch stores a pawn in the game. You see the powerful </p><p>interests rising and growing more powerful day by day; you feel their </p><p>mailed hands descending upon your profits and taking a pinch here and </p><p>a pinch there--the railroad trust, the oil trust, the steel trust, the </p><p>coal trust; and you know that in the end they will destroy you, take </p><p>away from you the last per cent of your little profits. </p><p>"You, sir, are a poor gamester. When you squeezed out the three small </p><p>groceries here in Berkeley by virtue of your superior combination, you </p><p>swelled out your chest, talked about efficiency and enterprise, and sent </p><p>your wife to Europe on the profits you had gained by eating up the three </p><p>small groceries. It is dog eat dog, and you ate them up. But, on the </p><p>other hand, you are being eaten up in turn by the bigger dogs, wherefore </p><p>you squeal. And what I say to you is true of all of you at this table. </p><p>You are all squealing. You are all playing the losing game, and you are </p><p>all squealing about it. </p><p>"But when you squeal you don't state the situation flatly, as I have </p><p>stated it. You don't say that you like to squeeze profits out of others, </p><p>and that you are making all the row because others are squeezing your </p><p>profits out of you. No, you are too cunning for that. You say something </p><p>else. You make small-capitalist political speeches such as Mr. Calvin </p><p>made. What did he say? Here are a few of his phrases I caught: 'Our </p><p>original principles are all right,' 'What this country requires is a </p><p>return to fundamental American methods--free opportunity for all,' 'The </p><p>spirit of liberty in which this nation was born,' 'Let us return to the </p><p>principles of our forefathers.'</p><p>"When he says 'free opportunity for all,' he means free opportunity to </p><p>squeeze profits, which freedom of opportunity is now denied him by the </p><p>great trusts. And the absurd thing about it is that you have repeated </p><p>these phrases so often that you believe them. You want opportunity </p><p>to plunder your fellow-men in your own small way, but you hypnotize </p><p>yourselves into thinking you want freedom. You are piggish and </p><p>acquisitive, but the magic of your phrases leads you to believe that you </p><p>are patriotic. Your desire for profits, which is sheer selfishness, you </p><p>metamorphose into altruistic solicitude for suffering humanity. Come </p><p>on now, right here amongst ourselves, and be honest for once. Look the </p><p>matter in the face and state it in direct terms." </p><p>There were flushed and angry faces at the table, and withal a measure </p><p>of awe. They were a little frightened at this smooth-faced young fellow, </p><p>and the swing and smash of his words, and his dreadful trait of calling </p><p>a spade a spade. Mr. Calvin promptly replied. </p><p>"And why not?" he demanded. "Why can we not return to ways of our </p><p>fathers when this republic was founded? You have spoken much truth, Mr. </p><p>Everhard, unpalatable though it has been. But here amongst ourselves let </p><p>us speak out. Let us throw off all disguise and accept the truth as Mr. </p><p>Everhard has flatly stated it. It is true that we smaller capitalists </p><p>are after profits, and that the trusts are taking our profits away from </p><p>us. It is true that we want to destroy the trusts in order that our </p><p>profits may remain to us. And why can we not do it? Why not? I say, why </p><p>not?" </p><p>"Ah, now we come to the gist of the matter," Ernest said with a pleased </p><p>expression. "I'll try to tell you why not, though the telling will be </p><p>rather hard. You see, you fellows have studied business, in a small way, </p><p>but you have not studied social evolution at all. You are in the </p><p>midst of a transition stage now in economic evolution, but you do not </p><p>understand it, and that's what causes all the confusion. Why cannot you </p><p>return? Because you can't. You can no more make water run up hill than </p><p>can you cause the tide of economic evolution to flow back in its channel </p><p>along the way it came. Joshua made the sun stand still upon Gibeon, but </p><p>you would outdo Joshua. You would make the sun go backward in the sky. </p><p>You would have time retrace its steps from noon to morning. </p><p>"In the face of labor-saving machinery, of organized production, of the </p><p>increased efficiency of combination, you would set the economic sun </p><p>back a whole generation or so to the time when there were no great </p><p>capitalists, no great machinery, no railroads--a time when a host of </p><p>little capitalists warred with each other in economic anarchy, and when </p><p>production was primitive, wasteful, unorganized, and costly. Believe me, </p><p>Joshua's task was easier, and he had Jehovah to help him. But God has </p><p>forsaken you small capitalists. The sun of the small capitalists is </p><p>setting. It will never rise again. Nor is it in your power even to make </p><p>it stand still. You are perishing, and you are doomed to perish utterly </p><p>from the face of society. </p><p>"This is the fiat of evolution. It is the word of God. Combination is </p><p>stronger than competition. Primitive man was a puny creature hiding in </p><p>the crevices of the rocks. He combined and made war upon his carnivorous </p><p>enemies. They were competitive beasts. Primitive man was a combinative </p><p>beast, and because of it he rose to primacy over all the animals. And </p><p>man has been achieving greater and greater combinations ever since. It </p><p>is combination versus competition, a thousand centuries long struggle,</p><p>in which competition has always been worsted. Whoso enlists on the side </p><p>of competition perishes." </p><p>"But the trusts themselves arose out of competition," Mr. Calvin </p><p>interrupted. </p><p>"Very true," Ernest answered. "And the trusts themselves destroyed </p><p>competition. That, by your own word, is why you are no longer in the </p><p>dairy business." </p><p>The first laughter of the evening went around the table, and even Mr. </p><p>Calvin joined in the laugh against himself. </p><p>"And now, while we are on the trusts," Ernest went on, "let us settle </p><p>a few things. I shall make certain statements, and if you disagree </p><p>with them, speak up. Silence will mean agreement. Is it not true that </p><p>a machine-loom will weave more cloth and weave more cheaply than a </p><p>hand-loom?" He paused, but nobody spoke up. "Is it not then highly </p><p>irrational to break the machine-loom and go back to the clumsy and more </p><p>costly hand-loom method of weaving?" Heads nodded in acquiescence. "Is </p><p>it not true that that known as a trust produces more efficiently and </p><p>cheaply than can a thousand competing small concerns?" Still no one </p><p>objected. "Then is it not irrational to destroy that cheap and efficient </p><p>combination?" </p><p>No one answered for a long time. Then Mr. Kowalt spoke. </p><p>"What are we to do, then?" he demanded. "To destroy the trusts is the </p><p>only way we can see to escape their domination." </p><p>Ernest was all fire and aliveness on the instant. </p><p>"I'll show you another way!" he cried. "Let us not destroy those </p><p>wonderful machines that produce efficiently and cheaply. Let us control </p><p>them. Let us profit by their efficiency and cheapness. Let us run them </p><p>for ourselves. Let us oust the present owners of the wonderful machines, </p><p>and let us own the wonderful machines ourselves. That, gentlemen, is </p><p>socialism, a greater combination than the trusts, a greater economic and </p><p>social combination than any that has as yet appeared on the planet. It </p><p>is in line with evolution. We meet combination with greater combination. </p><p>It is the winning side. Come on over with us socialists and play on the </p><p>winning side." </p><p>Here arose dissent. There was a shaking of heads, and mutterings arose. </p><p>"All right, then, you prefer to be anachronisms," Ernest laughed. "You </p><p>prefer to play atavistic roles. You are doomed to perish as all atavisms </p><p>perish. Have you ever asked what will happen to you when greater </p><p>combinations than even the present trusts arise? Have you ever </p><p>considered where you will stand when the great trusts themselves combine </p><p>into the combination of combinations--into the social, economic, and </p><p>political trust?" </p><p>He turned abruptly and irrelevantly upon Mr. Calvin. </p><p>"Tell me," Ernest said, "if this is not true. You are compelled to form </p><p>a new political party because the old parties are in the hands of the </p><p>trusts. The chief obstacle to your Grange propaganda is the trusts. </p><p>Behind every obstacle you encounter, every blow that smites you, every</p><p>defeat that you receive, is the hand of the trusts. Is this not so? Tell </p><p>me." </p><p>Mr. Calvin sat in uncomfortable silence. </p><p>"Go ahead," Ernest encouraged. </p><p>"It is true," Mr. Calvin confessed. "We captured the state legislature </p><p>of Oregon and put through splendid protective legislation, and it was </p><p>vetoed by the governor, who was a creature of the trusts. We elected a </p><p>governor of Colorado, and the legislature refused to permit him to take </p><p>office. Twice we have passed a national income tax, and each time the </p><p>supreme court smashed it as unconstitutional. The courts are in the </p><p>hands of the trusts. We, the people, do not pay our judges sufficiently. </p><p>But there will come a time--" </p><p>"When the combination of the trusts will control all legislation, when </p><p>the combination of the trusts will itself be the government," Ernest </p><p>interrupted. </p><p>"Never! never!" were the cries that arose. Everybody was excited and </p><p>belligerent. </p><p>"Tell me," Ernest demanded, "what will you do when such a time comes?" </p><p>"We will rise in our strength!" Mr. Asmunsen cried, and many voices </p><p>backed his decision. </p><p>"That will be civil war," Ernest warned them. </p><p>"So be it, civil war," was Mr. Asmunsen's answer, with the cries of all </p><p>the men at the table behind him. "We have not forgotten the deeds of our </p><p>forefathers. For our liberties we are ready to fight and die." </p><p>Ernest smiled. </p><p>"Do not forget," he said, "that we had tacitly agreed that liberty in </p><p>your case, gentlemen, means liberty to squeeze profits out of others." </p><p>The table was angry, now, fighting angry; but Ernest controlled the </p><p>tumult and made himself heard. </p><p>"One more question. When you rise in your strength, remember, the reason </p><p>for your rising will be that the government is in the hands of the </p><p>trusts. Therefore, against your strength the government will turn the </p><p>regular army, the navy, the militia, the police--in short, the whole </p><p>organized war machinery of the United States. Where will your strength </p><p>be then?" </p><p>Dismay sat on their faces, and before they could recover, Ernest struck </p><p>again. </p><p>"Do you remember, not so long ago, when our regular army was only fifty </p><p>thousand? Year by year it has been increased until to-day it is three </p><p>hundred thousand." </p><p>Again he struck. </p><p>"Nor is that all. While you diligently pursued that favorite phantom</p><p>of yours, called profits, and moralized about that favorite fetich of </p><p>yours, called competition, even greater and more direful things have </p><p>been accomplished by combination. There is the militia." </p><p>"It is our strength!" cried Mr. Kowalt. "With it we would repel the </p><p>invasion of the regular army." </p><p>"You would go into the militia yourself," was Ernest's retort, "and </p><p>be sent to Maine, or Florida, or the Philippines, or anywhere else, </p><p>to drown in blood your own comrades civil-warring for their liberties. </p><p>While from Kansas, or Wisconsin, or any other state, your own comrades </p><p>would go into the militia and come here to California to drown in blood </p><p>your own civil-warring." </p><p>Now they were really shocked, and they sat wordless, until Mr. Owen </p><p>murmured: </p><p>"We would not go into the militia. That would settle it. We would not be </p><p>so foolish." </p><p>Ernest laughed outright. </p><p>"You do not understand the combination that has been effected. You could </p><p>not help yourself. You would be drafted into the militia." </p><p>"There is such a thing as civil law," Mr. Owen insisted. </p><p>"Not when the government suspends civil law. In that day when you </p><p>speak of rising in your strength, your strength would be turned against </p><p>yourself. Into the militia you would go, willy-nilly. Habeas corpus, I </p><p>heard some one mutter just now. Instead of habeas corpus you would get </p><p>post mortems. If you refused to go into the militia, or to obey after </p><p>you were in, you would be tried by drumhead court martial and shot down </p><p>like dogs. It is the law." </p><p>"It is not the law!" Mr. Calvin asserted positively. "There is no such </p><p>law. Young man, you have dreamed all this. Why, you spoke of sending the </p><p>militia to the Philippines. That is unconstitutional. The Constitution </p><p>especially states that the militia cannot be sent out of the country." </p><p>"What's the Constitution got to do with it?" Ernest demanded. "The </p><p>courts interpret the Constitution, and the courts, as Mr. Asmunsen </p><p>agreed, are the creatures of the trusts. Besides, it is as I have said, </p><p>the law. It has been the law for years, for nine years, gentlemen." </p><p>"That we can be drafted into the militia?" Mr. Calvin asked </p><p>incredulously. "That they can shoot us by drumhead court martial if we </p><p>refuse?" </p><p>"Yes," Ernest answered, "precisely that." </p><p>"How is it that we have never heard of this law?" my father asked, and I </p><p>could see that it was likewise new to him. </p><p>"For two reasons," Ernest said. "First, there has been no need to </p><p>enforce it. If there had, you'd have heard of it soon enough. And </p><p>secondly, the law was rushed through Congress and the Senate secretly, </p><p>with practically no discussion. Of course, the newspapers made no </p><p>mention of it. But we socialists knew about it. We published it in our</p><p>papers. But you never read our papers." </p><p>"I still insist you are dreaming," Mr. Calvin said stubbornly. "The </p><p>country would never have permitted it." </p><p>"But the country did permit it," Ernest replied. "And as for my </p><p>dreaming--" he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a small </p><p>pamphlet--"tell me if this looks like dream-stuff." </p><p>He opened it and began to read: </p><p>"'Section One, be it enacted, and so forth and so forth, that the </p><p>militia shall consist of every able-bodied male citizen of the </p><p>respective states, territories, and District of Columbia, who is more </p><p>than eighteen and less than forty-five years of age.' </p><p>"'Section Seven, that any officer or enlisted man'--remember Section </p><p>One, gentlemen, you are all enlisted men--'that any enlisted man of the </p><p>militia who shall refuse or neglect to present himself to such mustering </p><p>officer upon being called forth as herein prescribed, shall be subject </p><p>to trial by court martial, and shall be punished as such court martial </p><p>shall direct.' </p><p>"'Section Eight, that courts martial, for the trial of officers or men </p><p>of the militia, shall be composed of militia officers only.' </p><p>"'Section Nine, that the militia, when called into the actual service </p><p>of the United States, shall be subject to the same rules and articles of </p><p>war as the regular troops of the United States.' </p><p>"There you are gentlemen, American citizens, and fellow-militiamen. Nine </p><p>years ago we socialists thought that law was aimed against labor. But it </p><p>would seem that it was aimed against you, too. Congressman Wiley, in the </p><p>brief discussion that was permitted, said that the bill 'provided for </p><p>a reserve force to take the mob by the throat'--you're the mob, </p><p>gentlemen--'and protect at all hazards life, liberty, and property.' And </p><p>in the time to come, when you rise in your strength, remember that you </p><p>will be rising against the property of the trusts, and the liberty of </p><p>the trusts, according to the law, to squeeze you. Your teeth are pulled, </p><p>gentlemen. Your claws are trimmed. In the day you rise in your strength, </p><p>toothless and clawless, you will be as harmless as any army of clams." </p><p>"I don't believe it!" Kowalt cried. "There is no such law. It is a </p><p>canard got up by you socialists." </p><p>"This bill was introduced in the House of Representatives on July 30, </p><p>1902," was the reply. "It was introduced by Representative Dick of </p><p>Ohio. It was rushed through. It was passed unanimously by the Senate </p><p>on January 14, 1903. And just seven days afterward was approved by the </p><p>President of the United States."* </p><p> * Everhard was right in the essential particulars, though</p><p> his date of the introduction of the bill is in error. The</p><p> bill was introduced on June 30, and not on July 30. The</p><p> Congressional Record is here in Ardis, and a reference to it</p><p> shows mention of the bill on the following dates: June 30,</p><p> December 9, 15, 16, and 17, 1902, and January 7 and 14,</p><p> 1903. The ignorance evidenced by the business men at the</p><p> dinner was nothing unusual. Very few people knew of the</p><p> existence of this law. E. Untermann, a revolutionist, in</p><p> July, 1903, published a pamphlet at Girard, Kansas, on the</p><p> "Militia Bill." This pamphlet had a small circulation among</p><p> workingmen; but already had the segregation of classes</p><p> proceeded so far, that the members of the middle class never</p><p> heard of the pamphlet at all, and so remained in ignorance</p><p> of the law.</p><p>CHAPTER IX </p><p>THE MATHEMATICS OF A DREAM </p><p>In the midst of the consternation his revelation had produced, Ernest </p><p>began again to speak. </p><p>"You have said, a dozen of you to-night, that socialism is impossible. </p><p>You have asserted the impossible, now let me demonstrate the inevitable. </p><p>Not only is it inevitable that you small capitalists shall pass away, </p><p>but it is inevitable that the large capitalists, and the trusts also, </p><p>shall pass away. Remember, the tide of evolution never flows backward. </p><p>It flows on and on, and it flows from competition to combination, and </p><p>from little combination to large combination, and from large combination </p><p>to colossal combination, and it flows on to socialism, which is the most </p><p>colossal combination of all. </p><p>"You tell me that I dream. Very good. I'll give you the mathematics </p><p>of my dream; and here, in advance, I challenge you to show that </p><p>my mathematics are wrong. I shall develop the inevitability of </p><p>the breakdown of the capitalist system, and I shall demonstrate </p><p>mathematically why it must break down. Here goes, and bear with me if at </p><p>first I seem irrelevant. </p><p>"Let us, first of all, investigate a particular industrial process, and </p><p>whenever I state something with which you disagree, please interrupt </p><p>me. Here is a shoe factory. This factory takes leather and makes it into </p><p>shoes. Here is one hundred dollars' worth of leather. It goes through </p><p>the factory and comes out in the form of shoes, worth, let us say, two </p><p>hundred dollars. What has happened? One hundred dollars has been added </p><p>to the value of the leather. How was it added? Let us see. </p><p>"Capital and labor added this value of one hundred dollars. Capital </p><p>furnished the factory, the machines, and paid all the expenses. Labor </p><p>furnished labor. By the joint effort of capital and labor one hundred </p><p>dollars of value was added. Are you all agreed so far?" </p><p>Heads nodded around the table in affirmation. </p><p>"Labor and capital having produced this one hundred dollars, now proceed </p><p>to divide it. The statistics of this division are fractional; so let </p><p>us, for the sake of convenience, make them roughly approximate. Capital </p><p>takes fifty dollars as its share, and labor gets in wages fifty dollars </p><p>as its share. We will not enter into the squabbling over the division.* </p><p>No matter how much squabbling takes place, in one percentage or another </p><p>the division is arranged. And take notice here, that what is true of </p><p>this particular industrial process is true of all industrial processes. </p><p>Am I right?"</p><p> * Everhard here clearly develops the cause of all the labor</p><p> troubles of that time. In the division of the joint-product,</p><p> capital wanted all it could get, and labor wanted</p><p> all it could get. This quarrel over the division was</p><p> irreconcilable. So long as the system of capitalistic</p><p> production existed, labor and capital continued to quarrel</p><p> over the division of the joint-product. It is a ludicrous</p><p> spectacle to us, but we must not forget that we have seven</p><p> centuries' advantage over those that lived in that time.</p><p>Again the whole table agreed with Ernest. </p><p>"Now, suppose labor, having received its fifty dollars, wanted to buy </p><p>back shoes. It could only buy back fifty dollars' worth. That's clear, </p><p>isn't it? </p><p>"And now we shift from this particular process to the sum total of all </p><p>industrial processes in the United States, which includes the leather </p><p>itself, raw material, transportation, selling, everything. We will say, </p><p>for the sake of round figures, that the total production of wealth in </p><p>the United States is one year is four billion dollars. Then labor has </p><p>received in wages, during the same period, two billion dollars. Four </p><p>billion dollars has been produced. How much of this can labor buy </p><p>back? Two billions. There is no discussion of this, I am sure. For that </p><p>matter, my percentages are mild. Because of a thousand capitalistic </p><p>devices, labor cannot buy back even half of the total product. </p><p>"But to return. We will say labor buys back two billions. Then it stands </p><p>to reason that labor can consume only two billions. There are still two </p><p>billions to be accounted for, which labor cannot buy back and consume." </p><p>"Labor does not consume its two billions, even," Mr. Kowalt spoke up. </p><p>"If it did, it would not have any deposits in the savings banks." </p><p>"Labor's deposits in the savings banks are only a sort of reserve fund </p><p>that is consumed as fast as it accumulates. These deposits are saved </p><p>for old age, for sickness and accident, and for funeral expenses. The </p><p>savings bank deposit is simply a piece of the loaf put back on the shelf </p><p>to be eaten next day. No, labor consumes all of the total product that </p><p>its wages will buy back. </p><p>"Two billions are left to capital. After it has paid its expenses, does </p><p>it consume the remainder? Does capital consume all of its two billions?" </p><p>Ernest stopped and put the question point blank to a number of the men. </p><p>They shook their heads. </p><p>"I don't know," one of them frankly said. </p><p>"Of course you do," Ernest went on. "Stop and think a moment. If capital </p><p>consumed its share, the sum total of capital could not increase. It </p><p>would remain constant. If you will look at the economic history of </p><p>the United States, you will see that the sum total of capital has </p><p>continually increased. Therefore capital does not consume its share. Do </p><p>you remember when England owned so much of our railroad bonds? As the </p><p>years went by, we bought back those bonds. What does that mean? That </p><p>part of capital's unconsumed share bought back the bonds. What is the </p><p>meaning of the fact that to-day the capitalists of the United States own</p><p>hundreds and hundreds of millions of dollars of Mexican bonds, Russian </p><p>bonds, Italian bonds, Grecian bonds? The meaning is that those hundreds </p><p>and hundreds of millions were part of capital's share which capital </p><p>did not consume. Furthermore, from the very beginning of the capitalist </p><p>system, capital has never consumed all of its share. </p><p>"And now we come to the point. Four billion dollars of wealth is </p><p>produced in one year in the United States. Labor buys back and consumes </p><p>two billions. Capital does not consume the remaining two billions. There </p><p>is a large balance left over unconsumed. What is done with this balance? </p><p>What can be done with it? Labor cannot consume any of it, for labor </p><p>has already spent all its wages. Capital will not consume this balance, </p><p>because, already, according to its nature, it has consumed all it can. </p><p>And still remains the balance. What can be done with it? What is done </p><p>with it?" </p><p>"It is sold abroad," Mr. Kowalt volunteered. </p><p>"The very thing," Ernest agreed. "Because of this balance arises our </p><p>need for a foreign market. This is sold abroad. It has to be sold </p><p>abroad. There is no other way of getting rid of it. And that unconsumed </p><p>surplus, sold abroad, becomes what we call our favorable balance of </p><p>trade. Are we all agreed so far?" </p><p>"Surely it is a waste of time to elaborate these A B C's of commerce," </p><p>Mr. Calvin said tartly. "We all understand them." </p><p>"And it is by these A B C's I have so carefully elaborated that I shall </p><p>confound you," Ernest retorted. "There's the beauty of it. And I'm going </p><p>to confound you with them right now. Here goes. </p><p>"The United States is a capitalist country that has developed its </p><p>resources. According to its capitalist system of industry, it has an </p><p>unconsumed surplus that must be got rid of, and that must be got rid </p><p>of abroad.* What is true of the United States is true of every other </p><p>capitalist country with developed resources. Every one of such countries </p><p>has an unconsumed surplus. Don't forget that they have already traded </p><p>with one another, and that these surpluses yet remain. Labor in all </p><p>these countries has spent it wages, and cannot buy any of the surpluses. </p><p>Capital in all these countries has already consumed all it is able </p><p>according to its nature. And still remain the surpluses. They cannot </p><p>dispose of these surpluses to one another. How are they going to get rid </p><p>of them?" </p><p> * Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States a few</p><p> years prior to this time, made the following public</p><p> declaration: "A more liberal and extensive reciprocity in</p><p> the purchase and sale of commodities is necessary, so that</p><p> the overproduction of the United States can be</p><p> satisfactorily disposed of to foreign countries." Of</p><p> course, this overproduction he mentions was the profits of</p><p> the capitalist system over and beyond the consuming power of</p><p> the capitalists. It was at this time that Senator Mark</p><p> Hanna said: "The production of wealth in the United States</p><p> is one-third larger annually than its consumption." Also a</p><p> fellow-Senator, Chauncey Depew, said: "The American people</p><p> produce annually two billions more wealth than they</p><p> consume."</p><p>"Sell them to countries with undeveloped resources," Mr. Kowalt </p><p>suggested. </p><p>"The very thing. You see, my argument is so clear and simple that </p><p>in your own minds you carry it on for me. And now for the next step. </p><p>Suppose the United States disposes of its surplus to a country with </p><p>undeveloped resources like, say, Brazil. Remember this surplus is over </p><p>and above trade, which articles of trade have been consumed. What, then, </p><p>does the United States get in return from Brazil?" </p><p>"Gold," said Mr. Kowalt. </p><p>"But there is only so much gold, and not much of it, in the world," </p><p>Ernest objected. </p><p>"Gold in the form of securities and bonds and so forth," Mr. Kowalt </p><p>amended. </p><p>"Now you've struck it," Ernest said. "From Brazil the United States, in </p><p>return for her surplus, gets bonds and securities. And what does that </p><p>mean? It means that the United States is coming to own railroads in </p><p>Brazil, factories, mines, and lands in Brazil. And what is the meaning </p><p>of that in turn?" </p><p>Mr. Kowalt pondered and shook his head. </p><p>"I'll tell you," Ernest continued. "It means that the resources of </p><p>Brazil are being developed. And now, the next point. When Brazil, under </p><p>the capitalist system, has developed her resources, she will herself </p><p>have an unconsumed surplus. Can she get rid of this surplus to the </p><p>United States? No, because the United States has herself a surplus. Can </p><p>the United States do what she previously did--get rid of her surplus to </p><p>Brazil? No, for Brazil now has a surplus, too. </p><p>"What happens? The United States and Brazil must both seek out other </p><p>countries with undeveloped resources, in order to unload the surpluses </p><p>on them. But by the very process of unloading the surpluses, the </p><p>resources of those countries are in turn developed. Soon they have </p><p>surpluses, and are seeking other countries on which to unload. Now, </p><p>gentlemen, follow me. The planet is only so large. There are only so </p><p>many countries in the world. What will happen when every country in </p><p>the world, down to the smallest and last, with a surplus in its hands, </p><p>stands confronting every other country with surpluses in their hands?" </p><p>He paused and regarded his listeners. The bepuzzlement in their faces </p><p>was delicious. Also, there was awe in their faces. Out of abstractions </p><p>Ernest had conjured a vision and made them see it. They were seeing it </p><p>then, as they sat there, and they were frightened by it. </p><p>"We started with A B C, Mr. Calvin," Ernest said slyly. "I have now </p><p>given you the rest of the alphabet. It is very simple. That is the </p><p>beauty of it. You surely have the answer forthcoming. What, then, when </p><p>every country in the world has an unconsumed surplus? Where will your </p><p>capitalist system be then?" </p><p>But Mr. Calvin shook a troubled head. He was obviously questing back </p><p>through Ernest's reasoning in search of an error. </p><p>"Let me briefly go over the ground with you again," Ernest said. "We</p><p>began with a particular industrial process, the shoe factory. We found </p><p>that the division of the joint product that took place there was similar </p><p>to the division that took place in the sum total of all industrial </p><p>processes. We found that labor could buy back with its wages only </p><p>so much of the product, and that capital did not consume all of the </p><p>remainder of the product. We found that when labor had consumed to the </p><p>full extent of its wages, and when capital had consumed all it wanted, </p><p>there was still left an unconsumed surplus. We agreed that this surplus </p><p>could only be disposed of abroad. We agreed, also, that the effect </p><p>of unloading this surplus on another country would be to develop the </p><p>resources of that country, and that in a short time that country </p><p>would have an unconsumed surplus. We extended this process to all the </p><p>countries on the planet, till every country was producing every year, </p><p>and every day, an unconsumed surplus, which it could dispose of to no </p><p>other country. And now I ask you again, what are we going to do with </p><p>those surpluses?" </p><p>Still no one answered. </p><p>"Mr. Calvin?" Ernest queried. </p><p>"It beats me," Mr. Calvin confessed. </p><p>"I never dreamed of such a thing," Mr. Asmunsen said. "And yet it does </p><p>seem clear as print." </p><p>It was the first time I had ever heard Karl Marx's* doctrine of surplus </p><p>value elaborated, and Ernest had done it so simply that I, too, sat </p><p>puzzled and dumbfounded. </p><p> * Karl Marx--the great intellectual hero of Socialism. A</p><p> German Jew of the nineteenth century. A contemporary of</p><p> John Stuart Mill. It seems incredible to us that whole</p><p> generations should have elapsed after the enunciation of</p><p> Marx's economic discoveries, in which time he was sneered at</p><p> by the world's accepted thinkers and scholars. Because of</p><p> his discoveries he was banished from his native country, and</p><p> he died an exile in England.</p><p>"I'll tell you a way to get rid of the surplus," Ernest said. "Throw it </p><p>into the sea. Throw every year hundreds of millions of dollars' worth </p><p>of shoes and wheat and clothing and all the commodities of commerce into </p><p>the sea. Won't that fix it?" </p><p>"It will certainly fix it," Mr. Calvin answered. "But it is absurd for </p><p>you to talk that way." </p><p>Ernest was upon him like a flash. </p><p>"Is it a bit more absurd than what you advocate, you machine-breaker, </p><p>returning to the antediluvian ways of your forefathers? What do you </p><p>propose in order to get rid of the surplus? You would escape the problem </p><p>of the surplus by not producing any surplus. And how do you propose </p><p>to avoid producing a surplus? By returning to a primitive method of </p><p>production, so confused and disorderly and irrational, so wasteful and </p><p>costly, that it will be impossible to produce a surplus." </p><p>Mr. Calvin swallowed. The point had been driven home. He swallowed again </p><p>and cleared his throat.</p><p>"You are right," he said. "I stand convicted. It is absurd. But we've </p><p>got to do something. It is a case of life and death for us of the middle </p><p>class. We refuse to perish. We elect to be absurd and to return to the </p><p>truly crude and wasteful methods of our forefathers. We will put back </p><p>industry to its pre-trust stage. We will break the machines. And what </p><p>are you going to do about it?" </p><p>"But you can't break the machines," Ernest replied. "You cannot make the </p><p>tide of evolution flow backward. Opposed to you are two great forces, </p><p>each of which is more powerful than you of the middle class. The large </p><p>capitalists, the trusts, in short, will not let you turn back. They </p><p>don't want the machines destroyed. And greater than the trusts, and </p><p>more powerful, is labor. It will not let you destroy the machines. The </p><p>ownership of the world, along with the machines, lies between the </p><p>trusts and labor. That is the battle alignment. Neither side wants </p><p>the destruction of the machines. But each side wants to possess the </p><p>machines. In this battle the middle class has no place. The middle class </p><p>is a pygmy between two giants. Don't you see, you poor perishing middle </p><p>class, you are caught between the upper and nether millstones, and even </p><p>now has the grinding begun. </p><p>"I have demonstrated to you mathematically the inevitable breakdown of </p><p>the capitalist system. When every country stands with an unconsumed and </p><p>unsalable surplus on its hands, the capitalist system will break down </p><p>under the terrific structure of profits that it itself has reared. And </p><p>in that day there won't be any destruction of the machines. The struggle </p><p>then will be for the ownership of the machines. If labor wins, your way </p><p>will be easy. The United States, and the whole world for that matter, </p><p>will enter upon a new and tremendous era. Instead of being crushed by </p><p>the machines, life will be made fairer, and happier, and nobler by </p><p>them. You of the destroyed middle class, along with labor--there will </p><p>be nothing but labor then; so you, and all the rest of labor, will </p><p>participate in the equitable distribution of the products of the </p><p>wonderful machines. And we, all of us, will make new and more wonderful </p><p>machines. And there won't be any unconsumed surplus, because there won't </p><p>be any profits." </p><p>"But suppose the trusts win in this battle over the ownership of the </p><p>machines and the world?" Mr. Kowalt asked. </p><p>"Then," Ernest answered, "you, and labor, and all of us, will be crushed </p><p>under the iron heel of a despotism as relentless and terrible as any </p><p>despotism that has blackened the pages of the history of man. That will </p><p>be a good name for that despotism, the Iron Heel."* </p><p> * The earliest known use of that name to designate the</p><p> Oligarchy.</p><p>There was a long pause, and every man at the table meditated in ways </p><p>unwonted and profound. </p><p>"But this socialism of yours is a dream," Mr. Calvin said; and repeated, </p><p>"a dream." </p><p>"I'll show you something that isn't a dream, then," Ernest answered. </p><p>"And that something I shall call the Oligarchy. You call it the </p><p>Plutocracy. We both mean the same thing, the large capitalists or the </p><p>trusts. Let us see where the power lies today. And in order to do so,</p><p>let us apportion society into its class divisions. </p><p>"There are three big classes in society. First comes the Plutocracy, </p><p>which is composed of wealthy bankers, railway magnates, corporation </p><p>directors, and trust magnates. Second, is the middle class, your class, </p><p>gentlemen, which is composed of farmers, merchants, small manufacturers, </p><p>and professional men. And third and last comes my class, the </p><p>proletariat, which is composed of the wage-workers.* </p><p> * This division of society made by Everhard is in accordance</p><p> with that made by Lucien Sanial, one of the statistical</p><p> authorities of that time. His calculation of the membership</p><p> of these divisions by occupation, from the United States</p><p> Census of 1900, is as follows: Plutocratic class, 250,251;</p><p> Middle class, 8,429,845; and Proletariat class, 20,393,137.</p><p>"You cannot but grant that the ownership of wealth constitutes essential </p><p>power in the United States to-day. How is this wealth owned by these </p><p>three classes? Here are the figures. The Plutocracy owns sixty-seven </p><p>billions of wealth. Of the total number of persons engaged in </p><p>occupations in the United States, only nine-tenths of one per cent are </p><p>from the Plutocracy, yet the Plutocracy owns seventy per cent of the </p><p>total wealth. The middle class owns twenty-four billions. Twenty-nine </p><p>per cent of those in occupations are from the middle class, and they own </p><p>twenty-five per cent of the total wealth. Remains the proletariat. It </p><p>owns four billions. Of all persons in occupations, seventy per cent </p><p>come from the proletariat; and the proletariat owns four per cent of the </p><p>total wealth. Where does the power lie, gentlemen?" </p><p>"From your own figures, we of the middle class are more powerful than </p><p>labor," Mr. Asmunsen remarked. </p><p>"Calling us weak does not make you stronger in the face of the strength </p><p>of the Plutocracy," Ernest retorted. "And furthermore, I'm not done with </p><p>you. There is a greater strength than wealth, and it is greater because </p><p>it cannot be taken away. Our strength, the strength of the proletariat, </p><p>is in our muscles, in our hands to cast ballots, in our fingers to pull </p><p>triggers. This strength we cannot be stripped of. It is the primitive </p><p>strength, it is the strength that is to life germane, it is the strength </p><p>that is stronger than wealth, and that wealth cannot take away. </p><p>"But your strength is detachable. It can be taken away from you. Even </p><p>now the Plutocracy is taking it away from you. In the end it will take </p><p>it all away from you. And then you will cease to be the middle class. </p><p>You will descend to us. You will become proletarians. And the beauty of </p><p>it is that you will then add to our strength. We will hail you brothers, </p><p>and we will fight shoulder to shoulder in the cause of humanity. </p><p>"You see, labor has nothing concrete of which to be despoiled. Its </p><p>share of the wealth of the country consists of clothes and household </p><p>furniture, with here and there, in very rare cases, an unencumbered </p><p>home. But you have the concrete wealth, twenty-four billions of it, and </p><p>the Plutocracy will take it away from you. Of course, there is the large </p><p>likelihood that the proletariat will take it away first. Don't you </p><p>see your position, gentlemen? The middle class is a wobbly little lamb </p><p>between a lion and a tiger. If one doesn't get you, the other will. And </p><p>if the Plutocracy gets you first, why it's only a matter of time when </p><p>the Proletariat gets the Plutocracy. </p><p>"Even your present wealth is not a true measure of your power. The </p><p>strength of your wealth at this moment is only an empty shell. That is </p><p>why you are crying out your feeble little battle-cry, 'Return to the </p><p>ways of our fathers.' You are aware of your impotency. You know that </p><p>your strength is an empty shell. And I'll show you the emptiness of it. </p><p>"What power have the farmers? Over fifty per cent are thralls by virtue </p><p>of the fact that they are merely tenants or are mortgaged. And all of </p><p>them are thralls by virtue of the fact that the trusts already own or </p><p>control (which is the same thing only better)--own and control all </p><p>the means of marketing the crops, such as cold storage, railroads, </p><p>elevators, and steamship lines. And, furthermore, the trusts control </p><p>the markets. In all this the farmers are without power. As regards their </p><p>political and governmental power, I'll take that up later, along with </p><p>the political and governmental power of the whole middle class. </p><p>"Day by day the trusts squeeze out the farmers as they squeezed out Mr. </p><p>Calvin and the rest of the dairymen. And day by day are the merchants </p><p>squeezed out in the same way. Do you remember how, in six months, the </p><p>Tobacco Trust squeezed out over four hundred cigar stores in New York </p><p>City alone? Where are the old-time owners of the coal fields? You know </p><p>today, without my telling you, that the Railroad Trust owns or controls </p><p>the entire anthracite and bituminous coal fields. Doesn't the Standard </p><p>Oil Trust* own a score of the ocean lines? And does it not also control </p><p>copper, to say nothing of running a smelter trust as a little side </p><p>enterprise? There are ten thousand cities in the United States to-night </p><p>lighted by the companies owned or controlled by Standard Oil, and in </p><p>as many cities all the electric transportation,--urban, suburban, and </p><p>interurban,--is in the hands of Standard Oil. The small capitalists who </p><p>were in these thousands of enterprises are gone. You know that. It's the </p><p>same way that you are going. </p><p> * Standard Oil and Rockefeller--see upcoming footnote:</p><p> "Rockefeller began as a member . . ."</p><p>"The small manufacturer is like the farmer; and small manufacturers </p><p>and farmers to-day are reduced, to all intents and purposes, to feudal </p><p>tenure. For that matter, the professional men and the artists are </p><p>at this present moment villeins in everything but name, while the </p><p>politicians are henchmen. Why do you, Mr. Calvin, work all your nights </p><p>and days to organize the farmers, along with the rest of the middle </p><p>class, into a new political party? Because the politicians of the old </p><p>parties will have nothing to do with your atavistic ideas; and with your </p><p>atavistic ideas, they will have nothing to do because they are what I </p><p>said they are, henchmen, retainers of the Plutocracy. </p><p>"I spoke of the professional men and the artists as villeins. What else </p><p>are they? One and all, the professors, the preachers, and the editors, </p><p>hold their jobs by serving the Plutocracy, and their service consists of </p><p>propagating only such ideas as are either harmless to or commendatory </p><p>of the Plutocracy. Whenever they propagate ideas that menace the </p><p>Plutocracy, they lose their jobs, in which case, if they have not </p><p>provided for the rainy day, they descend into the proletariat and either </p><p>perish or become working-class agitators. And don't forget that it is </p><p>the press, the pulpit, and the university that mould public opinion, set </p><p>the thought-pace of the nation. As for the artists, they merely pander </p><p>to the little less than ignoble tastes of the Plutocracy. </p><p>"But after all, wealth in itself is not the real power; it is the means</p><p>to power, and power is governmental. Who controls the government to-day? </p><p>The proletariat with its twenty millions engaged in occupations? Even </p><p>you laugh at the idea. Does the middle class, with its eight million </p><p>occupied members? No more than the proletariat. Who, then, controls </p><p>the government? The Plutocracy, with its paltry quarter of a million </p><p>of occupied members. But this quarter of a million does not control the </p><p>government, though it renders yeoman service. It is the brain of the </p><p>Plutocracy that controls the government, and this brain consists of </p><p>seven* small and powerful groups of men. And do not forget that these </p><p>groups are working to-day practically in unison. </p><p> * Even as late as 1907, it was considered that eleven groups</p><p> dominated the country, but this number was reduced by the</p><p> amalgamation of the five railroad groups into a supreme</p><p> combination of all the railroads. These five groups so</p><p> amalgamated, along with their financial and political</p><p> allies, were (1) James J. Hill with his control of the</p><p> Northwest; (2) the Pennsylvania railway group, Schiff</p><p> financial manager, with big banking firms of Philadelphia</p><p> and New York; (3) Harriman, with Frick for counsel and Odell</p><p> as political lieutenant, controlling the central</p><p> continental, Southwestern and Southern Pacific Coast lines</p><p> of transportation; (4) the Gould family railway interests;</p><p> and (5) Moore, Reid, and Leeds, known as the "Rock Island</p><p> crowd." These strong oligarchs arose out of the conflict of</p><p> competition and travelled the inevitable road toward</p><p> combination.</p><p>"Let me point out the power of but one of them, the railroad group. It </p><p>employs forty thousand lawyers to defeat the people in the courts. It </p><p>issues countless thousands of free passes to judges, bankers, editors, </p><p>ministers, university men, members of state legislatures, and of </p><p>Congress. It maintains luxurious lobbies* at every state capital, and </p><p>at the national capital; and in all the cities and towns of the land </p><p>it employs an immense army of pettifoggers and small politicians whose </p><p>business is to attend primaries, pack conventions, get on juries, bribe </p><p>judges, and in every way to work for its interests.** </p><p> * Lobby--a peculiar institution for bribing, bulldozing, and</p><p> corrupting the legislators who were supposed to represent</p><p> the people's interests.</p><p> ** A decade before this speech of Everhard's, the New York</p><p> Board of Trade issued a report from which the following is</p><p> quoted: "The railroads control absolutely the legislatures</p><p> of a majority of the states of the Union; they make and</p><p> unmake United States Senators, congressmen, and governors,</p><p> and are practically dictators of the governmental policy of</p><p> the United States."</p><p>"Gentlemen, I have merely sketched the power of one of the seven groups </p><p>that constitute the brain of the Plutocracy.* Your twenty-four billions </p><p>of wealth does not give you twenty-five cents' worth of governmental </p><p>power. It is an empty shell, and soon even the empty shell will be taken </p><p>away from you. The Plutocracy has all power in its hands to-day. It </p><p>to-day makes the laws, for it owns the Senate, Congress, the courts, and </p><p>the state legislatures. And not only that. Behind law must be force to </p><p>execute the law. To-day the Plutocracy makes the law, and to enforce the </p><p>law it has at its beck and call the, police, the army, the navy, and,</p><p>lastly, the militia, which is you, and me, and all of us." </p><p> * Rockefeller began as a member of the proletariat, and</p><p> through thrift and cunning succeeded in developing the first</p><p> perfect trust, namely that known as Standard Oil. We cannot</p><p> forbear giving the following remarkable page from the</p><p> history of the times, to show how the need for reinvestment</p><p> of the Standard Oil surplus crushed out small capitalists</p><p> and hastened the breakdown of the capitalist system. David</p><p> Graham Phillips was a radical writer of the period, and the</p><p> quotation, by him, is taken from a copy of the Saturday</p><p> Evening Post, dated October 4, 1902 A.D. This is the only</p><p> copy of this publication that has come down to us, and yet,</p><p> from its appearance and content, we cannot but conclude that</p><p> it was one of the popular periodicals with a large</p><p> circulation. The quotation here follows:</p><p> "About ten years ago Rockefeller's income was given as</p><p> thirty millions by an excellent authority. He had reached</p><p> the limit of profitable investment of profits in the oil</p><p> industry. Here, then, were these enormous sums in cash</p><p> pouring in--more than $2,000,000 a month for John Davison</p><p> Rockefeller alone. The problem of reinvestment became more</p><p> serious. It became a nightmare. The oil income was</p><p> swelling, swelling, and the number of sound investments</p><p> limited, even more limited than it is now. It was through</p><p> no special eagerness for more gains that the Rockefellers</p><p> began to branch out from oil into other things. They were</p><p> forced, swept on by this inrolling tide of wealth which</p><p> their monopoly magnet irresistibly attracted. They</p><p> developed a staff of investment seekers and investigators.</p><p> It is said that the chief of this staff has a salary of</p><p> $125,000 a year.</p><p> "The first conspicuous excursion and incursion of the</p><p> Rockefellers was into the railway field. By 1895 they</p><p> controlled one-fifth of the railway mileage of the country.</p><p> What do they own or, through dominant ownership, control</p><p> to-day? They are powerful in all the great railways of New</p><p> York, north, east, and west, except one, where their share</p><p> is only a few millions. They are in most of the great</p><p> railways radiating from Chicago. They dominate in several</p><p> of the systems that extend to the Pacific. It is their</p><p> votes that make Mr. Morgan so potent, though, it may be</p><p> added, they need his brains more than he needs their votes--</p><p> at present, and the combination of the two constitutes in</p><p> large measure the 'community of interest.'</p><p> "But railways could not alone absorb rapidly enough those</p><p> mighty floods of gold. Presently John D. Rockefeller's</p><p> $2,500,000 a month had increased to four, to five, to six</p><p> millions a month, to $75,000,000 a year. Illuminating oil</p><p> was becoming all profit. The reinvestments of income were</p><p> adding their mite of many annual millions.</p><p> "The Rockefellers went into gas and electricity when those</p><p> industries had developed to the safe investment stage. And</p><p> now a large part of the American people must begin to enrich</p><p> the Rockefellers as soon as the sun goes down, no matter</p><p> what form of illuminant they use. They went into farm</p><p> mortgages. It is said that when prosperity a few years ago</p><p> enabled the farmers to rid themselves of their mortgages,</p><p> John D. Rockefeller was moved almost to tears; eight</p><p> millions which he had thought taken care of for years to</p><p> come at a good interest were suddenly dumped upon his</p><p> doorstep and there set up a-squawking for a new home. This</p><p> unexpected addition to his worriments in finding places for</p><p> the progeny of his petroleum and their progeny and their</p><p> progeny's progeny was too much for the equanimity of a man</p><p> without a digestion. . . .</p><p> "The Rockefellers went into mines--iron and coal and copper</p><p> and lead; into other industrial companies; into street</p><p> railways, into national, state, and municipal bonds; into</p><p> steamships and steamboats and telegraphy; into real estate,</p><p> into skyscrapers and residences and hotels and business</p><p> blocks; into life insurance, into banking. There was soon</p><p> literally no field of industry where their millions were not</p><p> at work. . . .</p><p> "The Rockefeller bank--the National City Bank--is by itself</p><p> far and away the biggest bank in the United States. It is</p><p> exceeded in the world only by the Bank of England and the</p><p> Bank of France. The deposits average more than one hundred</p><p> millions a day; and it dominates the call loan market on</p><p> Wall Street and the stock market. But it is not alone; it is</p><p> the head of the Rockefeller chain of banks, which includes</p><p> fourteen banks and trust companies in New York City, and</p><p> banks of great strength and influence in every large money</p><p> center in the country.</p><p> "John D. Rockefeller owns Standard Oil stock worth between</p><p> four and five hundred millions at the market quotations. He</p><p> has a hundred millions in the steel trust, almost as much in</p><p> a single western railway system, half as much in a second,</p><p> and so on and on and on until the mind wearies of the</p><p> cataloguing. His income last year was about $100,000,000--</p><p> it is doubtful if the incomes of all the Rothschilds</p><p> together make a greater sum. And it is going up by leaps</p><p> and bounds."</p><p> Little discussion took place after this, and the dinner soon broke</p><p> up. All were quiet and subdued, and leave-taking was done with low</p><p> voices. It seemed almost that they were scared by the vision of</p><p> the times they had seen.</p><p> "The situation is, indeed, serious," Mr. Calvin said to Ernest. "I</p><p> have little quarrel with the way you have depicted it. Only I</p><p> disagree with you about the doom of the middle class. We shall</p><p> survive, and we shall overthrow the trusts."</p><p> "And return to the ways of your fathers," Ernest finished for him.</p><p> "Even so," Mr. Calvin answered gravely. "I know it's a sort of</p><p> machine-breaking, and that it is absurd. But then life seems</p><p> absurd to-day, what of the machinations of the Plutocracy. And at</p><p> any rate, our sort of machine-breaking is at least practical and</p><p> possible, which your dream is not. Your socialistic dream is . . .</p><p> well, a dream. We cannot follow you."</p><p> "I only wish you fellows knew a little something about evolution</p><p> and sociology," Ernest said wistfully, as they shook hands. "We</p><p> would be saved so much trouble if you did."</p><p>CHAPTER X </p><p>THE VORTEX </p><p>Following like thunder claps upon the Business Men's dinner, occurred </p><p>event after event of terrifying moment; and I, little I, who had lived </p><p>so placidly all my days in the quiet university town, found myself and </p><p>my personal affairs drawn into the vortex of the great world-affairs. </p><p>Whether it was my love for Ernest, or the clear sight he had given me of </p><p>the society in which I lived, that made me a revolutionist, I know not; </p><p>but a revolutionist I became, and I was plunged into a whirl of </p><p>happenings that would have been inconceivable three short months before. </p><p>The crisis in my own fortunes came simultaneously with great crises in </p><p>society. First of all, father was discharged from the university. Oh, </p><p>he was not technically discharged. His resignation was demanded, that </p><p>was all. This, in itself, did not amount to much. Father, in fact, was </p><p>delighted. He was especially delighted because his discharge had been </p><p>precipitated by the publication of his book, "Economics and Education." </p><p>It clinched his argument, he contended. What better evidence could be </p><p>advanced to prove that education was dominated by the capitalist class? </p><p>But this proof never got anywhere. Nobody knew he had been forced to </p><p>resign from the university. He was so eminent a scientist that such an </p><p>announcement, coupled with the reason for his enforced resignation, </p><p>would have created somewhat of a furor all over the world. The </p><p>newspapers showered him with praise and honor, and commended him for </p><p>having given up the drudgery of the lecture room in order to devote his </p><p>whole time to scientific research. </p><p>At first father laughed. Then he became angry--tonic angry. Then came </p><p>the suppression of his book. This suppression was performed secretly, </p><p>so secretly that at first we could not comprehend. The publication of </p><p>the book had immediately caused a bit of excitement in the country. </p><p>Father had been politely abused in the capitalist press, the tone of the </p><p>abuse being to the effect that it was a pity so great a scientist should </p><p>leave his field and invade the realm of sociology, about which he knew </p><p>nothing and wherein he had promptly become lost. This lasted for a </p><p>week, while father chuckled and said the book had touched a sore spot on </p><p>capitalism. And then, abruptly, the newspapers and the critical </p><p>magazines ceased saying anything about the book at all. Also, and with </p><p>equal suddenness, the book disappeared from the market. Not a copy was </p><p>obtainable from any bookseller. Father wrote to the publishers and was </p><p>informed that the plates had been accidentally injured. An </p><p>unsatisfactory correspondence followed. Driven finally to an </p><p>unequivocal stand, the publishers stated that they could not see their </p><p>way to putting the book into type again, but that they were willing to </p><p>relinquish their rights in it. </p><p>"And you won't find another publishing house in the country to touch </p><p>it," Ernest said. "And if I were you, I'd hunt cover right now. You've </p><p>merely got a foretaste of the Iron Heel." </p><p>But father was nothing if not a scientist. He never believed in jumping </p><p>to conclusions. A laboratory experiment was no experiment if it were </p><p>not carried through in all its details. So he patiently went the round </p><p>of the publishing houses. They gave a multitude of excuses, but not one </p><p>house would consider the book. </p><p>When father became convinced that the book had actually been suppressed, </p><p>he tried to get the fact into the newspapers; but his communications </p><p>were ignored. At a political meeting of the socialists, where many </p><p>reporters were present, father saw his chance. He arose and related the </p><p>history of the suppression of the book. He laughed next day when he </p><p>read the newspapers, and then he grew angry to a degree that eliminated </p><p>all tonic qualities. The papers made no mention of the book, but they </p><p>misreported him beautifully. They twisted his words and phrases away </p><p>from the context, and turned his subdued and controlled remarks into a </p><p>howling anarchistic speech. It was done artfully. One instance, in </p><p>particular, I remember. He had used the phrase "social revolution." </p><p>The reporter merely dropped out "social." This was sent out all over </p><p>the country in an Associated Press despatch, and from all over the </p><p>country arose a cry of alarm. Father was branded as a nihilist and an </p><p>anarchist, and in one cartoon that was copied widely he was portrayed </p><p>waving a red flag at the head of a mob of long-haired, wild-eyed men who </p><p>bore in their hands torches, knives, and dynamite bombs. </p><p>He was assailed terribly in the press, in long and abusive editorials, </p><p>for his anarchy, and hints were made of mental breakdown on his part. </p><p>This behavior, on the part of the capitalist press, was nothing new, </p><p>Ernest told us. It was the custom, he said, to send reporters to all </p><p>the socialist meetings for the express purpose of misreporting and </p><p>distorting what was said, in order to frighten the middle class away </p><p>from any possible affiliation with the proletariat. And repeatedly </p><p>Ernest warned father to cease fighting and to take to cover. </p><p>The socialist press of the country took up the fight, however, and </p><p>throughout the reading portion of the working class it was known that </p><p>the book had been suppressed. But this knowledge stopped with the </p><p>working class. Next, the "Appeal to Reason," a big socialist publishing </p><p>house, arranged with father to bring out the book. Father was jubilant, </p><p>but Ernest was alarmed. </p><p>"I tell you we are on the verge of the unknown," he insisted. "Big </p><p>things are happening secretly all around us. We can feel them. We do </p><p>not know what they are, but they are there. The whole fabric of society </p><p>is a-tremble with them. Don't ask me. I don't know myself. But out of </p><p>this flux of society something is about to crystallize. It is </p><p>crystallizing now. The suppression of the book is a precipitation. How </p><p>many books have been suppressed? We haven't the least idea. We are in </p><p>the dark. We have no way of learning. Watch out next for the </p><p>suppression of the socialist press and socialist publishing houses. I'm </p><p>afraid it's coming. We are going to be throttled." </p><p>Ernest had his hand on the pulse of events even more closely than the </p><p>rest of the socialists, and within two days the first blow was struck. </p><p>The Appeal to Reason was a weekly, and its regular circulation amongst </p><p>the proletariat was seven hundred and fifty thousand. Also, it very</p><p>frequently got out special editions of from two to five millions. These </p><p>great editions were paid for and distributed by the small army of </p><p>voluntary workers who had marshalled around the Appeal. The first blow </p><p>was aimed at these special editions, and it was a crushing one. By an </p><p>arbitrary ruling of the Post Office, these editions were decided to be </p><p>not the regular circulation of the paper, and for that reason were </p><p>denied admission to the mails. </p><p>A week later the Post Office Department ruled that the paper was </p><p>seditious, and barred it entirely from the mails. This was a fearful </p><p>blow to the socialist propaganda. The Appeal was desperate. It devised </p><p>a plan of reaching its subscribers through the express companies, but </p><p>they declined to handle it. This was the end of the Appeal. But not </p><p>quite. It prepared to go on with its book publishing. Twenty thousand </p><p>copies of father's book were in the bindery, and the presses were </p><p>turning off more. And then, without warning, a mob arose one night, </p><p>and, under a waving American flag, singing patriotic songs, set fire to </p><p>the great plant of the Appeal and totally destroyed it. </p><p>Now Girard, Kansas, was a quiet, peaceable town. There had never been </p><p>any labor troubles there. The Appeal paid union wages; and, in fact, </p><p>was the backbone of the town, giving employment to hundreds of men and </p><p>women. It was not the citizens of Girard that composed the mob. This </p><p>mob had risen up out of the earth apparently, and to all intents and </p><p>purposes, its work done, it had gone back into the earth. Ernest saw in </p><p>the affair the most sinister import. </p><p>"The Black Hundreds* are being organized in the United States," he said. </p><p>"This is the beginning. There will be more of it. The Iron Heel is </p><p>getting bold." </p><p> * The Black Hundreds were reactionary mobs organized by the</p><p> perishing Autocracy in the Russian Revolution. These</p><p> reactionary groups attacked the revolutionary groups, and</p><p> also, at needed moments, rioted and destroyed property so as</p><p> to afford the Autocracy the pretext of calling out the</p><p> Cossacks.</p><p>And so perished father's book. We were to see much of the Black Hundreds </p><p>as the days went by. Week by week more of the socialist papers were </p><p>barred from the mails, and in a number of instances the Black Hundreds </p><p>destroyed the socialist presses. Of course, the newspapers of the </p><p>land lived up to the reactionary policy of the ruling class, and the </p><p>destroyed socialist press was misrepresented and vilified, while </p><p>the Black Hundreds were represented as true patriots and saviours of </p><p>society. So convincing was all this misrepresentation that even sincere </p><p>ministers in the pulpit praised the Black Hundreds while regretting the </p><p>necessity of violence. </p><p>History was making fast. The fall elections were soon to occur, and </p><p>Ernest was nominated by the socialist party to run for Congress. His </p><p>chance for election was most favorable. The street-car strike in San </p><p>Francisco had been broken. And following upon it the teamsters' strike </p><p>had been broken. These two defeats had been very disastrous to organized </p><p>labor. The whole Water Front Federation, along with its allies in the </p><p>structural trades, had backed up the teamsters, and all had smashed </p><p>down ingloriously. It had been a bloody strike. The police had broken </p><p>countless heads with their riot clubs; and the death list had been </p><p>augmented by the turning loose of a machine-gun on the strikers from the</p><p>barns of the Marsden Special Delivery Company. </p><p>In consequence, the men were sullen and vindictive. They wanted blood, </p><p>and revenge. Beaten on their chosen field, they were ripe to seek </p><p>revenge by means of political action. They still maintained their labor </p><p>organization, and this gave them strength in the political struggle that </p><p>was on. Ernest's chance for election grew stronger and stronger. Day by </p><p>day unions and more unions voted their support to the socialists, until </p><p>even Ernest laughed when the Undertakers' Assistants and the Chicken </p><p>Pickers fell into line. Labor became mulish. While it packed the </p><p>socialist meetings with mad enthusiasm, it was impervious to the wiles </p><p>of the old-party politicians. The old-party orators were usually greeted </p><p>with empty halls, though occasionally they encountered full halls where </p><p>they were so roughly handled that more than once it was necessary to </p><p>call out the police reserves. </p><p>History was making fast. The air was vibrant with things happening and </p><p>impending. The country was on the verge of hard times,* caused by a </p><p>series of prosperous years wherein the difficulty of disposing abroad </p><p>of the unconsumed surplus had become increasingly difficult. Industries </p><p>were working short time; many great factories were standing idle against </p><p>the time when the surplus should be gone; and wages were being cut right </p><p>and left. </p><p> * Under the capitalist regime these periods of hard times</p><p> were as inevitable as they were absurd. Prosperity always</p><p> brought calamity. This, of course, was due to the excess of</p><p> unconsumed profits that was piled up.</p><p>Also, the great machinist strike had been broken. Two hundred thousand </p><p>machinists, along with their five hundred thousand allies in the </p><p>metalworking trades, had been defeated in as bloody a strike as had ever </p><p>marred the United States. Pitched battles had been fought with the small </p><p>armies of armed strike-breakers* put in the field by the employers' </p><p>associations; the Black Hundreds, appearing in scores of wide-scattered </p><p>places, had destroyed property; and, in consequence, a hundred thousand </p><p>regular soldiers of the United States has been called out to put a </p><p>frightful end to the whole affair. A number of the labor leaders had </p><p>been executed; many others had been sentenced to prison, while thousands </p><p>of the rank and file of the strikers had been herded into bull-pens** </p><p>and abominably treated by the soldiers. </p><p> * Strike-breakers--these were, in purpose and practice and</p><p> everything except name, the private soldiers of the</p><p> capitalists. They were thoroughly organized and well armed,</p><p> and they were held in readiness to be hurled in special</p><p> trains to any part of the country where labor went on strike</p><p> or was locked out by the employers. Only those curious</p><p> times could have given rise to the amazing spectacle of one,</p><p> Farley, a notorious commander of strike-breakers, who, in</p><p> 1906, swept across the United States in special trains from</p><p> New York to San Francisco with an army of twenty-five</p><p> hundred men, fully armed and equipped, to break a strike of</p><p> the San Francisco street-car men. Such an act was in direct</p><p> violation of the laws of the land. The fact that this act,</p><p> and thousands of similar acts, went unpunished, goes to show</p><p> how completely the judiciary was the creature of the</p><p> Plutocracy.</p><p> ** Bull-pen--in a miners' strike in Idaho, in the latter</p><p> part of the nineteenth century, it happened that many of the</p><p> strikers were confined in a bull-pen by the troops. The</p><p> practice and the name continued in the twentieth century.</p><p>The years of prosperity were now to be paid for. All markets were </p><p>glutted; all markets were falling; and amidst the general crumble </p><p>of prices the price of labor crumbled fastest of all. The land was </p><p>convulsed with industrial dissensions. Labor was striking here, there, </p><p>and everywhere; and where it was not striking, it was being turned out </p><p>by the capitalists. The papers were filled with tales of violence and </p><p>blood. And through it all the Black Hundreds played their part. Riot, </p><p>arson, and wanton destruction of property was their function, and well </p><p>they performed it. The whole regular army was in the field, called there </p><p>by the actions of the Black Hundreds.* All cities and towns were like </p><p>armed camps, and laborers were shot down like dogs. Out of the vast </p><p>army of the unemployed the strike-breakers were recruited; and when </p><p>the strike-breakers were worsted by the labor unions, the troops always </p><p>appeared and crushed the unions. Then there was the militia. As yet, it </p><p>was not necessary to have recourse to the secret militia law. Only the </p><p>regularly organized militia was out, and it was out everywhere. And </p><p>in this time of terror, the regular army was increased an additional </p><p>hundred thousand by the government. </p><p> * The name only, and not the idea, was imported from Russia.</p><p> The Black Hundreds were a development out of the secret</p><p> agents of the capitalists, and their use arose in the labor</p><p> struggles of the nineteenth century. There is no discussion</p><p> of this. No less an authority of the times than Carroll D.</p><p> Wright, United States Commissioner of Labor, is responsible</p><p> for the statement. From his book, entitled "The Battles of</p><p> Labor," is quoted the declaration that "in some of the great</p><p> historic strikes the employers themselves have instigated</p><p> acts of violence;" that manufacturers have deliberately</p><p> provoked strikes in order to get rid of surplus stock; and</p><p> that freight cars have been burned by employers' agents</p><p> during railroad strikes in order to increase disorder. It</p><p> was out of these secret agents of the employers that the</p><p> Black Hundreds arose; and it was they, in turn, that later</p><p> became that terrible weapon of the Oligarchy, the agents-</p><p> provocateurs.</p><p>Never had labor received such an all-around beating. The great captains </p><p>of industry, the oligarchs, had for the first time thrown their full </p><p>weight into the breach the struggling employers' associations had made. </p><p>These associations were practically middle-class affairs, and now, </p><p>compelled by hard times and crashing markets, and aided by the great </p><p>captains of industry, they gave organized labor an awful and decisive </p><p>defeat. It was an all-powerful alliance, but it was an alliance of the </p><p>lion and the lamb, as the middle class was soon to learn. </p><p>Labor was bloody and sullen, but crushed. Yet its defeat did not put </p><p>an end to the hard times. The banks, themselves constituting one of the </p><p>most important forces of the Oligarchy, continued to call in credits. </p><p>The Wall Street* group turned the stock market into a maelstrom where </p><p>the values of all the land crumbled away almost to nothingness. And </p><p>out of all the rack and ruin rose the form of the nascent Oligarchy, </p><p>imperturbable, indifferent, and sure. Its serenity and certitude was </p><p>terrifying. Not only did it use its own vast power, but it used all the</p><p>power of the United States Treasury to carry out its plans. </p><p> * Wall Street--so named from a street in ancient New York,</p><p> where was situated the stock exchange, and where the</p><p> irrational organization of society permitted underhanded</p><p> manipulation of all the industries of the country.</p><p>The captains of industry had turned upon the middle class. The </p><p>employers' associations, that had helped the captains of industry to </p><p>tear and rend labor, were now torn and rent by their quondam allies. </p><p>Amidst the crashing of the middle men, the small business men and </p><p>manufacturers, the trusts stood firm. Nay, the trusts did more than </p><p>stand firm. They were active. They sowed wind, and wind, and ever more </p><p>wind; for they alone knew how to reap the whirlwind and make a profit </p><p>out of it. And such profits! Colossal profits! Strong enough themselves </p><p>to weather the storm that was largely their own brewing, they turned </p><p>loose and plundered the wrecks that floated about them. Values were </p><p>pitifully and inconceivably shrunken, and the trusts added hugely </p><p>to their holdings, even extending their enterprises into many new </p><p>fields--and always at the expense of the middle class. </p><p>Thus the summer of 1912 witnessed the virtual death-thrust to the middle </p><p>class. Even Ernest was astounded at the quickness with which it had been </p><p>done. He shook his head ominously and looked forward without hope to the </p><p>fall elections. </p><p>"It's no use," he said. "We are beaten. The Iron Heel is here. I had </p><p>hoped for a peaceable victory at the ballot-box. I was wrong. Wickson </p><p>was right. We shall be robbed of our few remaining liberties; the Iron </p><p>Heel will walk upon our faces; nothing remains but a bloody revolution </p><p>of the working class. Of course we will win, but I shudder to think of </p><p>it." </p><p>And from then on Ernest pinned his faith in revolution. In this he was </p><p>in advance of his party. His fellow-socialists could not agree with him. </p><p>They still insisted that victory could be gained through the elections. </p><p>It was not that they were stunned. They were too cool-headed and </p><p>courageous for that. They were merely incredulous, that was all. Ernest </p><p>could not get them seriously to fear the coming of the Oligarchy. They </p><p>were stirred by him, but they were too sure of their own strength. There </p><p>was no room in their theoretical social evolution for an oligarchy, </p><p>therefore the Oligarchy could not be. </p><p>"We'll send you to Congress and it will be all right," they told him at </p><p>one of our secret meetings. </p><p>"And when they take me out of Congress," Ernest replied coldly, "and put </p><p>me against a wall, and blow my brains out--what then?" </p><p>"Then we'll rise in our might," a dozen voices answered at once. </p><p>"Then you'll welter in your gore," was his retort. "I've heard that song </p><p>sung by the middle class, and where is it now in its might?" </p><p>CHAPTER XI </p><p>THE GREAT ADVENTURE</p><p>Mr. Wickson did not send for father. They met by chance on the </p><p>ferry-boat to San Francisco, so that the warning he gave father was not </p><p>premeditated. Had they not met accidentally, there would not have been </p><p>any warning. Not that the outcome would have been different, however. </p><p>Father came of stout old Mayflower* stock, and the blood was imperative </p><p>in him. </p><p> * One of the first ships that carried colonies to America,</p><p> after the discovery of the New World. Descendants of these</p><p> original colonists were for a while inordinately proud of</p><p> their genealogy; but in time the blood became so widely</p><p> diffused that it ran in the veins practically of all</p><p> Americans.</p><p>"Ernest was right," he told me, as soon as he had returned home. "Ernest </p><p>is a very remarkable young man, and I'd rather see you his wife than the </p><p>wife of Rockefeller himself or the King of England." </p><p>"What's the matter?" I asked in alarm. </p><p>"The Oligarchy is about to tread upon our faces--yours and mine. Wickson </p><p>as much as told me so. He was very kind--for an oligarch. He offered to </p><p>reinstate me in the university. What do you think of that? He, Wickson, </p><p>a sordid money-grabber, has the power to determine whether I shall or </p><p>shall not teach in the university of the state. But he offered me even </p><p>better than that--offered to make me president of some great college of </p><p>physical sciences that is being planned--the Oligarchy must get rid of </p><p>its surplus somehow, you see. </p><p>"'Do you remember what I told that socialist lover of your daughter's?' </p><p>he said. 'I told him that we would walk upon the faces of the working </p><p>class. And so we shall. As for you, I have for you a deep respect as </p><p>a scientist; but if you throw your fortunes in with the working </p><p>class--well, watch out for your face, that is all.' And then he turned </p><p>and left me." </p><p>"It means we'll have to marry earlier than you planned," was Ernest's </p><p>comment when we told him. </p><p>I could not follow his reasoning, but I was soon to learn it. It was at </p><p>this time that the quarterly dividend of the Sierra Mills was paid--or, </p><p>rather, should have been paid, for father did not receive his. After </p><p>waiting several days, father wrote to the secretary. Promptly came </p><p>the reply that there was no record on the books of father's owning any </p><p>stock, and a polite request for more explicit information. </p><p>"I'll make it explicit enough, confound him," father declared, and </p><p>departed for the bank to get the stock in question from his safe-deposit </p><p>box. </p><p>"Ernest is a very remarkable man," he said when he got back and while </p><p>I was helping him off with his overcoat. "I repeat, my daughter, that </p><p>young man of yours is a very remarkable young man." </p><p>I had learned, whenever he praised Ernest in such fashion, to expect </p><p>disaster. </p><p>"They have already walked upon my face," father explained. "There was no </p><p>stock. The box was empty. You and Ernest will have to get married pretty </p><p>quickly." </p><p>Father insisted on laboratory methods. He brought the Sierra Mills into </p><p>court, but he could not bring the books of the Sierra Mills into court. </p><p>He did not control the courts, and the Sierra Mills did. That explained </p><p>it all. He was thoroughly beaten by the law, and the bare-faced robbery </p><p>held good. </p><p>It is almost laughable now, when I look back on it, the way father was </p><p>beaten. He met Wickson accidentally on the street in San Francisco, </p><p>and he told Wickson that he was a damned scoundrel. And then father was </p><p>arrested for attempted assault, fined in the police court, and bound </p><p>over to keep the peace. It was all so ridiculous that when he got </p><p>home he had to laugh himself. But what a furor was raised in the </p><p>local papers! There was grave talk about the bacillus of violence that </p><p>infected all men who embraced socialism; and father, with his long and </p><p>peaceful life, was instanced as a shining example of how the bacillus </p><p>of violence worked. Also, it was asserted by more than one paper that </p><p>father's mind had weakened under the strain of scientific study, and </p><p>confinement in a state asylum for the insane was suggested. Nor was this </p><p>merely talk. It was an imminent peril. But father was wise enough to see </p><p>it. He had the Bishop's experience to lesson from, and he lessoned </p><p>well. He kept quiet no matter what injustice was perpetrated on him, and </p><p>really, I think, surprised his enemies. </p><p>There was the matter of the house--our home. A mortgage was foreclosed </p><p>on it, and we had to give up possession. Of course there wasn't any </p><p>mortgage, and never had been any mortgage. The ground had been bought </p><p>outright, and the house had been paid for when it was built. And house </p><p>and lot had always been free and unencumbered. Nevertheless there was </p><p>the mortgage, properly and legally drawn up and signed, with a record </p><p>of the payments of interest through a number of years. Father made no </p><p>outcry. As he had been robbed of his money, so was he now robbed of his </p><p>home. And he had no recourse. The machinery of society was in the hands </p><p>of those who were bent on breaking him. He was a philosopher at heart, </p><p>and he was no longer even angry. </p><p>"I am doomed to be broken," he said to me; "but that is no reason that I </p><p>should not try to be shattered as little as possible. These old bones of </p><p>mine are fragile, and I've learned my lesson. God knows I don't want to </p><p>spend my last days in an insane asylum." </p><p>Which reminds me of Bishop Morehouse, whom I have neglected for many </p><p>pages. But first let me tell of my marriage. In the play of events, my </p><p>marriage sinks into insignificance, I know, so I shall barely mention </p><p>it. </p><p>"Now we shall become real proletarians," father said, when we were </p><p>driven from our home. "I have often envied that young man of yours for </p><p>his actual knowledge of the proletariat. Now I shall see and learn for </p><p>myself." </p><p>Father must have had strong in him the blood of adventure. He looked </p><p>upon our catastrophe in the light of an adventure. No anger nor </p><p>bitterness possessed him. He was too philosophic and simple to be </p><p>vindictive, and he lived too much in the world of mind to miss the </p><p>creature comforts we were giving up. So it was, when we moved to San</p><p>Francisco into four wretched rooms in the slum south of Market Street, </p><p>that he embarked upon the adventure with the joy and enthusiasm of </p><p>a child--combined with the clear sight and mental grasp of an </p><p>extraordinary intellect. He really never crystallized mentally. He had </p><p>no false sense of values. Conventional or habitual values meant nothing </p><p>to him. The only values he recognized were mathematical and scientific </p><p>facts. My father was a great man. He had the mind and the soul that only </p><p>great men have. In ways he was even greater than Ernest, than whom I </p><p>have known none greater. </p><p>Even I found some relief in our change of living. If nothing else, I </p><p>was escaping from the organized ostracism that had been our increasing </p><p>portion in the university town ever since the enmity of the nascent </p><p>Oligarchy had been incurred. And the change was to me likewise </p><p>adventure, and the greatest of all, for it was love-adventure. The </p><p>change in our fortunes had hastened my marriage, and it was as a </p><p>wife that I came to live in the four rooms on Pell Street, in the San </p><p>Francisco slum. </p><p>And this out of all remains: I made Ernest happy. I came into his stormy </p><p>life, not as a new perturbing force, but as one that made toward peace </p><p>and repose. I gave him rest. It was the guerdon of my love for him. </p><p>It was the one infallible token that I had not failed. To bring </p><p>forgetfulness, or the light of gladness, into those poor tired eyes of </p><p>his--what greater joy could have blessed me than that? </p><p>Those dear tired eyes. He toiled as few men ever toiled, and all his </p><p>lifetime he toiled for others. That was the measure of his manhood. He </p><p>was a humanist and a lover. And he, with his incarnate spirit of battle, </p><p>his gladiator body and his eagle spirit--he was as gentle and tender to </p><p>me as a poet. He was a poet. A singer in deeds. And all his life he sang </p><p>the song of man. And he did it out of sheer love of man, and for man he </p><p>gave his life and was crucified. </p><p>And all this he did with no hope of future reward. In his conception of </p><p>things there was no future life. He, who fairly burnt with immortality, </p><p>denied himself immortality--such was the paradox of him. He, so warm </p><p>in spirit, was dominated by that cold and forbidding philosophy, </p><p>materialistic monism. I used to refute him by telling him that I </p><p>measured his immortality by the wings of his soul, and that I should </p><p>have to live endless aeons in order to achieve the full measurement. </p><p>Whereat he would laugh, and his arms would leap out to me, and he would </p><p>call me his sweet metaphysician; and the tiredness would pass out of his </p><p>eyes, and into them would flood the happy love-light that was in itself </p><p>a new and sufficient advertisement of his immortality. </p><p>Also, he used to call me his dualist, and he would explain how Kant, by </p><p>means of pure reason, had abolished reason, in order to worship God. And </p><p>he drew the parallel and included me guilty of a similar act. And when I </p><p>pleaded guilty, but defended the act as highly rational, he but pressed </p><p>me closer and laughed as only one of God's own lovers could laugh. I </p><p>was wont to deny that heredity and environment could explain his own </p><p>originality and genius, any more than could the cold groping finger of </p><p>science catch and analyze and classify that elusive essence that lurked </p><p>in the constitution of life itself. </p><p>I held that space was an apparition of God, and that soul was a </p><p>projection of the character of God; and when he called me his sweet </p><p>metaphysician, I called him my immortal materialist. And so we loved and</p><p>were happy; and I forgave him his materialism because of his tremendous </p><p>work in the world, performed without thought of soul-gain thereby, and </p><p>because of his so exceeding modesty of spirit that prevented him from </p><p>having pride and regal consciousness of himself and his soul. </p><p>But he had pride. How could he have been an eagle and not have pride? </p><p>His contention was that it was finer for a finite mortal speck of life </p><p>to feel Godlike, than for a god to feel godlike; and so it was that he </p><p>exalted what he deemed his mortality. He was fond of quoting a fragment </p><p>from a certain poem. He had never seen the whole poem, and he had tried </p><p>vainly to learn its authorship. I here give the fragment, not alone </p><p>because he loved it, but because it epitomized the paradox that he was </p><p>in the spirit of him, and his conception of his spirit. For how can a </p><p>man, with thrilling, and burning, and exaltation, recite the following </p><p>and still be mere mortal earth, a bit of fugitive force, an evanescent </p><p>form? Here it is: </p><p> "Joy upon joy and gain upon gain</p><p> Are the destined rights of my birth,</p><p> And I shout the praise of my endless days</p><p> To the echoing edge of the earth.</p><p> Though I suffer all deaths that a man can die</p><p> To the uttermost end of time,</p><p> I have deep-drained this, my cup of bliss,</p><p> In every age and clime--</p><p> "The froth of Pride, the tang of Power,</p><p> The sweet of Womanhood!</p><p> I drain the lees upon my knees,</p><p> For oh, the draught is good;</p><p> I drink to Life, I drink to Death,</p><p> And smack my lips with song,</p><p> For when I die, another 'I' shall pass the cup along.</p><p> "The man you drove from Eden's grove</p><p> Was I, my Lord, was I,</p><p> And I shall be there when the earth and the air</p><p> Are rent from sea to sky;</p><p> For it is my world, my gorgeous world,</p><p> The world of my dearest woes,</p><p> From the first faint cry of the newborn</p><p> To the rack of the woman's throes.</p><p> "Packed with the pulse of an unborn race,</p><p> Torn with a world's desire,</p><p> The surging flood of my wild young blood</p><p> Would quench the judgment fire.</p><p> I am Man, Man, Man, from the tingling flesh</p><p> To the dust of my earthly goal,</p><p> From the nestling gloom of the pregnant womb</p><p> To the sheen of my naked soul.</p><p> Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh</p><p> The whole world leaps to my will,</p><p> And the unslaked thirst of an Eden cursed</p><p> Shall harrow the earth for its fill.</p><p> Almighty God, when I drain life's glass</p><p> Of all its rainbow gleams,</p><p> The hapless plight of eternal night</p><p> Shall be none too long for my dreams.</p><p> "The man you drove from Eden's grove</p><p> Was I, my Lord, was I,</p><p> And I shall be there when the earth and the air</p><p> Are rent from sea to sky;</p><p> For it is my world, my gorgeous world,</p><p> The world of my dear delight,</p><p> From the brightest gleam of the Arctic stream</p><p> To the dusk of my own love-night."</p><p>Ernest always overworked. His wonderful constitution kept him up; but </p><p>even that constitution could not keep the tired look out of his eyes. </p><p>His dear, tired eyes! He never slept more than four and one-half hours </p><p>a night; yet he never found time to do all the work he wanted to do. </p><p>He never ceased from his activities as a propagandist, and was always </p><p>scheduled long in advance for lectures to workingmen's organizations. </p><p>Then there was the campaign. He did a man's full work in that alone. </p><p>With the suppression of the socialist publishing houses, his meagre </p><p>royalties ceased, and he was hard-put to make a living; for he had to </p><p>make a living in addition to all his other labor. He did a great deal </p><p>of translating for the magazines on scientific and philosophic subjects; </p><p>and, coming home late at night, worn out from the strain of the </p><p>campaign, he would plunge into his translating and toil on well into the </p><p>morning hours. And in addition to everything, there was his studying. </p><p>To the day of his death he kept up his studies, and he studied </p><p>prodigiously. </p><p>And yet he found time in which to love me and make me happy. But this </p><p>was accomplished only through my merging my life completely into his. I </p><p>learned shorthand and typewriting, and became his secretary. He insisted </p><p>that I succeeded in cutting his work in half; and so it was that I </p><p>schooled myself to understand his work. Our interests became mutual, and </p><p>we worked together and played together. </p><p>And then there were our sweet stolen moments in the midst of our </p><p>work--just a word, or caress, or flash of love-light; and our moments </p><p>were sweeter for being stolen. For we lived on the heights, where the </p><p>air was keen and sparkling, where the toil was for humanity, and where </p><p>sordidness and selfishness never entered. We loved love, and our love </p><p>was never smirched by anything less than the best. And this out of all </p><p>remains: I did not fail. I gave him rest--he who worked so hard for </p><p>others, my dear, tired-eyed mortalist. </p><p>CHAPTER XII </p><p>THE BISHOP </p><p>It was after my marriage that I chanced upon Bishop Morehouse. But I </p><p>must give the events in their proper sequence. After his outbreak at the </p><p>I. P. H. Convention, the Bishop, being a gentle soul, had yielded to </p><p>the friendly pressure brought to bear upon him, and had gone away on a </p><p>vacation. But he returned more fixed than ever in his determination </p><p>to preach the message of the Church. To the consternation of his </p><p>congregation, his first sermon was quite similar to the address he </p><p>had given before the Convention. Again he said, and at length and with </p><p>distressing detail, that the Church had wandered away from the Master's</p><p>teaching, and that Mammon had been instated in the place of Christ. </p><p>And the result was, willy-nilly, that he was led away to a private </p><p>sanitarium for mental disease, while in the newspapers appeared </p><p>pathetic accounts of his mental breakdown and of the saintliness of </p><p>his character. He was held a prisoner in the sanitarium. I called </p><p>repeatedly, but was denied access to him; and I was terribly impressed </p><p>by the tragedy of a sane, normal, saintly man being crushed by the </p><p>brutal will of society. For the Bishop was sane, and pure, and noble. As </p><p>Ernest said, all that was the matter with him was that he had incorrect </p><p>notions of biology and sociology, and because of his incorrect notions </p><p>he had not gone about it in the right way to rectify matters. </p><p>What terrified me was the Bishop's helplessness. If he persisted in the </p><p>truth as he saw it, he was doomed to an insane ward. And he could do </p><p>nothing. His money, his position, his culture, could not save him. His </p><p>views were perilous to society, and society could not conceive that such </p><p>perilous views could be the product of a sane mind. Or, at least, it </p><p>seems to me that such was society's attitude. </p><p>But the Bishop, in spite of the gentleness and purity of his spirit, was </p><p>possessed of guile. He apprehended clearly his danger. He saw himself </p><p>caught in the web, and he tried to escape from it. Denied help from his </p><p>friends, such as father and Ernest and I could have given, he was </p><p>left to battle for himself alone. And in the enforced solitude of the </p><p>sanitarium he recovered. He became again sane. His eyes ceased to see </p><p>visions; his brain was purged of the fancy that it was the duty of </p><p>society to feed the Master's lambs. </p><p>As I say, he became well, quite well, and the newspapers and the church </p><p>people hailed his return with joy. I went once to his church. The sermon </p><p>was of the same order as the ones he had preached long before his eyes </p><p>had seen visions. I was disappointed, shocked. Had society then beaten </p><p>him into submission? Was he a coward? Had he been bulldozed into </p><p>recanting? Or had the strain been too great for him, and had he meekly </p><p>surrendered to the juggernaut of the established? </p><p>I called upon him in his beautiful home. He was woefully changed. He was </p><p>thinner, and there were lines on his face which I had never seen before. </p><p>He was manifestly distressed by my coming. He plucked nervously at his </p><p>sleeve as we talked; and his eyes were restless, fluttering here, there, </p><p>and everywhere, and refusing to meet mine. His mind seemed preoccupied, </p><p>and there were strange pauses in his conversation, abrupt changes of </p><p>topic, and an inconsecutiveness that was bewildering. Could this, then, </p><p>be the firm-poised, Christ-like man I had known, with pure, limpid eyes </p><p>and a gaze steady and unfaltering as his soul? He had been man-handled; </p><p>he had been cowed into subjection. His spirit was too gentle. It had not </p><p>been mighty enough to face the organized wolf-pack of society. </p><p>I felt sad, unutterably sad. He talked ambiguously, and was so </p><p>apprehensive of what I might say that I had not the heart to catechise </p><p>him. He spoke in a far-away manner of his illness, and we talked </p><p>disjointedly about the church, the alterations in the organ, and about </p><p>petty charities; and he saw me depart with such evident relief that I </p><p>should have laughed had not my heart been so full of tears. </p><p>The poor little hero! If I had only known! He was battling like a giant, </p><p>and I did not guess it. Alone, all alone, in the midst of millions of </p><p>his fellow-men, he was fighting his fight. Torn by his horror of the</p><p>asylum and his fidelity to truth and the right, he clung steadfastly to </p><p>truth and the right; but so alone was he that he did not dare to trust </p><p>even me. He had learned his lesson well--too well. </p><p>But I was soon to know. One day the Bishop disappeared. He had told </p><p>nobody that he was going away; and as the days went by and he did not </p><p>reappear, there was much gossip to the effect that he had committed </p><p>suicide while temporarily deranged. But this idea was dispelled when it </p><p>was learned that he had sold all his possessions,--his city mansion, his </p><p>country house at Menlo Park, his paintings, and collections, and even </p><p>his cherished library. It was patent that he had made a clean and secret </p><p>sweep of everything before he disappeared. </p><p>This happened during the time when calamity had overtaken us in our own </p><p>affairs; and it was not till we were well settled in our new home that </p><p>we had opportunity really to wonder and speculate about the Bishop's </p><p>doings. And then, everything was suddenly made clear. Early one evening, </p><p>while it was yet twilight, I had run across the street and into the </p><p>butcher-shop to get some chops for Ernest's supper. We called the last </p><p>meal of the day "supper" in our new environment. </p><p>Just at the moment I came out of the butcher-shop, a man emerged from </p><p>the corner grocery that stood alongside. A queer sense familiarity made </p><p>me look again. But the man had turned and was walking rapidly away. </p><p>There was something about the slope of the shoulders and the fringe </p><p>of silver hair between coat collar and slouch hat that aroused vague </p><p>memories. Instead of crossing the street, I hurried after the man. I </p><p>quickened my pace, trying not to think the thoughts that formed unbidden </p><p>in my brain. No, it was impossible. It could not be--not in those faded </p><p>overalls, too long in the legs and frayed at the bottoms. </p><p>I paused, laughed at myself, and almost abandoned the chase. But the </p><p>haunting familiarity of those shoulders and that silver hair! Again </p><p>I hurried on. As I passed him, I shot a keen look at his face; then I </p><p>whirled around abruptly and confronted--the Bishop. </p><p>He halted with equal abruptness, and gasped. A large paper bag in his </p><p>right hand fell to the sidewalk. It burst, and about his feet and mine </p><p>bounced and rolled a flood of potatoes. He looked at me with surprise </p><p>and alarm, then he seemed to wilt away; the shoulders drooped with </p><p>dejection, and he uttered a deep sigh. </p><p>I held out my hand. He shook it, but his hand felt clammy. He cleared </p><p>his throat in embarrassment, and I could see the sweat starting out on </p><p>his forehead. It was evident that he was badly frightened. </p><p>"The potatoes," he murmured faintly. "They are precious." </p><p>Between us we picked them up and replaced them in the broken bag, which </p><p>he now held carefully in the hollow of his arm. I tried to tell him my </p><p>gladness at meeting him and that he must come right home with me. </p><p>"Father will be rejoiced to see you," I said. "We live only a stone's </p><p>throw away. </p><p>"I can't," he said, "I must be going. Good-by." </p><p>He looked apprehensively about him, as though dreading discovery, and </p><p>made an attempt to walk on.</p><p>"Tell me where you live, and I shall call later," he said, when he saw </p><p>that I walked beside him and that it was my intention to stick to him </p><p>now that he was found. </p><p>"No," I answered firmly. "You must come now." </p><p>He looked at the potatoes spilling on his arm, and at the small parcels </p><p>on his other arm. </p><p>"Really, it is impossible," he said. "Forgive me for my rudeness. If you </p><p>only knew." </p><p>He looked as if he were going to break down, but the next moment he had </p><p>himself in control. </p><p>"Besides, this food," he went on. "It is a sad case. It is terrible. She </p><p>is an old woman. I must take it to her at once. She is suffering from </p><p>want of it. I must go at once. You understand. Then I will return. I </p><p>promise you." </p><p>"Let me go with you," I volunteered. "Is it far?" </p><p>He sighed again, and surrendered. </p><p>"Only two blocks," he said. "Let us hasten." </p><p>Under the Bishop's guidance I learned something of my own neighborhood. </p><p>I had not dreamed such wretchedness and misery existed in it. Of course, </p><p>this was because I did not concern myself with charity. I had become </p><p>convinced that Ernest was right when he sneered at charity as a </p><p>poulticing of an ulcer. Remove the ulcer, was his remedy; give to the </p><p>worker his product; pension as soldiers those who grow honorably old in </p><p>their toil, and there will be no need for charity. Convinced of this, </p><p>I toiled with him at the revolution, and did not exhaust my energy in </p><p>alleviating the social ills that continuously arose from the injustice </p><p>of the system. </p><p>I followed the Bishop into a small room, ten by twelve, in a rear </p><p>tenement. And there we found a little old German woman--sixty-four years </p><p>old, the Bishop said. She was surprised at seeing me, but she nodded a </p><p>pleasant greeting and went on sewing on the pair of men's trousers in </p><p>her lap. Beside her, on the floor, was a pile of trousers. The Bishop </p><p>discovered there was neither coal nor kindling, and went out to buy </p><p>some. </p><p>I took up a pair of trousers and examined her work. </p><p>"Six cents, lady," she said, nodding her head gently while she went on </p><p>stitching. She stitched slowly, but never did she cease from stitching. </p><p>She seemed mastered by the verb "to stitch." </p><p>"For all that work?" I asked. "Is that what they pay? How long does it </p><p>take you?" </p><p>"Yes," she answered, "that is what they pay. Six cents for finishing. </p><p>Two hours' sewing on each pair." </p><p>"But the boss doesn't know that," she added quickly, betraying a fear</p><p>of getting him into trouble. "I'm slow. I've got the rheumatism in my </p><p>hands. Girls work much faster. They finish in half that time. The boss </p><p>is kind. He lets me take the work home, now that I am old and the noise </p><p>of the machine bothers my head. If it wasn't for his kindness, I'd </p><p>starve. </p><p>"Yes, those who work in the shop get eight cents. But what can you do? </p><p>There is not enough work for the young. The old have no chance. Often </p><p>one pair is all I can get. Sometimes, like to-day, I am given eight pair </p><p>to finish before night." </p><p>I asked her the hours she worked, and she said it depended on the </p><p>season. </p><p>"In the summer, when there is a rush order, I work from five in the </p><p>morning to nine at night. But in the winter it is too cold. The hands do </p><p>not early get over the stiffness. Then you must work later--till after </p><p>midnight sometimes. </p><p>"Yes, it has been a bad summer. The hard times. God must be angry. </p><p>This is the first work the boss has given me in a week. It is true, one </p><p>cannot eat much when there is no work. I am used to it. I have sewed </p><p>all my life, in the old country and here in San Francisco--thirty-three </p><p>years. </p><p>"If you are sure of the rent, it is all right. The houseman is very </p><p>kind, but he must have his rent. It is fair. He only charges three </p><p>dollars for this room. That is cheap. But it is not easy for you to find </p><p>all of three dollars every month." </p><p>She ceased talking, and, nodding her head, went on stitching. </p><p>"You have to be very careful as to how you spend your earnings," I </p><p>suggested. </p><p>She nodded emphatically. </p><p>"After the rent it's not so bad. Of course you can't buy meat. And there </p><p>is no milk for the coffee. But always there is one meal a day, and often </p><p>two." </p><p>She said this last proudly. There was a smack of success in her words. </p><p>But as she stitched on in silence, I noticed the sadness in her pleasant </p><p>eyes and the droop of her mouth. The look in her eyes became far away. </p><p>She rubbed the dimness hastily out of them; it interfered with her </p><p>stitching. </p><p>"No, it is not the hunger that makes the heart ache," she explained. </p><p>"You get used to being hungry. It is for my child that I cry. It was </p><p>the machine that killed her. It is true she worked hard, but I cannot </p><p>understand. She was strong. And she was young--only forty; and she </p><p>worked only thirty years. She began young, it is true; but my man died. </p><p>The boiler exploded down at the works. And what were we to do? She was </p><p>ten, but she was very strong. But the machine killed her. Yes, it </p><p>did. It killed her, and she was the fastest worker in the shop. I have </p><p>thought about it often, and I know. That is why I cannot work in the </p><p>shop. The machine bothers my head. Always I hear it saying, 'I did it, I </p><p>did it.' And it says that all day long. And then I think of my daughter, </p><p>and I cannot work."</p><p>The moistness was in her old eyes again, and she had to wipe it away </p><p>before she could go on stitching. </p><p>I heard the Bishop stumbling up the stairs, and I opened the door. What </p><p>a spectacle he was. On his back he carried half a sack of coal, with </p><p>kindling on top. Some of the coal dust had coated his face, and the </p><p>sweat from his exertions was running in streaks. He dropped his burden </p><p>in the corner by the stove and wiped his face on a coarse bandana </p><p>handkerchief. I could scarcely accept the verdict of my senses. The </p><p>Bishop, black as a coal-heaver, in a workingman's cheap cotton shirt </p><p>(one button was missing from the throat), and in overalls! That was the </p><p>most incongruous of all--the overalls, frayed at the bottoms, dragged </p><p>down at the heels, and held up by a narrow leather belt around the hips </p><p>such as laborers wear. </p><p>Though the Bishop was warm, the poor swollen hands of the old woman were </p><p>already cramping with the cold; and before we left her, the Bishop had </p><p>built the fire, while I had peeled the potatoes and put them on to boil. </p><p>I was to learn, as time went by, that there were many cases similar </p><p>to hers, and many worse, hidden away in the monstrous depths of the </p><p>tenements in my neighborhood. </p><p>We got back to find Ernest alarmed by my absence. After the first </p><p>surprise of greeting was over, the Bishop leaned back in his chair, </p><p>stretched out his overall-covered legs, and actually sighed a </p><p>comfortable sigh. We were the first of his old friends he had met since </p><p>his disappearance, he told us; and during the intervening weeks he must </p><p>have suffered greatly from loneliness. He told us much, though he told </p><p>us more of the joy he had experienced in doing the Master's bidding. </p><p>"For truly now," he said, "I am feeding his lambs. And I have learned </p><p>a great lesson. The soul cannot be ministered to till the stomach is </p><p>appeased. His lambs must be fed bread and butter and potatoes and </p><p>meat; after that, and only after that, are their spirits ready for more </p><p>refined nourishment." </p><p>He ate heartily of the supper I cooked. Never had he had such an </p><p>appetite at our table in the old days. We spoke of it, and he said that </p><p>he had never been so healthy in his life. </p><p>"I walk always now," he said, and a blush was on his cheek at the </p><p>thought of the time when he rode in his carriage, as though it were a </p><p>sin not lightly to be laid. </p><p>"My health is better for it," he added hastily. "And I am very </p><p>happy--indeed, most happy. At last I am a consecrated spirit." </p><p>And yet there was in his face a permanent pain, the pain of the world </p><p>that he was now taking to himself. He was seeing life in the raw, and it </p><p>was a different life from what he had known within the printed books of </p><p>his library. </p><p>"And you are responsible for all this, young man," he said directly to </p><p>Ernest. </p><p>Ernest was embarrassed and awkward. </p><p>"I--I warned you," he faltered.</p><p>"No, you misunderstand," the Bishop answered. "I speak not in reproach, </p><p>but in gratitude. I have you to thank for showing me my path. You led me </p><p>from theories about life to life itself. You pulled aside the veils from </p><p>the social shams. You were light in my darkness, but now I, too, see the </p><p>light. And I am very happy, only . . ." he hesitated painfully, and in </p><p>his eyes fear leaped large. "Only the persecution. I harm no one. Why </p><p>will they not let me alone? But it is not that. It is the nature of </p><p>the persecution. I shouldn't mind if they cut my flesh with stripes, or </p><p>burned me at the stake, or crucified me head--downward. But it is the </p><p>asylum that frightens me. Think of it! Of me--in an asylum for the </p><p>insane! It is revolting. I saw some of the cases at the sanitarium. They </p><p>were violent. My blood chills when I think of it. And to be imprisoned </p><p>for the rest of my life amid scenes of screaming madness! No! no! Not </p><p>that! Not that!" </p><p>It was pitiful. His hands shook, his whole body quivered and shrank away </p><p>from the picture he had conjured. But the next moment he was calm. </p><p>"Forgive me," he said simply. "It is my wretched nerves. And if the </p><p>Master's work leads there, so be it. Who am I to complain?" </p><p>I felt like crying aloud as I looked at him: "Great Bishop! O hero! </p><p>God's hero!" </p><p>As the evening wore on we learned more of his doings. </p><p>"I sold my house--my houses, rather," he said, "all my other possessions. </p><p>I knew I must do it secretly, else they would have taken everything away </p><p>from me. That would have been terrible. I often marvel these days at the </p><p>immense quantity of potatoes two or three hundred thousand dollars will </p><p>buy, or bread, or meat, or coal and kindling." He turned to Ernest. "You </p><p>are right, young man. Labor is dreadfully underpaid. I never did a </p><p>bit of work in my life, except to appeal aesthetically to Pharisees--I </p><p>thought I was preaching the message--and yet I was worth half a million </p><p>dollars. I never knew what half a million dollars meant until I realized </p><p>how much potatoes and bread and butter and meat it could buy. And then </p><p>I realized something more. I realized that all those potatoes and that </p><p>bread and butter and meat were mine, and that I had not worked to make </p><p>them. Then it was clear to me, some one else had worked and made them </p><p>and been robbed of them. And when I came down amongst the poor I found </p><p>those who had been robbed and who were hungry and wretched because they </p><p>had been robbed." </p><p>We drew him back to his narrative. </p><p>"The money? I have it deposited in many different banks under different </p><p>names. It can never be taken away from me, because it can never be </p><p>found. And it is so good, that money. It buys so much food. I never knew </p><p>before what money was good for." </p><p>"I wish we could get some of it for the propaganda," Ernest said </p><p>wistfully. "It would do immense good." </p><p>"Do you think so?" the Bishop said. "I do not have much faith in </p><p>politics. In fact, I am afraid I do not understand politics." </p><p>Ernest was delicate in such matters. He did not repeat his suggestion, </p><p>though he knew only too well the sore straits the Socialist Party was in</p><p>through lack of money. </p><p>"I sleep in cheap lodging houses," the Bishop went on. "But I am afraid, </p><p>and never stay long in one place. Also, I rent two rooms in workingmen's </p><p>houses in different quarters of the city. It is a great extravagance, </p><p>I know, but it is necessary. I make up for it in part by doing my own </p><p>cooking, though sometimes I get something to eat in cheap coffee-houses. </p><p>And I have made a discovery. Tamales* are very good when the air grows </p><p>chilly late at night. Only they are so expensive. But I have discovered </p><p>a place where I can get three for ten cents. They are not so good as the </p><p>others, but they are very warming. </p><p> * A Mexican dish, referred to occasionally in the literature</p><p> of the times. It is supposed that it was warmly seasoned.</p><p> No recipe of it has come down to us.</p><p>"And so I have at last found my work in the world, thanks to you, young </p><p>man. It is the Master's work." He looked at me, and his eyes twinkled. </p><p>"You caught me feeding his lambs, you know. And of course you will all </p><p>keep my secret." </p><p>He spoke carelessly enough, but there was real fear behind the speech. </p><p>He promised to call upon us again. But a week later we read in the </p><p>newspaper of the sad case of Bishop Morehouse, who had been committed to </p><p>the Napa Asylum and for whom there were still hopes held out. In vain </p><p>we tried to see him, to have his case reconsidered or investigated. Nor </p><p>could we learn anything about him except the reiterated statements that </p><p>slight hopes were still held for his recovery. </p><p>"Christ told the rich young man to sell all he had," Ernest said </p><p>bitterly. "The Bishop obeyed Christ's injunction and got locked up in a </p><p>madhouse. Times have changed since Christ's day. A rich man to-day who </p><p>gives all he has to the poor is crazy. There is no discussion. Society </p><p>has spoken." </p><p>CHAPTER XIII </p><p>THE GENERAL STRIKE </p><p>Of course Ernest was elected to Congress in the great socialist </p><p>landslide that took place in the fall of 1912. One great factor that </p><p>helped to swell the socialist vote was the destruction of Hearst.* </p><p>This the Plutocracy found an easy task. It cost Hearst eighteen million </p><p>dollars a year to run his various papers, and this sum, and more, he got </p><p>back from the middle class in payment for advertising. The source of his </p><p>financial strength lay wholly in the middle class. The trusts did not </p><p>advertise.** To destroy Hearst, all that was necessary was to take away </p><p>from him his advertising. </p><p> * William Randolph Hearst--a young California millionaire</p><p> who became the most powerful newspaper owner in the country.</p><p> His newspapers were published in all the large cities, and</p><p> they appealed to the perishing middle class and to the</p><p> proletariat. So large was his following that he managed to</p><p> take possession of the empty shell of the old Democratic</p><p> Party. He occupied an anomalous position, preaching an</p><p> emasculated socialism combined with a nondescript sort of</p><p> petty bourgeois capitalism. It was oil and water, and there</p><p> was no hope for him, though for a short period he was a</p><p> source of serious apprehension to the Plutocrats.</p><p> ** The cost of advertising was amazing in those helter-</p><p> skelter times. Only the small capitalists competed, and</p><p> therefore they did the advertising. There being no</p><p> competition where there was a trust, there was no need for</p><p> the trusts to advertise.</p><p>The whole middle class had not yet been exterminated. The sturdy </p><p>skeleton of it remained; but it was without power. The small </p><p>manufacturers and small business men who still survived were at the </p><p>complete mercy of the Plutocracy. They had no economic nor political </p><p>souls of their own. When the fiat of the Plutocracy went forth, they </p><p>withdrew their advertisements from the Hearst papers. </p><p>Hearst made a gallant fight. He brought his papers out at a loss of </p><p>a million and a half each month. He continued to publish the </p><p>advertisements for which he no longer received pay. Again the fiat of </p><p>the Plutocracy went forth, and the small business men and manufacturers </p><p>swamped him with a flood of notices that he must discontinue running </p><p>their old advertisements. Hearst persisted. Injunctions were served </p><p>on him. Still he persisted. He received six months' imprisonment for </p><p>contempt of court in disobeying the injunctions, while he was bankrupted </p><p>by countless damage suits. He had no chance. The Plutocracy had passed </p><p>sentence on him. The courts were in the hands of the Plutocracy to </p><p>carry the sentence out. And with Hearst crashed also to destruction the </p><p>Democratic Party that he had so recently captured. </p><p>With the destruction of Hearst and the Democratic Party, there were only </p><p>two paths for his following to take. One was into the Socialist Party; </p><p>the other was into the Republican Party. Then it was that we socialists </p><p>reaped the fruit of Hearst's pseudo-socialistic preaching; for the great </p><p>Majority of his followers came over to us. </p><p>The expropriation of the farmers that took place at this time would also </p><p>have swelled our vote had it not been for the brief and futile rise of </p><p>the Grange Party. Ernest and the socialist leaders fought fiercely to </p><p>capture the farmers; but the destruction of the socialist press </p><p>and publishing houses constituted too great a handicap, while the </p><p>mouth-to-mouth propaganda had not yet been perfected. So it was that </p><p>politicians like Mr. Calvin, who were themselves farmers long since </p><p>expropriated, captured the farmers and threw their political strength </p><p>away in a vain campaign. </p><p>"The poor farmers," Ernest once laughed savagely; "the trusts have them </p><p>both coming and going." </p><p>And that was really the situation. The seven great trusts, working </p><p>together, had pooled their enormous surpluses and made a farm trust. </p><p>The railroads, controlling rates, and the bankers and stock exchange </p><p>gamesters, controlling prices, had long since bled the farmers into </p><p>indebtedness. The bankers, and all the trusts for that matter, had </p><p>likewise long since loaned colossal amounts of money to the farmers. The </p><p>farmers were in the net. All that remained to be done was the drawing in </p><p>of the net. This the farm trust proceeded to do. </p><p>The hard times of 1912 had already caused a frightful slump in the farm </p><p>markets. Prices were now deliberately pressed down to bankruptcy, </p><p>while the railroads, with extortionate rates, broke the back of the </p><p>farmer-camel. Thus the farmers were compelled to borrow more and more, </p><p>while they were prevented from paying back old loans. Then ensued the </p><p>great foreclosing of mortgages and enforced collection of notes. The </p><p>farmers simply surrendered the land to the farm trust. There was nothing </p><p>else for them to do. And having surrendered the land, the farmers next </p><p>went to work for the farm trust, becoming managers, superintendents, </p><p>foremen, and common laborers. They worked for wages. They became </p><p>villeins, in short--serfs bound to the soil by a living wage. They could </p><p>not leave their masters, for their masters composed the Plutocracy. </p><p>They could not go to the cities, for there, also, the Plutocracy was </p><p>in control. They had but one alternative,--to leave the soil and become </p><p>vagrants, in brief, to starve. And even there they were frustrated, for </p><p>stringent vagrancy laws were passed and rigidly enforced. </p><p>Of course, here and there, farmers, and even whole communities of </p><p>farmers, escaped expropriation by virtue of exceptional conditions. But </p><p>they were merely strays and did not count, and they were gathered in </p><p>anyway during the following year.* </p><p> * The destruction of the Roman yeomanry proceeded far less</p><p> rapidly than the destruction of the American farmers and</p><p> small capitalists. There was momentum in the twentieth</p><p> century, while there was practically none in ancient Rome.</p><p> Numbers of the farmers, impelled by an insane lust for the</p><p> soil, and willing to show what beasts they could become,</p><p> tried to escape expropriation by withdrawing from any and</p><p> all market-dealing. They sold nothing. They bought</p><p> nothing. Among themselves a primitive barter began to</p><p> spring up. Their privation and hardships were terrible, but</p><p> they persisted. It became quite a movement, in fact. The</p><p> manner in which they were beaten was unique and logical and</p><p> simple. The Plutocracy, by virtue of its possession of the</p><p> government, raised their taxes. It was the weak joint in</p><p> their armor. Neither buying nor selling, they had no money,</p><p> and in the end their land was sold to pay the taxes.</p><p>Thus it was that in the fall of 1912 the socialist leaders, with the </p><p>exception of Ernest, decided that the end of capitalism had come. What </p><p>of the hard times and the consequent vast army of the unemployed; what </p><p>of the destruction of the farmers and the middle class; and what of the </p><p>decisive defeat administered all along the line to the labor unions; the </p><p>socialists were really justified in believing that the end of capitalism </p><p>had come and in themselves throwing down the gauntlet to the Plutocracy. </p><p>Alas, how we underestimated the strength of the enemy! Everywhere the </p><p>socialists proclaimed their coming victory at the ballot-box, while, in </p><p>unmistakable terms, they stated the situation. The Plutocracy accepted </p><p>the challenge. It was the Plutocracy, weighing and balancing, that </p><p>defeated us by dividing our strength. It was the Plutocracy, through its </p><p>secret agents, that raised the cry that socialism was sacrilegious </p><p>and atheistic; it was the Plutocracy that whipped the churches, and </p><p>especially the Catholic Church, into line, and robbed us of a portion of </p><p>the labor vote. And it was the Plutocracy, through its secret agents </p><p>of course, that encouraged the Grange Party and even spread it to the </p><p>cities into the ranks of the dying middle class.</p><p>Nevertheless the socialist landslide occurred. But, instead of a </p><p>sweeping victory with chief executive officers and majorities in all </p><p>legislative bodies, we found ourselves in the minority. It is true, we </p><p>elected fifty Congressmen; but when they took their seats in the spring </p><p>of 1913, they found themselves without power of any sort. Yet they </p><p>were more fortunate than the Grangers, who captured a dozen state </p><p>governments, and who, in the spring, were not permitted to take </p><p>possession of the captured offices. The incumbents refused to retire, </p><p>and the courts were in the hands of the Oligarchy. But this is too far </p><p>in advance of events. I have yet to tell of the stirring times of the </p><p>winter of 1912. </p><p>The hard times at home had caused an immense decrease in consumption. </p><p>Labor, out of work, had no wages with which to buy. The result was that </p><p>the Plutocracy found a greater surplus than ever on its hands. This </p><p>surplus it was compelled to dispose of abroad, and, what of its colossal </p><p>plans, it needed money. Because of its strenuous efforts to dispose of </p><p>the surplus in the world market, the Plutocracy clashed with Germany. </p><p>Economic clashes were usually succeeded by wars, and this particular </p><p>clash was no exception. The great German war-lord prepared, and so did </p><p>the United States prepare. </p><p>The war-cloud hovered dark and ominous. The stage was set for a </p><p>world-catastrophe, for in all the world were hard times, labor troubles, </p><p>perishing middle classes, armies of unemployed, clashes of economic </p><p>interests in the world-market, and mutterings and rumblings of the </p><p>socialist revolution.* </p><p> * For a long time these mutterings and rumblings had been</p><p> heard. As far back as 1906 A.D., Lord Avebury, an</p><p> Englishman, uttered the following in the House of Lords:</p><p> "The unrest in Europe, the spread of socialism, and the</p><p> ominous rise of Anarchism, are warnings to the governments</p><p> and the ruling classes that the condition of the working</p><p> classes in Europe is becoming intolerable, and that if a</p><p> revolution is to be avoided some steps must be taken to</p><p> increase wages, reduce the hours of labor, and lower the</p><p> prices of the necessaries of life." The Wall Street</p><p> Journal, a stock gamesters' publication, in commenting upon</p><p> Lord Avebury's speech, said: "These words were spoken by an</p><p> aristocrat and a member of the most conservative body in all</p><p> Europe. That gives them all the more significance. They</p><p> contain more valuable political economy than is to be found</p><p> in most of the books. They sound a note of warning. Take</p><p> heed, gentlemen of the war and navy departments!"</p><p> At the same time, Sydney Brooks, writing in America, in</p><p> Harper's Weekly, said: "You will not hear the socialists</p><p> mentioned in Washington. Why should you? The politicians</p><p> are always the last people in this country to see what is</p><p> going on under their noses. They will jeer at me when I</p><p> prophesy, and prophesy with the utmost confidence, that at</p><p> the next presidential election the socialists will poll over</p><p> a million votes."</p><p>The Oligarchy wanted the war with Germany. And it wanted the war for a </p><p>dozen reasons. In the juggling of events such a war would cause, in the </p><p>reshuffling of the international cards and the making of new treaties</p><p>and alliances, the Oligarchy had much to gain. And, furthermore, the war </p><p>would consume many national surpluses, reduce the armies of unemployed </p><p>that menaced all countries, and give the Oligarchy a breathing space </p><p>in which to perfect its plans and carry them out. Such a war would </p><p>virtually put the Oligarchy in possession of the world-market. Also, </p><p>such a war would create a large standing army that need never be </p><p>disbanded, while in the minds of the people would be substituted </p><p>the issue, "America versus Germany," in place of "Socialism versus </p><p>Oligarchy." </p><p>And truly the war would have done all these things had it not been for </p><p>the socialists. A secret meeting of the Western leaders was held in our </p><p>four tiny rooms in Pell Street. Here was first considered the stand the </p><p>socialists were to take. It was not the first time we had put our foot </p><p>down upon war,* but it was the first time we had done so in the United </p><p>States. After our secret meeting we got in touch with the national </p><p>organization, and soon our code cables were passing back and forth </p><p>across the Atlantic between us and the International Bureau. </p><p> * It was at the very beginning of the twentieth century</p><p> A.D., that the international organization of the socialists</p><p> finally formulated their long-maturing policy on war.</p><p> Epitomized their doctrine was: "Why should the workingmen of</p><p> one country fight with the workingmen of another country for</p><p> the benefit of their capitalist masters?"</p><p> On May 21, 1905 A.D., when war threatened between Austria</p><p> and Italy, the socialists of Italy, Austria, and Hungary</p><p> held a conference at Trieste, and threatened a general</p><p> strike of the workingmen of both countries in case war was</p><p> declared. This was repeated the following year, when the</p><p> "Morocco Affair" threatened to involve France, Germany, and</p><p> England.</p><p>The German socialists were ready to act with us. There were over five </p><p>million of them, many of them in the standing army, and, in addition, </p><p>they were on friendly terms with the labor unions. In both countries the </p><p>socialists came out in bold declaration against the war and threatened </p><p>the general strike. And in the meantime they made preparation for the </p><p>general strike. Furthermore, the revolutionary parties in all countries </p><p>gave public utterance to the socialist principle of international peace </p><p>that must be preserved at all hazards, even to the extent of revolt and </p><p>revolution at home. </p><p>The general strike was the one great victory we American socialists </p><p>won. On the 4th of December the American minister was withdrawn from </p><p>the German capital. That night a German fleet made a dash on Honolulu, </p><p>sinking three American cruisers and a revenue cutter, and bombarding </p><p>the city. Next day both Germany and the United States declared war, </p><p>and within an hour the socialists called the general strike in both </p><p>countries. </p><p>For the first time the German war-lord faced the men of his empire </p><p>who made his empire go. Without them he could not run his empire. The </p><p>novelty of the situation lay in that their revolt was passive. They </p><p>did not fight. They did nothing. And by doing nothing they tied their </p><p>war-lord's hands. He would have asked for nothing better than an </p><p>opportunity to loose his war-dogs on his rebellious proletariat. But </p><p>this was denied him. He could not loose his war-dogs. Neither could</p><p>he mobilize his army to go forth to war, nor could he punish his </p><p>recalcitrant subjects. Not a wheel moved in his empire. Not a train ran, </p><p>not a telegraphic message went over the wires, for the telegraphers and </p><p>railroad men had ceased work along with the rest of the population. </p><p>And as it was in Germany, so it was in the United States. At last </p><p>organized labor had learned its lesson. Beaten decisively on its own </p><p>chosen field, it had abandoned that field and come over to the political </p><p>field of the socialists; for the general strike was a political strike. </p><p>Besides, organized labor had been so badly beaten that it did not care. </p><p>It joined in the general strike out of sheer desperation. The workers </p><p>threw down their tools and left their tasks by the millions. Especially </p><p>notable were the machinists. Their heads were bloody, their organization </p><p>had apparently been destroyed, yet out they came, along with their </p><p>allies in the metal-working trades. </p><p>Even the common laborers and all unorganized labor ceased work. The </p><p>strike had tied everything up so that nobody could work. Besides, the </p><p>women proved to be the strongest promoters of the strike. They set their </p><p>faces against the war. They did not want their men to go forth to </p><p>die. Then, also, the idea of the general strike caught the mood of the </p><p>people. It struck their sense of humor. The idea was infectious. The </p><p>children struck in all the schools, and such teachers as came, went home </p><p>again from deserted class rooms. The general strike took the form of </p><p>a great national picnic. And the idea of the solidarity of labor, so </p><p>evidenced, appealed to the imagination of all. And, finally, there was </p><p>no danger to be incurred by the colossal frolic. When everybody was </p><p>guilty, how was anybody to be punished? </p><p>The United States was paralyzed. No one knew what was happening. There </p><p>were no newspapers, no letters, no despatches. Every community was as </p><p>completely isolated as though ten thousand miles of primeval wilderness </p><p>stretched between it and the rest of the world. For that matter, the </p><p>world had ceased to exist. And for a week this state of affairs was </p><p>maintained. </p><p>In San Francisco we did not know what was happening even across the bay </p><p>in Oakland or Berkeley. The effect on one's sensibilities was weird, </p><p>depressing. It seemed as though some great cosmic thing lay dead. The </p><p>pulse of the land had ceased to beat. Of a truth the nation had died. </p><p>There were no wagons rumbling on the streets, no factory whistles, no </p><p>hum of electricity in the air, no passing of street cars, no cries </p><p>of news-boys--nothing but persons who at rare intervals went by like </p><p>furtive ghosts, themselves oppressed and made unreal by the silence. </p><p>And during that week of silence the Oligarchy was taught its lesson. And </p><p>well it learned the lesson. The general strike was a warning. It should </p><p>never occur again. The Oligarchy would see to that. </p><p>At the end of the week, as had been prearranged, the telegraphers of </p><p>Germany and the United States returned to their posts. Through them the </p><p>socialist leaders of both countries presented their ultimatum to the </p><p>rulers. The war should be called off, or the general strike would </p><p>continue. It did not take long to come to an understanding. The war was </p><p>declared off, and the populations of both countries returned to their </p><p>tasks. </p><p>It was this renewal of peace that brought about the alliance between </p><p>Germany and the United States. In reality, this was an alliance between</p><p>the Emperor and the Oligarchy, for the purpose of meeting their common </p><p>foe, the revolutionary proletariat of both countries. And it was this </p><p>alliance that the Oligarchy afterward so treacherously broke when the </p><p>German socialists rose and drove the war-lord from his throne. It was </p><p>the very thing the Oligarchy had played for--the destruction of its </p><p>great rival in the world-market. With the German Emperor out of the way, </p><p>Germany would have no surplus to sell abroad. By the very nature of </p><p>the socialist state, the German population would consume all that it </p><p>produced. Of course, it would trade abroad certain things it produced </p><p>for things it did not produce; but this would be quite different from an </p><p>unconsumable surplus. </p><p>"I'll wager the Oligarchy finds justification," Ernest said, when its </p><p>treachery to the German Emperor became known. "As usual, the Oligarchy </p><p>will believe it has done right." </p><p>And sure enough. The Oligarchy's public defence for the act was that it </p><p>had done it for the sake of the American people whose interests it was </p><p>looking out for. It had flung its hated rival out of the world-market </p><p>and enabled us to dispose of our surplus in that market. </p><p>"And the howling folly of it is that we are so helpless that such idiots </p><p>really are managing our interests," was Ernest's comment. "They have </p><p>enabled us to sell more abroad, which means that we'll be compelled to </p><p>consume less at home." </p><p>CHAPTER XIV </p><p>THE BEGINNING OF THE END </p><p>As early as January, 1913, Ernest saw the true trend of affairs, but </p><p>he could not get his brother leaders to see the vision of the Iron </p><p>Heel that had arisen in his brain. They were too confident. Events were </p><p>rushing too rapidly to culmination. A crisis had come in world </p><p>affairs. The American Oligarchy was practically in possession of the </p><p>world-market, and scores of countries were flung out of that market with </p><p>unconsumable and unsalable surpluses on their hands. For such countries </p><p>nothing remained but reorganization. They could not continue their </p><p>method of producing surpluses. The capitalistic system, so far as they </p><p>were concerned, had hopelessly broken down. </p><p>The reorganization of these countries took the form of revolution. </p><p>It was a time of confusion and violence. Everywhere institutions and </p><p>governments were crashing. Everywhere, with the exception of two or </p><p>three countries, the erstwhile capitalist masters fought bitterly for </p><p>their possessions. But the governments were taken away from them by the </p><p>militant proletariat. At last was being realized Karl Marx's classic: </p><p>"The knell of private capitalist property sounds. The expropriators </p><p>are expropriated." And as fast as capitalistic governments crashed, </p><p>cooperative commonwealths arose in their place. </p><p>"Why does the United States lag behind?"; "Get busy, you American </p><p>revolutionists!"; "What's the matter with America?"--were the messages </p><p>sent to us by our successful comrades in other lands. But we could not </p><p>keep up. The Oligarchy stood in the way. Its bulk, like that of some </p><p>huge monster, blocked our path.</p><p>"Wait till we take office in the spring," we answered. "Then you'll </p><p>see." </p><p>Behind this lay our secret. We had won over the Grangers, and in the </p><p>spring a dozen states would pass into their hands by virtue of the </p><p>elections of the preceding fall. At once would be instituted a dozen </p><p>cooperative commonwealth states. After that, the rest would be easy. </p><p>"But what if the Grangers fail to get possession?" Ernest demanded. And </p><p>his comrades called him a calamity howler. </p><p>But this failure to get possession was not the chief danger that Ernest </p><p>had in mind. What he foresaw was the defection of the great labor unions </p><p>and the rise of the castes. </p><p>"Ghent has taught the oligarchs how to do it," Ernest said. "I'll wager </p><p>they've made a text-book out of his 'Benevolent Feudalism.'"* </p><p> * "Our Benevolent Feudalism," a book published in 1902 A.D.,</p><p> by W. J. Ghent. It has always been insisted that Ghent put</p><p> the idea of the Oligarchy into the minds of the great</p><p> capitalists. This belief persists throughout the literature</p><p> of the three centuries of the Iron Heel, and even in the</p><p> literature of the first century of the Brotherhood of Man.</p><p> To-day we know better, but our knowledge does not overcome</p><p> the fact that Ghent remains the most abused innocent man in</p><p> all history.</p><p>Never shall I forget the night when, after a hot discussion with half a </p><p>dozen labor leaders, Ernest turned to me and said quietly: "That settles </p><p>it. The Iron Heel has won. The end is in sight." </p><p>This little conference in our home was unofficial; but Ernest, like the </p><p>rest of his comrades, was working for assurances from the labor leaders </p><p>that they would call out their men in the next general strike. O'Connor, </p><p>the president of the Association of Machinists, had been foremost of the </p><p>six leaders present in refusing to give such assurance. </p><p>"You have seen that you were beaten soundly at your old tactics of </p><p>strike and boycott," Ernest urged. </p><p>O'Connor and the others nodded their heads. </p><p>"And you saw what a general strike would do," Ernest went on. "We </p><p>stopped the war with Germany. Never was there so fine a display of the </p><p>solidarity and the power of labor. Labor can and will rule the world. </p><p>If you continue to stand with us, we'll put an end to the reign of </p><p>capitalism. It is your only hope. And what is more, you know it. There </p><p>is no other way out. No matter what you do under your old tactics, you </p><p>are doomed to defeat, if for no other reason because the masters control </p><p>the courts."* </p><p> * As a sample of the decisions of the courts adverse to</p><p> labor, the following instances are given. In the coal-</p><p> mining regions the employment of children was notorious. In</p><p> 1905 A.D., labor succeeded in getting a law passed in</p><p> Pennsylvania providing that proof of the age of the child</p><p> and of certain educational qualifications must accompany the</p><p> oath of the parent. This was promptly declared</p><p> unconstitutional by the Luzerne County Court, on the ground</p><p> that it violated the Fourteenth Amendment in that it</p><p> discriminated between individuals of the same class--namely,</p><p> children above fourteen years of age and children below.</p><p> The state court sustained the decision. The New York Court</p><p> of Special Sessions, in 1905 A.D., declared unconstitutional</p><p> the law prohibiting minors and women from working in</p><p> factories after nine o'clock at night, the ground taken</p><p> being that such a law was "class legislation." Again, the</p><p> bakers of that time were terribly overworked. The New York</p><p> Legislature passed a law restricting work in bakeries to ten</p><p> hours a day. In 1906 A.D., the Supreme Court of the United</p><p> States declared this law to be unconstitutional. In part</p><p> the decision read: "There is no reasonable ground for</p><p> interfering with the liberty of persons or the right of free</p><p> contract by determining the hours of labor in the occupation</p><p> of a baker."</p><p>"You run ahead too fast," O'Connor answered. "You don't know all the </p><p>ways out. There is another way out. We know what we're about. We're sick </p><p>of strikes. They've got us beaten that way to a frazzle. But I don't </p><p>think we'll ever need to call our men out again." </p><p>"What is your way out?" Ernest demanded bluntly. </p><p>O'Connor laughed and shook his head. "I can tell you this much: We've </p><p>not been asleep. And we're not dreaming now." </p><p>"There's nothing to be afraid of, or ashamed of, I hope," Ernest </p><p>challenged. </p><p>"I guess we know our business best," was the retort. </p><p>"It's a dark business, from the way you hide it," Ernest said with </p><p>growing anger. </p><p>"We've paid for our experience in sweat and blood, and we've earned all </p><p>that's coming to us," was the reply. "Charity begins at home." </p><p>"If you're afraid to tell me your way out, I'll tell it to you." </p><p>Ernest's blood was up. "You're going in for grab-sharing. You've made </p><p>terms with the enemy, that's what you've done. You've sold out the cause </p><p>of labor, of all labor. You are leaving the battle-field like cowards." </p><p>"I'm not saying anything," O'Connor answered sullenly. "Only I guess we </p><p>know what's best for us a little bit better than you do." </p><p>"And you don't care a cent for what is best for the rest of labor. You </p><p>kick it into the ditch." </p><p>"I'm not saying anything," O'Connor replied, "except that I'm president </p><p>of the Machinists' Association, and it's my business to consider the </p><p>interests of the men I represent, that's all." </p><p>And then, when the labor leaders had left, Ernest, with the calmness of </p><p>defeat, outlined to me the course of events to come. </p><p>"The socialists used to foretell with joy," he said, "the coming of the</p><p>day when organized labor, defeated on the industrial field, would come </p><p>over on to the political field. Well, the Iron Heel has defeated </p><p>the labor unions on the industrial field and driven them over to the </p><p>political field; and instead of this being joyful for us, it will be </p><p>a source of grief. The Iron Heel learned its lesson. We showed it our </p><p>power in the general strike. It has taken steps to prevent another </p><p>general strike." </p><p>"But how?" I asked. </p><p>"Simply by subsidizing the great unions. They won't join in the next </p><p>general strike. Therefore it won't be a general strike." </p><p>"But the Iron Heel can't maintain so costly a programme forever," I </p><p>objected. </p><p>"Oh, it hasn't subsidized all of the unions. That's not necessary. Here </p><p>is what is going to happen. Wages are going to be advanced and hours </p><p>shortened in the railroad unions, the iron and steel workers unions, </p><p>and the engineer and machinist unions. In these unions more favorable </p><p>conditions will continue to prevail. Membership in these unions will </p><p>become like seats in Paradise." </p><p>"Still I don't see," I objected. "What is to become of the other unions? </p><p>There are far more unions outside of this combination than in it." </p><p>"The other unions will be ground out of existence--all of them. For, </p><p>don't you see, the railway men, machinists and engineers, iron and </p><p>steel workers, do all of the vitally essential work in our machine </p><p>civilization. Assured of their faithfulness, the Iron Heel can snap </p><p>its fingers at all the rest of labor. Iron, steel, coal, machinery, and </p><p>transportation constitute the backbone of the whole industrial fabric." </p><p>"But coal?" I queried. "There are nearly a million coal miners." </p><p>They are practically unskilled labor. They will not count. Their wages </p><p>will go down and their hours will increase. They will be slaves like all </p><p>the rest of us, and they will become about the most bestial of all of </p><p>us. They will be compelled to work, just as the farmers are compelled </p><p>to work now for the masters who robbed them of their land. And the same </p><p>with all the other unions outside the combination. Watch them wobble and </p><p>go to pieces, and their members become slaves driven to toil by empty </p><p>stomachs and the law of the land. </p><p>"Do you know what will happen to Farley* and his strike-breakers? I'll </p><p>tell you. Strike-breaking as an occupation will cease. There won't be </p><p>any more strikes. In place of strikes will be slave revolts. Farley and </p><p>his gang will be promoted to slave-driving. Oh, it won't be called </p><p>that; it will be called enforcing the law of the land that compels the </p><p>laborers to work. It simply prolongs the fight, this treachery of the </p><p>big unions. Heaven only knows now where and when the Revolution will </p><p>triumph." </p><p> * James Farley--a notorious strike-breaker of the period. A</p><p> man more courageous than ethical, and of undeniable ability.</p><p> He rose high under the rule of the Iron Heel and finally was</p><p> translated into the oligarch class. He was assassinated in</p><p> 1932 by Sarah Jenkins, whose husband, thirty years before,</p><p> had been killed by Farley's strike-breakers.</p><p>"But with such a powerful combination as the Oligarchy and the big </p><p>unions, is there any reason to believe that the Revolution will ever </p><p>triumph?" I queried. "May not the combination endure forever?" </p><p>He shook his head. "One of our generalizations is that every system </p><p>founded upon class and caste contains within itself the germs of its own </p><p>decay. When a system is founded upon class, how can caste be prevented? </p><p>The Iron Heel will not be able to prevent it, and in the end caste will </p><p>destroy the Iron Heel. The oligarchs have already developed caste among </p><p>themselves; but wait until the favored unions develop caste. The Iron </p><p>Heel will use all its power to prevent it, but it will fail. </p><p>"In the favored unions are the flower of the American workingmen. They </p><p>are strong, efficient men. They have become members of those unions </p><p>through competition for place. Every fit workman in the United States </p><p>will be possessed by the ambition to become a member of the favored </p><p>unions. The Oligarchy will encourage such ambition and the consequent </p><p>competition. Thus will the strong men, who might else be revolutionists, </p><p>be won away and their strength used to bolster the Oligarchy. </p><p>"On the other hand, the labor castes, the members of the favored unions, </p><p>will strive to make their organizations into close corporations. </p><p>And they will succeed. Membership in the labor castes will become </p><p>hereditary. Sons will succeed fathers, and there will be no inflow of </p><p>new strength from that eternal reservoir of strength, the common people. </p><p>This will mean deterioration of the labor castes, and in the end they </p><p>will become weaker and weaker. At the same time, as an institution, they </p><p>will become temporarily all-powerful. They will be like the guards of </p><p>the palace in old Rome, and there will be palace revolutions whereby </p><p>the labor castes will seize the reins of power. And there will be </p><p>counter-palace revolutions of the oligarchs, and sometimes the one, and </p><p>sometimes the other, will be in power. And through it all the inevitable </p><p>caste-weakening will go on, so that in the end the common people will </p><p>come into their own." </p><p>This foreshadowing of a slow social evolution was made when Ernest was </p><p>first depressed by the defection of the great unions. I never agreed </p><p>with him in it, and I disagree now, as I write these lines, more </p><p>heartily than ever; for even now, though Ernest is gone, we are on the </p><p>verge of the revolt that will sweep all oligarchies away. Yet I have </p><p>here given Ernest's prophecy because it was his prophecy. In spite of </p><p>his belief in it, he worked like a giant against it, and he, more than </p><p>any man, has made possible the revolt that even now waits the signal to </p><p>burst forth.* </p><p> * Everhard's social foresight was remarkable. As clearly as</p><p> in the light of past events, he saw the defection of the</p><p> favored unions, the rise and the slow decay of the labor</p><p> castes, and the struggle between the decaying oligarchs and</p><p> labor castes for control of the great governmental machine.</p><p>"But if the Oligarchy persists," I asked him that evening, "what will </p><p>become of the great surpluses that will fall to its share every year?" </p><p>"The surpluses will have to be expended somehow," he answered; "and </p><p>trust the oligarchs to find a way. Magnificent roads will be built. </p><p>There will be great achievements in science, and especially in art. When </p><p>the oligarchs have completely mastered the people, they will have time</p><p>to spare for other things. They will become worshippers of beauty. </p><p>They will become art-lovers. And under their direction and generously </p><p>rewarded, will toil the artists. The result will be great art; for no </p><p>longer, as up to yesterday, will the artists pander to the bourgeois </p><p>taste of the middle class. It will be great art, I tell you, and wonder </p><p>cities will arise that will make tawdry and cheap the cities of old </p><p>time. And in these cities will the oligarchs dwell and worship beauty.* </p><p> * We cannot but marvel at Everhard's foresight. Before ever</p><p> the thought of wonder cities like Ardis and Asgard entered</p><p> the minds of the oligarchs, Everhard saw those cities and</p><p> the inevitable necessity for their creation.</p><p>"Thus will the surplus be constantly expended while labor does the work. </p><p>The building of these great works and cities will give a starvation </p><p>ration to millions of common laborers, for the enormous bulk of the </p><p>surplus will compel an equally enormous expenditure, and the oligarchs </p><p>will build for a thousand years--ay, for ten thousand years. They will </p><p>build as the Egyptians and the Babylonians never dreamed of building; </p><p>and when the oligarchs have passed away, their great roads and their </p><p>wonder cities will remain for the brotherhood of labor to tread upon and </p><p>dwell within.* </p><p> * And since that day of prophecy, have passed away the three</p><p> centuries of the Iron Heel and the four centuries of the</p><p> Brotherhood of Man, and to-day we tread the roads and dwell</p><p> in the cities that the oligarchs built. It is true, we are</p><p> even now building still more wonderful wonder cities, but</p><p> the wonder cities of the oligarchs endure, and I write these</p><p> lines in Ardis, one of the most wonderful of them all.</p><p>"These things the oligarchs will do because they cannot help doing them. </p><p>These great works will be the form their expenditure of the surplus will </p><p>take, and in the same way that the ruling classes of Egypt of long ago </p><p>expended the surplus they robbed from the people by the building of </p><p>temples and pyramids. Under the oligarchs will flourish, not a priest </p><p>class, but an artist class. And in place of the merchant class of </p><p>bourgeoisie will be the labor castes. And beneath will be the abyss, </p><p>wherein will fester and starve and rot, and ever renew itself, the </p><p>common people, the great bulk of the population. And in the end, who </p><p>knows in what day, the common people will rise up out of the abyss; the </p><p>labor castes and the Oligarchy will crumble away; and then, at last, </p><p>after the travail of the centuries, will it be the day of the common </p><p>man. I had thought to see that day; but now I know that I shall never </p><p>see it." </p><p>He paused and looked at me, and added: </p><p>"Social evolution is exasperatingly slow, isn't it, sweetheart?" </p><p>My arms were about him, and his head was on my breast. </p><p>"Sing me to sleep," he murmured whimsically. "I have had a visioning, </p><p>and I wish to forget." </p><p>CHAPTER XV </p><p>LAST DAYS </p><p>It was near the end of January, 1913, that the changed attitude of the </p><p>Oligarchy toward the favored unions was made public. The newspapers </p><p>published information of an unprecedented rise in wages and shortening </p><p>of hours for the railroad employees, the iron and steel workers, and </p><p>the engineers and machinists. But the whole truth was not told. The </p><p>oligarchs did not dare permit the telling of the whole truth. In </p><p>reality, the wages had been raised much higher, and the privileges were </p><p>correspondingly greater. All this was secret, but secrets will out. </p><p>Members of the favored unions told their wives, and the wives gossiped, </p><p>and soon all the labor world knew what had happened. </p><p>It was merely the logical development of what in the nineteenth century </p><p>had been known as grab-sharing. In the industrial warfare of that time, </p><p>profit-sharing had been tried. That is, the capitalists had striven to </p><p>placate the workers by interesting them financially in their work. </p><p>But profit-sharing, as a system, was ridiculous and impossible. </p><p>Profit-sharing could be successful only in isolated cases in the midst </p><p>of a system of industrial strife; for if all labor and all capital </p><p>shared profits, the same conditions would obtain as did obtain when </p><p>there was no profit-sharing. </p><p>So, out of the unpractical idea of profit-sharing, arose the practical </p><p>idea of grab-sharing. "Give us more pay and charge it to the public," </p><p>was the slogan of the strong unions.* And here and there this selfish </p><p>policy worked successfully. In charging it to the public, it was charged </p><p>to the great mass of unorganized labor and of weakly organized labor. </p><p>These workers actually paid the increased wages of their stronger </p><p>brothers who were members of unions that were labor monopolies. This </p><p>idea, as I say, was merely carried to its logical conclusion, on a large </p><p>scale, by the combination of the oligarchs and the favored unions. </p><p> * All the railroad unions entered into this combination with</p><p> the oligarchs, and it is of interest to note that the first</p><p> definite application of the policy of profit-grabbing was</p><p> made by a railroad union in the nineteenth century A.D.,</p><p> namely, the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers. P. M.</p><p> Arthur was for twenty years Grand Chief of the Brotherhood.</p><p> After the strike on the Pennsylvania Railroad in 1877, he</p><p> broached a scheme to have the Locomotive Engineers make</p><p> terms with the railroads and to "go it alone" so far as the</p><p> rest of the labor unions were concerned. This scheme was</p><p> eminently successful. It was as successful as it was</p><p> selfish, and out of it was coined the word "arthurization,"</p><p> to denote grab-sharing on the part of labor unions. This</p><p> word "arthurization" has long puzzled the etymologists, but</p><p> its derivation, I hope, is now made clear.</p><p>As soon as the secret of the defection of the favored unions leaked </p><p>out, there were rumblings and mutterings in the labor world. Next, the </p><p>favored unions withdrew from the international organizations and broke </p><p>off all affiliations. Then came trouble and violence. The members of the </p><p>favored unions were branded as traitors, and in saloons and brothels, on </p><p>the streets and at work, and, in fact, everywhere, they were assaulted </p><p>by the comrades they had so treacherously deserted. </p><p>Countless heads were broken, and there were many killed. No member of</p><p>the favored unions was safe. They gathered together in bands in order to </p><p>go to work or to return from work. They walked always in the middle </p><p>of the street. On the sidewalk they were liable to have their skulls </p><p>crushed by bricks and cobblestones thrown from windows and house-tops. </p><p>They were permitted to carry weapons, and the authorities aided them </p><p>in every way. Their persecutors were sentenced to long terms in prison, </p><p>where they were harshly treated; while no man, not a member of the </p><p>favored unions, was permitted to carry weapons. Violation of this law </p><p>was made a high misdemeanor and punished accordingly. </p><p>Outraged labor continued to wreak vengeance on the traitors. Caste lines </p><p>formed automatically. The children of the traitors were persecuted </p><p>by the children of the workers who had been betrayed, until it was </p><p>impossible for the former to play on the streets or to attend the public </p><p>schools. Also, the wives and families of the traitors were ostracized, </p><p>while the corner groceryman who sold provisions to them was boycotted. </p><p>As a result, driven back upon themselves from every side, the traitors </p><p>and their families became clannish. Finding it impossible to dwell in </p><p>safety in the midst of the betrayed proletariat, they moved into new </p><p>localities inhabited by themselves alone. In this they were favored by </p><p>the oligarchs. Good dwellings, modern and sanitary, were built for them, </p><p>surrounded by spacious yards, and separated here and there by parks and </p><p>playgrounds. Their children attended schools especially built for </p><p>them, and in these schools manual training and applied science were </p><p>specialized upon. Thus, and unavoidably, at the very beginning, out of </p><p>this segregation arose caste. The members of the favored unions became </p><p>the aristocracy of labor. They were set apart from the rest of labor. </p><p>They were better housed, better clothed, better fed, better treated. </p><p>They were grab-sharing with a vengeance. </p><p>In the meantime, the rest of the working class was more harshly treated. </p><p>Many little privileges were taken away from it, while its wages and its </p><p>standard of living steadily sank down. Incidentally, its public schools </p><p>deteriorated, and education slowly ceased to be compulsory. The increase </p><p>in the younger generation of children who could not read nor write was </p><p>perilous. </p><p>The capture of the world-market by the United States had disrupted the </p><p>rest of the world. Institutions and governments were everywhere crashing </p><p>or transforming. Germany, Italy, France, Australia, and New Zealand were </p><p>busy forming cooperative commonwealths. The British Empire was falling </p><p>apart. England's hands were full. In India revolt was in full swing. The </p><p>cry in all Asia was, "Asia for the Asiatics!" And behind this cry was </p><p>Japan, ever urging and aiding the yellow and brown races against the </p><p>white. And while Japan dreamed of continental empire and strove to </p><p>realize the dream, she suppressed her own proletarian revolution. It </p><p>was a simple war of the castes, Coolie versus Samurai, and the coolie </p><p>socialists were executed by tens of thousands. Forty thousand were </p><p>killed in the street-fighting of Tokio and in the futile assault on </p><p>the Mikado's palace. Kobe was a shambles; the slaughter of the cotton </p><p>operatives by machine-guns became classic as the most terrific execution </p><p>ever achieved by modern war machines. Most savage of all was the </p><p>Japanese Oligarchy that arose. Japan dominated the East, and took </p><p>to herself the whole Asiatic portion of the world-market, with the </p><p>exception of India. </p><p>England managed to crush her own proletarian revolution and to hold on </p><p>to India, though she was brought to the verge of exhaustion. Also, she</p><p>was compelled to let her great colonies slip away from her. So it was </p><p>that the socialists succeeded in making Australia and New Zealand into </p><p>cooperative commonwealths. And it was for the same reason that Canada </p><p>was lost to the mother country. But Canada crushed her own socialist </p><p>revolution, being aided in this by the Iron Heel. At the same time, the </p><p>Iron Heel helped Mexico and Cuba to put down revolt. The result was that </p><p>the Iron Heel was firmly established in the New World. It had welded </p><p>into one compact political mass the whole of North America from the </p><p>Panama Canal to the Arctic Ocean. </p><p>And England, at the sacrifice of her great colonies, had succeeded only </p><p>in retaining India. But this was no more than temporary. The struggle </p><p>with Japan and the rest of Asia for India was merely delayed. England </p><p>was destined shortly to lose India, while behind that event loomed the </p><p>struggle between a united Asia and the world. </p><p>And while all the world was torn with conflict, we of the United States </p><p>were not placid and peaceful. The defection of the great unions had </p><p>prevented our proletarian revolt, but violence was everywhere. In </p><p>addition to the labor troubles, and the discontent of the farmers and of </p><p>the remnant of the middle class, a religious revival had blazed up. An </p><p>offshoot of the Seventh Day Adventists sprang into sudden prominence, </p><p>proclaiming the end of the world. </p><p>"Confusion thrice confounded!" Ernest cried. "How can we hope for </p><p>solidarity with all these cross purposes and conflicts?" </p><p>And truly the religious revival assumed formidable proportions. The </p><p>people, what of their wretchedness, and of their disappointment in </p><p>all things earthly, were ripe and eager for a heaven where industrial </p><p>tyrants entered no more than camels passed through needle-eyes. </p><p>Wild-eyed itinerant preachers swarmed over the land; and despite </p><p>the prohibition of the civil authorities, and the persecution for </p><p>disobedience, the flames of religious frenzy were fanned by countless </p><p>camp-meetings. </p><p>It was the last days, they claimed, the beginning of the end of the </p><p>world. The four winds had been loosed. God had stirred the nations </p><p>to strife. It was a time of visions and miracles, while seers and </p><p>prophetesses were legion. The people ceased work by hundreds of </p><p>thousands and fled to the mountains, there to await the imminent coming </p><p>of God and the rising of the hundred and forty and four thousand to </p><p>heaven. But in the meantime God did not come, and they starved to death </p><p>in great numbers. In their desperation they ravaged the farms for food, </p><p>and the consequent tumult and anarchy in the country districts but </p><p>increased the woes of the poor expropriated farmers. </p><p>Also, the farms and warehouses were the property of the Iron Heel. </p><p>Armies of troops were put into the field, and the fanatics were herded </p><p>back at the bayonet point to their tasks in the cities. There they broke </p><p>out in ever recurring mobs and riots. Their leaders were executed for </p><p>sedition or confined in madhouses. Those who were executed went to their </p><p>deaths with all the gladness of martyrs. It was a time of madness. The </p><p>unrest spread. In the swamps and deserts and waste places, from Florida </p><p>to Alaska, the small groups of Indians that survived were dancing ghost </p><p>dances and waiting the coming of a Messiah of their own. </p><p>And through it all, with a serenity and certitude that was terrifying, </p><p>continued to rise the form of that monster of the ages, the Oligarchy.</p><p>With iron hand and iron heel it mastered the surging millions, out </p><p>of confusion brought order, out of the very chaos wrought its own </p><p>foundation and structure. </p><p>"Just wait till we get in," the Grangers said--Calvin said it to us in </p><p>our Pell Street quarters. "Look at the states we've captured. With you </p><p>socialists to back us, we'll make them sing another song when we take </p><p>office." </p><p>"The millions of the discontented and the impoverished are ours," the </p><p>socialists said. "The Grangers have come over to us, the farmers, the </p><p>middle class, and the laborers. The capitalist system will fall to </p><p>pieces. In another month we send fifty men to Congress. Two years </p><p>hence every office will be ours, from the President down to the local </p><p>dog-catcher." </p><p>To all of which Ernest would shake his head and say: </p><p>"How many rifles have you got? Do you know where you can get plenty </p><p>of lead? When it comes to powder, chemical mixtures are better than </p><p>mechanical mixtures, you take my word." </p><p>CHAPTER XVI </p><p>THE END </p><p>When it came time for Ernest and me to go to Washington, father did not </p><p>accompany us. He had become enamoured of proletarian life. He looked </p><p>upon our slum neighborhood as a great sociological laboratory, and </p><p>he had embarked upon an apparently endless orgy of investigation. He </p><p>chummed with the laborers, and was an intimate in scores of homes. </p><p>Also, he worked at odd jobs, and the work was play as well as learned </p><p>investigation, for he delighted in it and was always returning home with </p><p>copious notes and bubbling over with new adventures. He was the perfect </p><p>scientist. </p><p>There was no need for his working at all, because Ernest managed to earn </p><p>enough from his translating to take care of the three of us. But father </p><p>insisted on pursuing his favorite phantom, and a protean phantom it was, </p><p>judging from the jobs he worked at. I shall never forget the evening he </p><p>brought home his street pedler's outfit of shoe-laces and suspenders, </p><p>nor the time I went into the little corner grocery to make some purchase </p><p>and had him wait on me. After that I was not surprised when he tended </p><p>bar for a week in the saloon across the street. He worked as a night </p><p>watchman, hawked potatoes on the street, pasted labels in a cannery </p><p>warehouse, was utility man in a paper-box factory, and water-carrier </p><p>for a street railway construction gang, and even joined the Dishwashers' </p><p>Union just before it fell to pieces. </p><p>I think the Bishop's example, so far as wearing apparel was concerned, </p><p>must have fascinated father, for he wore the cheap cotton shirt of the </p><p>laborer and the overalls with the narrow strap about the hips. Yet one </p><p>habit remained to him from the old life; he always dressed for dinner, </p><p>or supper, rather. </p><p>I could be happy anywhere with Ernest; and father's happiness in our</p><p>changed circumstances rounded out my own happiness. </p><p>"When I was a boy," father said, "I was very curious. I wanted to know </p><p>why things were and how they came to pass. That was why I became a </p><p>physicist. The life in me to-day is just as curious as it was in my </p><p>boyhood, and it's the being curious that makes life worth living." </p><p>Sometimes he ventured north of Market Street into the shopping and </p><p>theatre district, where he sold papers, ran errands, and opened cabs. </p><p>There, one day, closing a cab, he encountered Mr. Wickson. In high glee </p><p>father described the incident to us that evening. </p><p>"Wickson looked at me sharply when I closed the door on him, and </p><p>muttered, 'Well, I'll be damned.' Just like that he said it, 'Well, I'll </p><p>be damned.' His face turned red and he was so confused that he forgot to </p><p>tip me. But he must have recovered himself quickly, for the cab hadn't </p><p>gone fifty feet before it turned around and came back. He leaned out of </p><p>the door. </p><p>"'Look here, Professor,' he said, 'this is too much. What can I do for </p><p>you?' </p><p>"'I closed the cab door for you,' I answered. 'According to common </p><p>custom you might give me a dime.' </p><p>"'Bother that!' he snorted. 'I mean something substantial.' </p><p>"He was certainly serious--a twinge of ossified conscience or something; </p><p>and so I considered with grave deliberation for a moment. </p><p>"His face was quite expectant when I began my answer, but you should </p><p>have seen it when I finished. </p><p>"'You might give me back my home,' I said, 'and my stock in the Sierra </p><p>Mills.'" </p><p>Father paused. </p><p>"What did he say?" I questioned eagerly. </p><p>"What could he say? He said nothing. But I said. 'I hope you are happy.' </p><p>He looked at me curiously. 'Tell me, are you happy?'" I asked. </p><p>"He ordered the cabman to drive on, and went away swearing horribly. And </p><p>he didn't give me the dime, much less the home and stock; so you see, my </p><p>dear, your father's street-arab career is beset with disappointments." </p><p>And so it was that father kept on at our Pell Street quarters, while </p><p>Ernest and I went to Washington. Except for the final consummation, the </p><p>old order had passed away, and the final consummation was nearer than </p><p>I dreamed. Contrary to our expectation, no obstacles were raised to </p><p>prevent the socialist Congressmen from taking their seats. Everything </p><p>went smoothly, and I laughed at Ernest when he looked upon the very </p><p>smoothness as something ominous. </p><p>We found our socialist comrades confident, optimistic of their strength </p><p>and of the things they would accomplish. A few Grangers who had been </p><p>elected to Congress increased our strength, and an elaborate programme </p><p>of what was to be done was prepared by the united forces. In all of</p><p>which Ernest joined loyally and energetically, though he could not </p><p>forbear, now and again, from saying, apropos of nothing in particular, </p><p>"When it comes to powder, chemical mixtures are better than mechanical </p><p>mixtures, you take my word." </p><p>The trouble arose first with the Grangers in the various states they had </p><p>captured at the last election. There were a dozen of these states, but </p><p>the Grangers who had been elected were not permitted to take office. The </p><p>incumbents refused to get out. It was very simple. They merely charged </p><p>illegality in the elections and wrapped up the whole situation in the </p><p>interminable red tape of the law. The Grangers were powerless. The </p><p>courts were in the hands of their enemies. </p><p>This was the moment of danger. If the cheated Grangers became violent, </p><p>all was lost. How we socialists worked to hold them back! There were </p><p>days and nights when Ernest never closed his eyes in sleep. The big </p><p>leaders of the Grangers saw the peril and were with us to a man. But </p><p>it was all of no avail. The Oligarchy wanted violence, and it set </p><p>its agents-provocateurs to work. Without discussion, it was the </p><p>agents-provocateurs who caused the Peasant Revolt. </p><p>In a dozen states the revolt flared up. The expropriated farmers </p><p>took forcible possession of the state governments. Of course this was </p><p>unconstitutional, and of course the United States put its soldiers into </p><p>the field. Everywhere the agents-provocateurs urged the people on. These </p><p>emissaries of the Iron Heel disguised themselves as artisans, farmers, </p><p>and farm laborers. In Sacramento, the capital of California, the </p><p>Grangers had succeeded in maintaining order. Thousands of secret agents </p><p>were rushed to the devoted city. In mobs composed wholly of themselves, </p><p>they fired and looted buildings and factories. They worked the people </p><p>up until they joined them in the pillage. Liquor in large quantities was </p><p>distributed among the slum classes further to inflame their minds. And </p><p>then, when all was ready, appeared upon the scene the soldiers of the </p><p>United States, who were, in reality, the soldiers of the Iron Heel. </p><p>Eleven thousand men, women, and children were shot down on the streets </p><p>of Sacramento or murdered in their houses. The national government took </p><p>possession of the state government, and all was over for California. </p><p>And as with California, so elsewhere. Every Granger state was ravaged </p><p>with violence and washed in blood. First, disorder was precipitated by </p><p>the secret agents and the Black Hundreds, then the troops were called </p><p>out. Rioting and mob-rule reigned throughout the rural districts. Day </p><p>and night the smoke of burning farms, warehouses, villages, and cities </p><p>filled the sky. Dynamite appeared. Railroad bridges and tunnels were </p><p>blown up and trains were wrecked. The poor farmers were shot and hanged </p><p>in great numbers. Reprisals were bitter, and many plutocrats and army </p><p>officers were murdered. Blood and vengeance were in men's hearts. The </p><p>regular troops fought the farmers as savagely as had they been Indians. </p><p>And the regular troops had cause. Twenty-eight hundred of them had been </p><p>annihilated in a tremendous series of dynamite explosions in Oregon, </p><p>and in a similar manner, a number of train loads, at different times and </p><p>places, had been destroyed. So it was that the regular troops fought for </p><p>their lives as well as did the farmers. </p><p>As for the militia, the militia law of 1903 was put into effect, and the </p><p>workers of one state were compelled, under pain of death, to shoot down </p><p>their comrade-workers in other states. Of course, the militia law did </p><p>not work smoothly at first. Many militia officers were murdered, and </p><p>many militiamen were executed by drumhead court martial. Ernest's</p><p>prophecy was strikingly fulfilled in the cases of Mr. Kowalt and Mr. </p><p>Asmunsen. Both were eligible for the militia, and both were drafted to </p><p>serve in the punitive expedition that was despatched from California </p><p>against the farmers of Missouri. Mr. Kowalt and Mr. Asmunsen refused to </p><p>serve. They were given short shrift. Drumhead court martial was their </p><p>portion, and military execution their end. They were shot with their </p><p>backs to the firing squad. </p><p>Many young men fled into the mountains to escape serving in the militia. </p><p>There they became outlaws, and it was not until more peaceful times that </p><p>they received their punishment. It was drastic. The government issued a </p><p>proclamation for all law-abiding citizens to come in from the mountains </p><p>for a period of three months. When the proclaimed date arrived, half a </p><p>million soldiers were sent into the mountainous districts everywhere. </p><p>There was no investigation, no trial. Wherever a man was encountered, he </p><p>was shot down on the spot. The troops operated on the basis that no </p><p>man not an outlaw remained in the mountains. Some bands, in strong </p><p>positions, fought gallantly, but in the end every deserter from the </p><p>militia met death. </p><p>A more immediate lesson, however, was impressed on the minds of the </p><p>people by the punishment meted out to the Kansas militia. The great </p><p>Kansas Mutiny occurred at the very beginning of military operations </p><p>against the Grangers. Six thousand of the militia mutinied. They had </p><p>been for several weeks very turbulent and sullen, and for that reason </p><p>had been kept in camp. Their open mutiny, however, was without doubt </p><p>precipitated by the agents-provocateurs. </p><p>On the night of the 22d of April they arose and murdered their officers, </p><p>only a small remnant of the latter escaping. This was beyond the scheme </p><p>of the Iron Heel, for the agents-provocateurs had done their work too </p><p>well. But everything was grist to the Iron Heel. It had prepared for the </p><p>outbreak, and the killing of so many officers gave it justification for </p><p>what followed. As by magic, forty thousand soldiers of the regular army </p><p>surrounded the malcontents. It was a trap. The wretched militiamen found </p><p>that their machine-guns had been tampered with, and that the cartridges </p><p>from the captured magazines did not fit their rifles. They hoisted the </p><p>white flag of surrender, but it was ignored. There were no survivors. </p><p>The entire six thousand were annihilated. Common shell and shrapnel were </p><p>thrown in upon them from a distance, and, when, in their desperation, </p><p>they charged the encircling lines, they were mowed down by the </p><p>machine-guns. I talked with an eye-witness, and he said that the nearest </p><p>any militiaman approached the machine-guns was a hundred and fifty </p><p>yards. The earth was carpeted with the slain, and a final charge of </p><p>cavalry, with trampling of horses' hoofs, revolvers, and sabres, crushed </p><p>the wounded into the ground. </p><p>Simultaneously with the destruction of the Grangers came the revolt </p><p>of the coal miners. It was the expiring effort of organized labor. </p><p>Three-quarters of a million of miners went out on strike. But they </p><p>were too widely scattered over the country to advantage from their own </p><p>strength. They were segregated in their own districts and beaten into </p><p>submission. This was the first great slave-drive. Pocock* won his spurs </p><p>as a slave-driver and earned the undying hatred of the proletariat. </p><p>Countless attempts were made upon his life, but he seemed to bear a </p><p>charmed existence. It was he who was responsible for the introduction </p><p>of the Russian passport system among the miners, and the denial of their </p><p>right of removal from one part of the country to another. </p><p> * Albert Pocock, another of the notorious strike-breakers of</p><p> earlier years, who, to the day of his death, successfully</p><p> held all the coal-miners of the country to their task. He</p><p> was succeeded by his son, Lewis Pocock, and for five</p><p> generations this remarkable line of slave-drivers handled</p><p> the coal mines. The elder Pocock, known as Pocock I., has</p><p> been described as follows: "A long, lean head, semicircled</p><p> by a fringe of brown and gray hair, with big cheek-bones and</p><p> a heavy chin, . . . a pale face, lustreless gray eyes, a</p><p> metallic voice, and a languid manner." He was born of</p><p> humble parents, and began his career as a bartender. He</p><p> next became a private detective for a street railway</p><p> corporation, and by successive steps developed into a</p><p> professional strikebreaker. Pocock V., the last of the line,</p><p> was blown up in a pump-house by a bomb during a petty revolt</p><p> of the miners in the Indian Territory. This occurred in 2073</p><p> A.D.</p><p>In the meantime, the socialists held firm. While the Grangers expired in </p><p>flame and blood, and organized labor was disrupted, the socialists </p><p>held their peace and perfected their secret organization. In vain the </p><p>Grangers pleaded with us. We rightly contended that any revolt on our </p><p>part was virtually suicide for the whole Revolution. The Iron Heel, at </p><p>first dubious about dealing with the entire proletariat at one time, had </p><p>found the work easier than it had expected, and would have asked nothing </p><p>better than an uprising on our part. But we avoided the issue, in spite </p><p>of the fact that agents-provocateurs swarmed in our midst. In those </p><p>early days, the agents of the Iron Heel were clumsy in their methods. </p><p>They had much to learn and in the meantime our Fighting Groups weeded </p><p>them out. It was bitter, bloody work, but we were fighting for life and </p><p>for the Revolution, and we had to fight the enemy with its own weapons. </p><p>Yet we were fair. No agent of the Iron Heel was executed without a </p><p>trial. We may have made mistakes, but if so, very rarely. The bravest, </p><p>and the most combative and self-sacrificing of our comrades went into </p><p>the Fighting Groups. Once, after ten years had passed, Ernest made a </p><p>calculation from figures furnished by the chiefs of the Fighting Groups, </p><p>and his conclusion was that the average life of a man or woman after </p><p>becoming a member was five years. The comrades of the Fighting Groups </p><p>were heroes all, and the peculiar thing about it was that they were </p><p>opposed to the taking of life. They violated their own natures, yet they </p><p>loved liberty and knew of no sacrifice too great to make for the Cause.* </p><p> * These Fighting groups were modelled somewhat after the</p><p> Fighting Organization of the Russian Revolution, and,</p><p> despite the unceasing efforts of the Iron Heel, these groups</p><p> persisted throughout the three centuries of its existence.</p><p> Composed of men and women actuated by lofty purpose and</p><p> unafraid to die, the Fighting Groups exercised tremendous</p><p> influence and tempered the savage brutality of the rulers.</p><p> Not alone was their work confined to unseen warfare with the</p><p> secret agents of the Oligarchy. The oligarchs themselves</p><p> were compelled to listen to the decrees of the Groups, and</p><p> often, when they disobeyed, were punished by death--and</p><p> likewise with the subordinates of the oligarchs, with the</p><p> officers of the army and the leaders of the labor castes.</p><p> Stern justice was meted out by these organized avengers, but</p><p> most remarkable was their passionless and judicial</p><p> procedure. There were no snap judgments. When a man was</p><p> captured he was given fair trial and opportunity for</p><p> defence. Of necessity, many men were tried and condemned by</p><p> proxy, as in the case of General Lampton. This occurred in</p><p> 2138 A.D. Possibly the most bloodthirsty and malignant of</p><p> all the mercenaries that ever served the Iron Heel, he was</p><p> informed by the Fighting Groups that they had tried him,</p><p> found him guilty, and condemned him to death--and this,</p><p> after three warnings for him to cease from his ferocious</p><p> treatment of the proletariat. After his condemnation he</p><p> surrounded himself with a myriad protective devices. Years</p><p> passed, and in vain the Fighting Groups strove to execute</p><p> their decree. Comrade after comrade, men and women, failed</p><p> in their attempts, and were cruelly executed by the</p><p> Oligarchy. It was the case of General Lampton that revived</p><p> crucifixion as a legal method of execution. But in the end</p><p> the condemned man found his executioner in the form of a</p><p> slender girl of seventeen, Madeline Provence, who, to</p><p> accomplish her purpose, served two years in his palace as a</p><p> seamstress to the household. She died in solitary</p><p> confinement after horrible and prolonged torture; but to-day</p><p> she stands in imperishable bronze in the Pantheon of</p><p> Brotherhood in the wonder city of Serles.</p><p> We, who by personal experience know nothing of bloodshed,</p><p> must not judge harshly the heroes of the Fighting Groups.</p><p> They gave up their lives for humanity, no sacrifice was too</p><p> great for them to accomplish, while inexorable necessity</p><p> compelled them to bloody expression in an age of blood. The</p><p> Fighting Groups constituted the one thorn in the side of the</p><p> Iron Heel that the Iron Heel could never remove. Everhard</p><p> was the father of this curious army, and its accomplishments</p><p> and successful persistence for three hundred years bear</p><p> witness to the wisdom with which he organized and the solid</p><p> foundation he laid for the succeeding generations to build</p><p> upon. In some respects, despite his great economic and</p><p> sociological contributions, and his work as a general leader</p><p> in the Revolution, his organization of the Fighting Groups</p><p> must be regarded as his greatest achievement.</p><p>The task we set ourselves was threefold. First, the weeding out from our </p><p>circles of the secret agents of the Oligarchy. Second, the organizing </p><p>of the Fighting Groups, and outside of them, of the general secret </p><p>organization of the Revolution. And third, the introduction of our own </p><p>secret agents into every branch of the Oligarchy--into the labor castes </p><p>and especially among the telegraphers and secretaries and clerks, into </p><p>the army, the agents-provocateurs, and the slave-drivers. It was slow </p><p>work, and perilous, and often were our efforts rewarded with costly </p><p>failures. </p><p>The Iron Heel had triumphed in open warfare, but we held our own in the </p><p>new warfare, strange and awful and subterranean, that we instituted. </p><p>All was unseen, much was unguessed; the blind fought the blind; and </p><p>yet through it all was order, purpose, control. We permeated the </p><p>entire organization of the Iron Heel with our agents, while our own </p><p>organization was permeated with the agents of the Iron Heel. It was </p><p>warfare dark and devious, replete with intrigue and conspiracy, plot </p><p>and counterplot. And behind all, ever menacing, was death, violent and </p><p>terrible. Men and women disappeared, our nearest and dearest comrades. </p><p>We saw them to-day. To-morrow they were gone; we never saw them again,</p><p>and we knew that they had died. </p><p>There was no trust, no confidence anywhere. The man who plotted beside </p><p>us, for all we knew, might be an agent of the Iron Heel. We mined the </p><p>organization of the Iron Heel with our secret agents, and the Iron Heel </p><p>countermined with its secret agents inside its own organization. And </p><p>it was the same with our organization. And despite the absence of </p><p>confidence and trust we were compelled to base our every effort on </p><p>confidence and trust. Often were we betrayed. Men were weak. The Iron </p><p>Heel could offer money, leisure, the joys and pleasures that waited </p><p>in the repose of the wonder cities. We could offer nothing but the </p><p>satisfaction of being faithful to a noble ideal. As for the rest, the </p><p>wages of those who were loyal were unceasing peril, torture, and death. </p><p>Men were weak, I say, and because of their weakness we were compelled to </p><p>make the only other reward that was within our power. It was the reward </p><p>of death. Out of necessity we had to punish our traitors. For every man </p><p>who betrayed us, from one to a dozen faithful avengers were loosed upon </p><p>his heels. We might fail to carry out our decrees against our enemies, </p><p>such as the Pococks, for instance; but the one thing we could not afford </p><p>to fail in was the punishment of our own traitors. Comrades turned </p><p>traitor by permission, in order to win to the wonder cities and there </p><p>execute our sentences on the real traitors. In fact, so terrible did </p><p>we make ourselves, that it became a greater peril to betray us than to </p><p>remain loyal to us. </p><p>The Revolution took on largely the character of religion. We worshipped </p><p>at the shrine of the Revolution, which was the shrine of liberty. It was </p><p>the divine flashing through us. Men and women devoted their lives to </p><p>the Cause, and new-born babes were sealed to it as of old they had been </p><p>sealed to the service of God. We were lovers of Humanity. </p><p>CHAPTER XVII </p><p>THE SCARLET LIVERY </p><p>With the destruction of the Granger states, the Grangers in Congress </p><p>disappeared. They were being tried for high treason, and their places </p><p>were taken by the creatures of the Iron Heel. The socialists were in a </p><p>pitiful minority, and they knew that their end was near. Congress and </p><p>the Senate were empty pretences, farces. Public questions were gravely </p><p>debated and passed upon according to the old forms, while in reality all </p><p>that was done was to give the stamp of constitutional procedure to the </p><p>mandates of the Oligarchy. </p><p>Ernest was in the thick of the fight when the end came. It was in the </p><p>debate on the bill to assist the unemployed. The hard times of the </p><p>preceding year had thrust great masses of the proletariat beneath the </p><p>starvation line, and the continued and wide-reaching disorder had but </p><p>sunk them deeper. Millions of people were starving, while the oligarchs </p><p>and their supporters were surfeiting on the surplus.* We called these </p><p>wretched people the people of the abyss,** and it was to alleviate their </p><p>awful suffering that the socialists had introduced the unemployed bill. </p><p>But this was not to the fancy of the Iron Heel. In its own way it was </p><p>preparing to set these millions to work, but the way was not our way, </p><p>wherefore it had issued its orders that our bill should be voted down.</p><p>Ernest and his fellows knew that their effort was futile, but they </p><p>were tired of the suspense. They wanted something to happen. They were </p><p>accomplishing nothing, and the best they hoped for was the putting of an </p><p>end to the legislative farce in which they were unwilling players. </p><p>They knew not what end would come, but they never anticipated a more </p><p>disastrous end than the one that did come. </p><p> * The same conditions obtained in the nineteenth century</p><p> A.D. under British rule in India. The natives died of</p><p> starvation by the million, while their rulers robbed them of</p><p> the fruits of their toil and expended it on magnificent</p><p> pageants and mumbo-jumbo fooleries. Perforce, in this</p><p> enlightened age, we have much to blush for in the acts of</p><p> our ancestors. Our only consolation is philosophic. We</p><p> must accept the capitalistic stage in social evolution as</p><p> about on a par with the earlier monkey stage. The human had</p><p> to pass through those stages in its rise from the mire and</p><p> slime of low organic life. It was inevitable that much of</p><p> the mire and slime should cling and be not easily shaken</p><p> off.</p><p> ** The people of the abyss--this phrase was struck out by</p><p> the genius of H. G. Wells in the late nineteenth century</p><p> A.D. Wells was a sociological seer, sane and normal as well</p><p> as warm human. Many fragments of his work have come down to</p><p> us, while two of his greatest achievements, "Anticipations"</p><p> and "Mankind in the Making," have come down intact. Before</p><p> the oligarchs, and before Everhard, Wells speculated upon</p><p> the building of the wonder cities, though in his writings</p><p> they are referred to as "pleasure cities."</p><p>I sat in the gallery that day. We all knew that something terrible was </p><p>imminent. It was in the air, and its presence was made visible by the </p><p>armed soldiers drawn up in lines in the corridors, and by the officers </p><p>grouped in the entrances to the House itself. The Oligarchy was about </p><p>to strike. Ernest was speaking. He was describing the sufferings of </p><p>the unemployed, as if with the wild idea of in some way touching their </p><p>hearts and consciences; but the Republican and Democratic members </p><p>sneered and jeered at him, and there was uproar and confusion. Ernest </p><p>abruptly changed front. </p><p>"I know nothing that I may say can influence you," he said. "You have no </p><p>souls to be influenced. You are spineless, flaccid things. You pompously </p><p>call yourselves Republicans and Democrats. There is no Republican Party. </p><p>There is no Democratic Party. There are no Republicans nor Democrats in </p><p>this House. You are lick-spittlers and panderers, the creatures of the </p><p>Plutocracy. You talk verbosely in antiquated terminology of your love </p><p>of liberty, and all the while you wear the scarlet livery of the Iron </p><p>Heel." </p><p>Here the shouting and the cries of "Order! order!" drowned his voice, </p><p>and he stood disdainfully till the din had somewhat subsided. He waved </p><p>his hand to include all of them, turned to his own comrades, and said: </p><p>"Listen to the bellowing of the well-fed beasts." </p><p>Pandemonium broke out again. The Speaker rapped for order and glanced </p><p>expectantly at the officers in the doorways. There were cries of </p><p>"Sedition!" and a great, rotund New York member began shouting</p><p>"Anarchist!" at Ernest. And Ernest was not pleasant to look at. Every </p><p>fighting fibre of him was quivering, and his face was the face of a </p><p>fighting animal, withal he was cool and collected. </p><p>"Remember," he said, in a voice that made itself heard above the din, </p><p>"that as you show mercy now to the proletariat, some day will that same </p><p>proletariat show mercy to you." </p><p>The cries of "Sedition!" and "Anarchist!" redoubled. </p><p>"I know that you will not vote for this bill," Ernest went on. "You have </p><p>received the command from your masters to vote against it. And yet you </p><p>call me anarchist. You, who have destroyed the government of the people, </p><p>and who shamelessly flaunt your scarlet shame in public places, call me </p><p>anarchist. I do not believe in hell-fire and brimstone; but in moments </p><p>like this I regret my unbelief. Nay, in moments like this I almost do </p><p>believe. Surely there must be a hell, for in no less place could it be </p><p>possible for you to receive punishment adequate to your crimes. So long </p><p>as you exist, there is a vital need for hell-fire in the Cosmos." </p><p>There was movement in the doorways. Ernest, the Speaker, all the members </p><p>turned to see. </p><p>"Why do you not call your soldiers in, Mr. Speaker, and bid them do </p><p>their work?" Ernest demanded. "They should carry out your plan with </p><p>expedition." </p><p>"There are other plans afoot," was the retort. "That is why the soldiers </p><p>are present." </p><p>"Our plans, I suppose," Ernest sneered. "Assassination or something </p><p>kindred." </p><p>But at the word "assassination" the uproar broke out again. Ernest could </p><p>not make himself heard, but he remained on his feet waiting for a lull. </p><p>And then it happened. From my place in the gallery I saw nothing except </p><p>the flash of the explosion. The roar of it filled my ears and I saw </p><p>Ernest reeling and falling in a swirl of smoke, and the soldiers rushing </p><p>up all the aisles. His comrades were on their feet, wild with anger, </p><p>capable of any violence. But Ernest steadied himself for a moment, and </p><p>waved his arms for silence. </p><p>"It is a plot!" his voice rang out in warning to his comrades. "Do </p><p>nothing, or you will be destroyed." </p><p>Then he slowly sank down, and the soldiers reached him. The next moment </p><p>soldiers were clearing the galleries and I saw no more. </p><p>Though he was my husband, I was not permitted to get to him. When I </p><p>announced who I was, I was promptly placed under arrest. And at the same </p><p>time were arrested all socialist Congressmen in Washington, including </p><p>the unfortunate Simpson, who lay ill with typhoid fever in his hotel. </p><p>The trial was prompt and brief. The men were foredoomed. The wonder </p><p>was that Ernest was not executed. This was a blunder on the part of </p><p>the Oligarchy, and a costly one. But the Oligarchy was too confident in </p><p>those days. It was drunk with success, and little did it dream that </p><p>that small handful of heroes had within them the power to rock it to </p><p>its foundations. To-morrow, when the Great Revolt breaks out and all</p><p>the world resounds with the tramp, tramp of the millions, the Oligarchy, </p><p>will realize, and too late, how mightily that band of heroes has grown.* </p><p> * Avis Everhard took for granted that her narrative would be</p><p> read in her own day, and so omits to mention the outcome of</p><p> the trial for high treason. Many other similar</p><p> disconcerting omissions will be noticed in the Manuscript.</p><p> Fifty-two socialist Congressmen were tried, and all were</p><p> found guilty. Strange to relate, not one received the death</p><p> sentence. Everhard and eleven others, among whom were</p><p> Theodore Donnelson and Matthew Kent, received life</p><p> imprisonment. The remaining forty received sentences</p><p> varying from thirty to forty-five years; while Arthur</p><p> Simpson, referred to in the Manuscript as being ill of</p><p> typhoid fever at the time of the explosion, received only</p><p> fifteen years. It is the tradition that he died of</p><p> starvation in solitary confinement, and this harsh treatment</p><p> is explained as having been caused by his uncompromising</p><p> stubbornness and his fiery and tactless hatred for all men</p><p> that served the despotism. He died in Cabanas in Cuba,</p><p> where three of his comrades were also confined. The fifty-</p><p> two socialist Congressmen were confined in military</p><p> fortresses scattered all over the United States. Thus, Du</p><p> Bois and Woods were held in Porto Rico, while Everhard and</p><p> Merryweather were placed in Alcatraz, an island in San</p><p> Francisco Bay that had already seen long service as a</p><p> military prison.</p><p>As a revolutionist myself, as one on the inside who knew the hopes and </p><p>fears and secret plans of the revolutionists, I am fitted to answer, as </p><p>very few are, the charge that they were guilty of exploding the bomb in </p><p>Congress. And I can say flatly, without qualification or doubt of any </p><p>sort, that the socialists, in Congress and out, had no hand in the </p><p>affair. Who threw the bomb we do not know, but the one thing we are </p><p>absolutely sure of is that we did not throw it. </p><p>On the other hand, there is evidence to show that the Iron Heel was </p><p>responsible for the act. Of course, we cannot prove this. Our conclusion </p><p>is merely presumptive. But here are such facts as we do know. It had </p><p>been reported to the Speaker of the House, by secret-service agents of </p><p>the government, that the Socialist Congressmen were about to resort to </p><p>terroristic tactics, and that they had decided upon the day when </p><p>their tactics would go into effect. This day was the very day of </p><p>the explosion. Wherefore the Capitol had been packed with troops in </p><p>anticipation. Since we knew nothing about the bomb, and since a bomb </p><p>actually was exploded, and since the authorities had prepared in advance </p><p>for the explosion, it is only fair to conclude that the Iron Heel </p><p>did know. Furthermore, we charge that the Iron Heel was guilty of the </p><p>outrage, and that the Iron Heel planned and perpetrated the outrage for </p><p>the purpose of foisting the guilt on our shoulders and so bringing about </p><p>our destruction. </p><p>From the Speaker the warning leaked out to all the creatures in </p><p>the House that wore the scarlet livery. They knew, while Ernest was </p><p>speaking, that some violent act was to be committed. And to do them </p><p>justice, they honestly believed that the act was to be committed by </p><p>the socialists. At the trial, and still with honest belief, several </p><p>testified to having seen Ernest prepare to throw the bomb, and that it </p><p>exploded prematurely. Of course they saw nothing of the sort. In the</p><p>fevered imagination of fear they thought they saw, that was all. </p><p>As Ernest said at the trial: "Does it stand to reason, if I were going </p><p>to throw a bomb, that I should elect to throw a feeble little squib like </p><p>the one that was thrown? There wasn't enough powder in it. It made a lot </p><p>of smoke, but hurt no one except me. It exploded right at my feet, and </p><p>yet it did not kill me. Believe me, when I get to throwing bombs, I'll </p><p>do damage. There'll be more than smoke in my petards." </p><p>In return it was argued by the prosecution that the weakness of the </p><p>bomb was a blunder on the part of the socialists, just as its premature </p><p>explosion, caused by Ernest's losing his nerve and dropping it, was a </p><p>blunder. And to clinch the argument, there were the several Congressmen </p><p>who testified to having seen Ernest fumble and drop the bomb. </p><p>As for ourselves, not one of us knew how the bomb was thrown. Ernest </p><p>told me that the fraction of an instant before it exploded he both heard </p><p>and saw it strike at his feet. He testified to this at the trial, but </p><p>no one believed him. Besides, the whole thing, in popular slang, was </p><p>"cooked up." The Iron Heel had made up its mind to destroy us, and there </p><p>was no withstanding it. </p><p>There is a saying that truth will out. I have come to doubt that saying. </p><p>Nineteen years have elapsed, and despite our untiring efforts, we have </p><p>failed to find the man who really did throw the bomb. Undoubtedly he was </p><p>some emissary of the Iron Heel, but he has escaped detection. We have </p><p>never got the slightest clew to his identity. And now, at this late </p><p>date, nothing remains but for the affair to take its place among the </p><p>mysteries of history.* </p><p> * Avis Everhard would have had to live for many generations</p><p> ere she could have seen the clearing up of this particular</p><p> mystery. A little less than a hundred years ago, and a</p><p> little more than six hundred years after the death, the</p><p> confession of Pervaise was discovered in the secret archives</p><p> of the Vatican. It is perhaps well to tell a little</p><p> something about this obscure document, which, in the main,</p><p> is of interest to the historian only.</p><p> Pervaise was an American, of French descent, who in 1913</p><p> A.D., was lying in the Tombs Prison, New York City, awaiting</p><p> trial for murder. From his confession we learn that he was</p><p> not a criminal. He was warm-blooded, passionate, emotional.</p><p> In an insane fit of jealousy he killed his wife--a very</p><p> common act in those times. Pervaise was mastered by the fear</p><p> of death, all of which is recounted at length in his</p><p> confession. To escape death he would have done anything,</p><p> and the police agents prepared him by assuring him that he</p><p> could not possibly escape conviction of murder in the first</p><p> degree when his trial came off. In those days, murder in</p><p> the first degree was a capital offense. The guilty man or</p><p> woman was placed in a specially constructed death-chair,</p><p> and, under the supervision of competent physicians, was</p><p> destroyed by a current of electricity. This was called</p><p> electrocution, and it was very popular during that period.</p><p> Anaesthesia, as a mode of compulsory death, was not</p><p> introduced until later.</p><p> This man, good at heart but with a ferocious animalism close</p><p> at the surface of his being, lying in jail and expectant of</p><p> nothing less than death, was prevailed upon by the agents of</p><p> the Iron Heel to throw the bomb in the House of</p><p> Representatives. In his confession he states explicitly</p><p> that he was informed that the bomb was to be a feeble thing</p><p> and that no lives would be lost. This is directly in line</p><p> with the fact that the bomb was lightly charged, and that</p><p> its explosion at Everhard's feet was not deadly.</p><p> Pervaise was smuggled into one of the galleries ostensibly</p><p> closed for repairs. He was to select the moment for the</p><p> throwing of the bomb, and he naively confesses that in his</p><p> interest in Everhard's tirade and the general commotion</p><p> raised thereby, he nearly forgot his mission.</p><p> Not only was he released from prison in reward for his deed,</p><p> but he was granted an income for life. This he did not long</p><p> enjoy. In 1914 A.D., in September, he was stricken with</p><p> rheumatism of the heart and lived for three days. It was</p><p> then that he sent for the Catholic priest, Father Peter</p><p> Durban, and to him made confession. So important did it seem</p><p> to the priest, that he had the confession taken down in</p><p> writing and sworn to. What happened after this we can only</p><p> surmise. The document was certainly important enough to</p><p> find its way to Rome. Powerful influences must have been</p><p> brought to bear, hence its suppression. For centuries no</p><p> hint of its existence reached the world. It was not until</p><p> in the last century that Lorbia, the brilliant Italian</p><p> scholar, stumbled upon it quite by chance during his</p><p> researches in the Vatican.</p><p> There is to-day no doubt whatever that the Iron Heel was</p><p> responsible for the bomb that exploded in the House of</p><p> Representatives in 1913 A.D. Even though the Pervaise</p><p> confession had never come to light, no reasonable doubt</p><p> could obtain; for the act in question, that sent fifty-two</p><p> Congressmen to prison, was on a par with countless other</p><p> acts committed by the oligarchs, and, before them, by the</p><p> capitalists.</p><p> There is the classic instance of the ferocious and wanton</p><p> judicial murder of the innocent and so-called Haymarket</p><p> Anarchists in Chicago in the penultimate decade of the</p><p> nineteenth century A.D. In a category by itself is the</p><p> deliberate burning and destruction of capitalist property by</p><p> the capitalists themselves. For such destruction of</p><p> property innocent men were frequently punished--"railroaded"</p><p> in the parlance of the times.</p><p> In the labor troubles of the first decade of the twentieth</p><p> century A.D., between the capitalists and the Western</p><p> Federation of Miners, similar but more bloody tactics were</p><p> employed. The railroad station at Independence was blown up</p><p> by the agents of the capitalists. Thirteen men were killed,</p><p> and many more were wounded. And then the capitalists,</p><p> controlling the legislative and judicial machinery of the</p><p> state of Colorado, charged the miners with the crime and</p><p> came very near to convicting them. Romaines, one of the</p><p> tools in this affair, like Pervaise, was lying in jail in</p><p> another state, Kansas, awaiting trial, when he was</p><p> approached by the agents of the capitalists. But, unlike</p><p> Pervaise the confession of Romaines was made public in his</p><p> own time.</p><p> Then, during this same period, there was the case of Moyer</p><p> and Haywood, two strong, fearless leaders of labor. One was</p><p> president and the other was secretary of the Western</p><p> Federation of Miners. The ex-governor of Idaho had been</p><p> mysteriously murdered. The crime, at the time, was openly</p><p> charged to the mine owners by the socialists and miners.</p><p> Nevertheless, in violation of the national and state</p><p> constitutions, and by means of conspiracy on the parts of</p><p> the governors of Idaho and Colorado, Moyer and Haywood were</p><p> kidnapped, thrown into jail, and charged with the murder.</p><p> It was this instance that provoked from Eugene V. Debs,</p><p> national leader of the American socialists at the time, the</p><p> following words: "The labor leaders that cannot be bribed</p><p> nor bullied, must be ambushed and murdered. The only crime</p><p> of Moyer and Haywood is that they have been unswervingly</p><p> true to the working class. The capitalists have stolen our</p><p> country, debauched our politics, defiled our judiciary, and</p><p> ridden over us rough-shod, and now they propose to murder</p><p> those who will not abjectly surrender to their brutal</p><p> dominion. The governors of Colorado and Idaho are but</p><p> executing the mandates of their masters, the Plutocracy.</p><p> The issue is the Workers versus the Plutocracy. If they</p><p> strike the first violent blow, we will strike the last."</p><p>CHAPTER XVIII </p><p>IN THE SHADOW OF SONOMA </p><p>Of myself, during this period, there is not much to say. For six months </p><p>I was kept in prison, though charged with no crime. I was a suspect--a </p><p>word of fear that all revolutionists were soon to come to know. But </p><p>our own nascent secret service was beginning to work. By the end of </p><p>my second month in prison, one of the jailers made himself known as </p><p>a revolutionist in touch with the organization. Several weeks later, </p><p>Joseph Parkhurst, the prison doctor who had just been appointed, proved </p><p>himself to be a member of one of the Fighting Groups. </p><p>Thus, throughout the organization of the Oligarchy, our own </p><p>organization, weblike and spidery, was insinuating itself. And so I </p><p>was kept in touch with all that was happening in the world without. And </p><p>furthermore, every one of our imprisoned leaders was in contact with </p><p>brave comrades who masqueraded in the livery of the Iron Heel. Though </p><p>Ernest lay in prison three thousand miles away, on the Pacific Coast, I </p><p>was in unbroken communication with him, and our letters passed regularly </p><p>back and forth. </p><p>The leaders, in prison and out, were able to discuss and direct the </p><p>campaign. It would have been possible, within a few months, to have </p><p>effected the escape of some of them; but since imprisonment proved </p><p>no bar to our activities, it was decided to avoid anything premature. </p><p>Fifty-two Congressmen were in prison, and fully three hundred more</p><p>of our leaders. It was planned that they should be delivered </p><p>simultaneously. If part of them escaped, the vigilance of the oligarchs </p><p>might be aroused so as to prevent the escape of the remainder. On the </p><p>other hand, it was held that a simultaneous jail-delivery all over the </p><p>land would have immense psychological influence on the proletariat. It </p><p>would show our strength and give confidence. </p><p>So it was arranged, when I was released at the end of six months, that </p><p>I was to disappear and prepare a secure hiding-place for Ernest. To </p><p>disappear was in itself no easy thing. No sooner did I get my freedom </p><p>than my footsteps began to be dogged by the spies of the Iron Heel. </p><p>It was necessary that they should be thrown off the track, and that </p><p>I should win to California. It is laughable, the way this was </p><p>accomplished. </p><p>Already the passport system, modelled on the Russian, was developing. I </p><p>dared not cross the continent in my own character. It was necessary that </p><p>I should be completely lost if ever I was to see Ernest again, for by </p><p>trailing me after he escaped, he would be caught once more. Again, I </p><p>could not disguise myself as a proletarian and travel. There remained </p><p>the disguise of a member of the Oligarchy. While the arch-oligarchs were </p><p>no more than a handful, there were myriads of lesser ones of the type, </p><p>say, of Mr. Wickson--men, worth a few millions, who were adherents of </p><p>the arch-oligarchs. The wives and daughters of these lesser oligarchs </p><p>were legion, and it was decided that I should assume the disguise of </p><p>such a one. A few years later this would have been impossible, because </p><p>the passport system was to become so perfect that no man, woman, nor </p><p>child in all the land was unregistered and unaccounted for in his or her </p><p>movements. </p><p>When the time was ripe, the spies were thrown off my track. An hour </p><p>later Avis Everhard was no more. At that time one Felice Van Verdighan, </p><p>accompanied by two maids and a lap-dog, with another maid for the </p><p>lap-dog,* entered a drawing-room on a Pullman,** and a few minutes later </p><p>was speeding west. </p><p> * This ridiculous picture well illustrates the heartless</p><p> conduct of the masters. While people starved, lap-dogs were</p><p> waited upon by maids. This was a serious masquerade on the</p><p> part of Avis Everhard. Life and death and the Cause were in</p><p> the issue; therefore the picture must be accepted as a true</p><p> picture. It affords a striking commentary of the times.</p><p> ** Pullman--the designation of the more luxurious railway</p><p> cars of the period and so named from the inventor.</p><p>The three maids who accompanied me were revolutionists. Two were members </p><p>of the Fighting Groups, and the third, Grace Holbrook, entered a group </p><p>the following year, and six months later was executed by the Iron Heel. </p><p>She it was who waited upon the dog. Of the other two, Bertha Stole </p><p>disappeared twelve years later, while Anna Roylston still lives and </p><p>plays an increasingly important part in the Revolution.* </p><p> * Despite continual and almost inconceivable hazards, Anna</p><p> Roylston lived to the royal age of ninety-one. As the</p><p> Pococks defied the executioners of the Fighting Groups, so</p><p> she defied the executioners of the Iron Heel. She bore a</p><p> charmed life and prospered amid dangers and alarms. She</p><p> herself was an executioner for the Fighting Groups, and,</p><p> known as the Red Virgin, she became one of the inspired</p><p> figures of the Revolution. When she was an old woman of</p><p> sixty-nine she shot "Bloody" Halcliffe down in the midst of</p><p> his armed escort and got away unscathed. In the end she</p><p> died peaceably of old age in a secret refuge of the</p><p> revolutionists in the Ozark mountains.</p><p>Without adventure we crossed the United States to California. When the </p><p>train stopped at Sixteenth Street Station, in Oakland, we alighted, and </p><p>there Felice Van Verdighan, with her two maids, her lap-dog, and </p><p>her lap-dog's maid, disappeared forever. The maids, guided by trusty </p><p>comrades, were led away. Other comrades took charge of me. Within half </p><p>an hour after leaving the train I was on board a small fishing boat </p><p>and out on the waters of San Francisco Bay. The winds baffled, and we </p><p>drifted aimlessly the greater part of the night. But I saw the lights of </p><p>Alcatraz where Ernest lay, and found comfort in the thought of nearness </p><p>to him. By dawn, what with the rowing of the fishermen, we made the </p><p>Marin Islands. Here we lay in hiding all day, and on the following </p><p>night, swept on by a flood tide and a fresh wind, we crossed San Pablo </p><p>Bay in two hours and ran up Petaluma Creek. </p><p>Here horses were ready and another comrade, and without delay we were </p><p>away through the starlight. To the north I could see the loom of Sonoma </p><p>Mountain, toward which we rode. We left the old town of Sonoma to the </p><p>right and rode up a canyon that lay between outlying buttresses of the </p><p>mountain. The wagon-road became a wood-road, the wood-road became a </p><p>cow-path, and the cow-path dwindled away and ceased among the upland </p><p>pastures. Straight over Sonoma Mountain we rode. It was the safest </p><p>route. There was no one to mark our passing. </p><p>Dawn caught us on the northern brow, and in the gray light we dropped </p><p>down through chaparral into redwood canyons deep and warm with the </p><p>breath of passing summer. It was old country to me that I knew and </p><p>loved, and soon I became the guide. The hiding-place was mine. I had </p><p>selected it. We let down the bars and crossed an upland meadow. Next, we </p><p>went over a low, oak-covered ridge and descended into a smaller meadow. </p><p>Again we climbed a ridge, this time riding under red-limbed madronos and </p><p>manzanitas of deeper red. The first rays of the sun streamed upon </p><p>our backs as we climbed. A flight of quail thrummed off through the </p><p>thickets. A big jackrabbit crossed our path, leaping swiftly and </p><p>silently like a deer. And then a deer, a many-pronged buck, the sun </p><p>flashing red-gold from neck and shoulders, cleared the crest of the </p><p>ridge before us and was gone. </p><p>We followed in his wake a space, then dropped down a zigzag trail that </p><p>he disdained into a group of noble redwoods that stood about a pool of </p><p>water murky with minerals from the mountain side. I knew every inch of </p><p>the way. Once a writer friend of mine had owned the ranch; but he, too, </p><p>had become a revolutionist, though more disastrously than I, for he was </p><p>already dead and gone, and none knew where nor how. He alone, in the </p><p>days he had lived, knew the secret of the hiding-place for which I was </p><p>bound. He had bought the ranch for beauty, and paid a round price for </p><p>it, much to the disgust of the local farmers. He used to tell with great </p><p>glee how they were wont to shake their heads mournfully at the price, to </p><p>accomplish ponderously a bit of mental arithmetic, and then to say, "But </p><p>you can't make six per cent on it." </p><p>But he was dead now, nor did the ranch descend to his children. Of all </p><p>men, it was now the property of Mr. Wickson, who owned the whole eastern</p><p>and northern slopes of Sonoma Mountain, running from the Spreckels </p><p>estate to the divide of Bennett Valley. Out of it he had made a </p><p>magnificent deer-park, where, over thousands of acres of sweet slopes </p><p>and glades and canyons, the deer ran almost in primitive wildness. The </p><p>people who had owned the soil had been driven away. A state home for the </p><p>feeble-minded had also been demolished to make room for the deer. </p><p>To cap it all, Wickson's hunting lodge was a quarter of a mile from my </p><p>hiding-place. This, instead of being a danger, was an added security. </p><p>We were sheltered under the very aegis of one of the minor oligarchs. </p><p>Suspicion, by the nature of the situation, was turned aside. The last </p><p>place in the world the spies of the Iron Heel would dream of looking for </p><p>me, and for Ernest when he joined me, was Wickson's deer-park. </p><p>We tied our horses among the redwoods at the pool. From a cache behind </p><p>a hollow rotting log my companion brought out a variety of things,--a </p><p>fifty-pound sack of flour, tinned foods of all sorts, cooking utensils, </p><p>blankets, a canvas tarpaulin, books and writing material, a great bundle </p><p>of letters, a five-gallon can of kerosene, an oil stove, and, last and </p><p>most important, a large coil of stout rope. So large was the supply of </p><p>things that a number of trips would be necessary to carry them to the </p><p>refuge. </p><p>But the refuge was very near. Taking the rope and leading the way, I </p><p>passed through a glade of tangled vines and bushes that ran between two </p><p>wooded knolls. The glade ended abruptly at the steep bank of a stream. </p><p>It was a little stream, rising from springs, and the hottest summer </p><p>never dried it up. On every hand were tall wooded knolls, a group of </p><p>them, with all the seeming of having been flung there from some careless </p><p>Titan's hand. There was no bed-rock in them. They rose from their bases </p><p>hundreds of feet, and they were composed of red volcanic earth, the </p><p>famous wine-soil of Sonoma. Through these the tiny stream had cut its </p><p>deep and precipitous channel. </p><p>It was quite a scramble down to the stream bed, and, once on the bed, </p><p>we went down stream perhaps for a hundred feet. And then we came to the </p><p>great hole. There was no warning of the existence of the hole, nor </p><p>was it a hole in the common sense of the word. One crawled through </p><p>tight-locked briers and branches, and found oneself on the very edge, </p><p>peering out and down through a green screen. A couple of hundred feet in </p><p>length and width, it was half of that in depth. Possibly because of </p><p>some fault that had occurred when the knolls were flung together, and </p><p>certainly helped by freakish erosion, the hole had been scooped out in </p><p>the course of centuries by the wash of water. Nowhere did the raw earth </p><p>appear. All was garmented by vegetation, from tiny maiden-hair and </p><p>gold-back ferns to mighty redwood and Douglas spruces. These great trees </p><p>even sprang out from the walls of the hole. Some leaned over at angles </p><p>as great as forty-five degrees, though the majority towered straight up </p><p>from the soft and almost perpendicular earth walls. </p><p>It was a perfect hiding-place. No one ever came there, not even the </p><p>village boys of Glen Ellen. Had this hole existed in the bed of a canyon </p><p>a mile long, or several miles long, it would have been well known. But </p><p>this was no canyon. From beginning to end the length of the stream was </p><p>no more than five hundred yards. Three hundred yards above the hole the </p><p>stream took its rise in a spring at the foot of a flat meadow. A hundred </p><p>yards below the hole the stream ran out into open country, joining the </p><p>main stream and flowing across rolling and grass-covered land. </p><p>My companion took a turn of the rope around a tree, and with me fast on </p><p>the other end lowered away. In no time I was on the bottom. And in but </p><p>a short while he had carried all the articles from the cache and lowered </p><p>them down to me. He hauled the rope up and hid it, and before he went </p><p>away called down to me a cheerful parting. </p><p>Before I go on I want to say a word for this comrade, John Carlson, a </p><p>humble figure of the Revolution, one of the countless faithful ones in </p><p>the ranks. He worked for Wickson, in the stables near the hunting lodge. </p><p>In fact, it was on Wickson's horses that we had ridden over Sonoma </p><p>Mountain. For nearly twenty years now John Carlson has been custodian </p><p>of the refuge. No thought of disloyalty, I am sure, has ever entered his </p><p>mind during all that time. To betray his trust would have been in his </p><p>mind a thing undreamed. He was phlegmatic, stolid to such a degree that </p><p>one could not but wonder how the Revolution had any meaning to him at </p><p>all. And yet love of freedom glowed sombrely and steadily in his </p><p>dim soul. In ways it was indeed good that he was not flighty and </p><p>imaginative. He never lost his head. He could obey orders, and he was </p><p>neither curious nor garrulous. Once I asked how it was that he was a </p><p>revolutionist. </p><p>"When I was a young man I was a soldier," was his answer. "It was in </p><p>Germany. There all young men must be in the army. So I was in the army. </p><p>There was another soldier there, a young man, too. His father was what </p><p>you call an agitator, and his father was in jail for lese majesty--what </p><p>you call speaking the truth about the Emperor. And the young man, the </p><p>son, talked with me much about people, and work, and the robbery of </p><p>the people by the capitalists. He made me see things in new ways, and </p><p>I became a socialist. His talk was very true and good, and I have never </p><p>forgotten. When I came to the United States I hunted up the socialists. </p><p>I became a member of a section--that was in the day of the S. L. P. </p><p>Then later, when the split came, I joined the local of the S. P. I was </p><p>working in a livery stable in San Francisco then. That was before the </p><p>Earthquake. I have paid my dues for twenty-two years. I am yet a member, </p><p>and I yet pay my dues, though it is very secret now. I will always pay </p><p>my dues, and when the cooperative commonwealth comes, I will be glad." </p><p>Left to myself, I proceeded to cook breakfast on the oil stove and to </p><p>prepare my home. Often, in the early morning, or in the evening after </p><p>dark, Carlson would steal down to the refuge and work for a couple of </p><p>hours. At first my home was the tarpaulin. Later, a small tent was put </p><p>up. And still later, when we became assured of the perfect security of </p><p>the place, a small house was erected. This house was completely hidden </p><p>from any chance eye that might peer down from the edge of the hole. The </p><p>lush vegetation of that sheltered spot make a natural shield. Also, the </p><p>house was built against the perpendicular wall; and in the wall itself, </p><p>shored by strong timbers, well drained and ventilated, we excavated two </p><p>small rooms. Oh, believe me, we had many comforts. When Biedenbach, </p><p>the German terrorist, hid with us some time later, he installed a </p><p>smoke-consuming device that enabled us to sit by crackling wood fires on </p><p>winter nights. </p><p>And here I must say a word for that gentle-souled terrorist, than whom </p><p>there is no comrade in the Revolution more fearfully misunderstood. </p><p>Comrade Biedenbach did not betray the Cause. Nor was he executed by </p><p>the comrades as is commonly supposed. This canard was circulated by </p><p>the creatures of the Oligarchy. Comrade Biedenbach was absent-minded, </p><p>forgetful. He was shot by one of our lookouts at the cave-refuge at </p><p>Carmel, through failure on his part to remember the secret signals. It</p><p>was all a sad mistake. And that he betrayed his Fighting Group is an </p><p>absolute lie. No truer, more loyal man ever labored for the Cause.* </p><p> * Search as we may through all the material of those times</p><p> that has come down to us, we can find no clew to the</p><p> Biedenbach here referred to. No mention is made of him</p><p> anywhere save in the Everhard Manuscript.</p><p> *</p><p> For nineteen years now the refuge that I selected had been almost</p><p> continuously occupied, and in all that time, with one exception, it</p><p> has never been discovered by an outsider. And yet it was only a</p><p> quarter of a mile from Wickson's hunting-lodge, and a short mile</p><p> from the village of Glen Ellen. I was able, always, to hear the</p><p> morning and evening trains arrive and depart, and I used to set my</p><p> watch by the whistle at the brickyards.*</p><p> * If the curious traveller will turn south from Glen Ellen,</p><p> he will find himself on a boulevard that is identical with</p><p> the old country road seven centuries ago. A quarter of a</p><p> mile from Glen Ellen, after the second bridge is passed, to</p><p> the right will be noticed a barranca that runs like a scar</p><p> across the rolling land toward a group of wooded knolls.</p><p> The barranca is the site of the ancient right of way that in</p><p> the time of private property in land ran across the holding</p><p> of one Chauvet, a French pioneer of California who came from</p><p> his native country in the fabled days of gold. The wooded</p><p> knolls are the same knolls referred to by Avis Everhard.</p><p> The Great Earthquake of 2368 A.D. broke off the side of one</p><p> of these knolls and toppled it into the hole where the</p><p> Everhards made their refuge. Since the finding of the</p><p> Manuscript excavations have been made, and the house, the</p><p> two cave rooms, and all the accumulated rubbish of long</p><p> occupancy have been brought to light. Many valuable relics</p><p> have been found, among which, curious to relate, is the</p><p> smoke-consuming device of Biedenbach's mentioned in the</p><p> narrative. Students interested in such matters should read</p><p> the brochure of Arnold Bentham soon to be published.</p><p> A mile northwest from the wooded knolls brings one to the</p><p> site of Wake Robin Lodge at the junction of Wild-Water and</p><p> Sonoma Creeks. It may be noticed, in passing, that Wild-</p><p> Water was originally called Graham Creek and was so named on</p><p> the early local maps. But the later name sticks. It was at</p><p> Wake Robin Lodge that Avis Everhard later lived for short</p><p> periods, when, disguised as an agent-provocateur of the Iron</p><p> Heel, she was enabled to play with impunity her part among</p><p> men and events. The official permission to occupy Wake</p><p> Robin Lodge is still on the records, signed by no less a man</p><p> than Wickson, the minor oligarch of the Manuscript.</p><p>CHAPTER XIX </p><p>TRANSFORMATION </p><p>"You must make yourself over again," Ernest wrote to me. "You must cease</p><p>to be. You must become another woman--and not merely in the clothes you </p><p>wear, but inside your skin under the clothes. You must make yourself </p><p>over again so that even I would not know you--your voice, your gestures, </p><p>your mannerisms, your carriage, your walk, everything." </p><p>This command I obeyed. Every day I practised for hours in burying </p><p>forever the old Avis Everhard beneath the skin of another woman whom I </p><p>may call my other self. It was only by long practice that such results </p><p>could be obtained. In the mere detail of voice intonation I practised </p><p>almost perpetually till the voice of my new self became fixed, </p><p>automatic. It was this automatic assumption of a role that was </p><p>considered imperative. One must become so adept as to deceive oneself. </p><p>It was like learning a new language, say the French. At first speech in </p><p>French is self-conscious, a matter of the will. The student thinks </p><p>in English and then transmutes into French, or reads in French but </p><p>transmutes into English before he can understand. Then later, becoming </p><p>firmly grounded, automatic, the student reads, writes, and THINKS in </p><p>French, without any recourse to English at all. </p><p>And so with our disguises. It was necessary for us to practise until our </p><p>assumed roles became real; until to be our original selves would require </p><p>a watchful and strong exercise of will. Of course, at first, much was </p><p>mere blundering experiment. We were creating a new art, and we had much </p><p>to discover. But the work was going on everywhere; masters in the </p><p>art were developing, and a fund of tricks and expedients was being </p><p>accumulated. This fund became a sort of text-book that was passed on, a </p><p>part of the curriculum, as it were, of the school of Revolution.* </p><p> * Disguise did become a veritable art during that period.</p><p> The revolutionists maintained schools of acting in all their</p><p> refuges. They scorned accessories, such as wigs and beards,</p><p> false eyebrows, and such aids of the theatrical actors. The</p><p> game of revolution was a game of life and death, and mere</p><p> accessories were traps. Disguise had to be fundamental,</p><p> intrinsic, part and parcel of one's being, second nature.</p><p> The Red Virgin is reported to have been one of the most</p><p> adept in the art, to which must be ascribed her long and</p><p> successful career.</p><p>It was at this time that my father disappeared. His letters, which had </p><p>come to me regularly, ceased. He no longer appeared at our Pell Street </p><p>quarters. Our comrades sought him everywhere. Through our secret service </p><p>we ransacked every prison in the land. But he was lost as completely as </p><p>if the earth had swallowed him up, and to this day no clew to his end </p><p>has been discovered.* </p><p> * Disappearance was one of the horrors of the time. As a</p><p> motif, in song and story, it constantly crops up. It was an</p><p> inevitable concomitant of the subterranean warfare that</p><p> raged through those three centuries. This phenomenon was</p><p> almost as common in the oligarch class and the labor castes,</p><p> as it was in the ranks of the revolutionists. Without</p><p> warning, without trace, men and women, and even children,</p><p> disappeared and were seen no more, their end shrouded in</p><p> mystery.</p><p>Six lonely months I spent in the refuge, but they were not idle months. </p><p>Our organization went on apace, and there were mountains of work always </p><p>waiting to be done. Ernest and his fellow-leaders, from their prisons,</p><p>decided what should be done; and it remained for us on the outside to </p><p>do it. There was the organization of the mouth-to-mouth propaganda; </p><p>the organization, with all its ramifications, of our spy system; the </p><p>establishment of our secret printing-presses; and the establishment of </p><p>our underground railways, which meant the knitting together of all our </p><p>myriads of places of refuge, and the formation of new refuges where </p><p>links were missing in the chains we ran over all the land. </p><p>So I say, the work was never done. At the end of six months my </p><p>loneliness was broken by the arrival of two comrades. They were young </p><p>girls, brave souls and passionate lovers of liberty: Lora Peterson, who </p><p>disappeared in 1922, and Kate Bierce, who later married Du Bois,* and </p><p>who is still with us with eyes lifted to to-morrow's sun, that heralds </p><p>in the new age. </p><p> * Du Bois, the present librarian of Ardis, is a lineal</p><p> descendant of this revolutionary pair.</p><p>The two girls arrived in a flurry of excitement, danger, and sudden </p><p>death. In the crew of the fishing boat that conveyed them across San </p><p>Pablo Bay was a spy. A creature of the Iron Heel, he had successfully </p><p>masqueraded as a revolutionist and penetrated deep into the secrets </p><p>of our organization. Without doubt he was on my trail, for we had long </p><p>since learned that my disappearance had been cause of deep concern to </p><p>the secret service of the Oligarchy. Luckily, as the outcome proved, he </p><p>had not divulged his discoveries to any one. He had evidently delayed </p><p>reporting, preferring to wait until he had brought things to a </p><p>successful conclusion by discovering my hiding-place and capturing me. </p><p>His information died with him. Under some pretext, after the girls had </p><p>landed at Petaluma Creek and taken to the horses, he managed to get away </p><p>from the boat. </p><p>Part way up Sonoma Mountain, John Carlson let the girls go on, leading </p><p>his horse, while he went back on foot. His suspicions had been aroused. </p><p>He captured the spy, and as to what then happened, Carlson gave us a </p><p>fair idea. </p><p>"I fixed him," was Carlson's unimaginative way of describing the affair. </p><p>"I fixed him," he repeated, while a sombre light burnt in his eyes, and </p><p>his huge, toil-distorted hands opened and closed eloquently. "He made no </p><p>noise. I hid him, and tonight I will go back and bury him deep." </p><p>During that period I used to marvel at my own metamorphosis. At times it </p><p>seemed impossible, either that I had ever lived a placid, peaceful life </p><p>in a college town, or else that I had become a revolutionist inured to </p><p>scenes of violence and death. One or the other could not be. One was </p><p>real, the other was a dream, but which was which? Was this present </p><p>life of a revolutionist, hiding in a hole, a nightmare? or was I a </p><p>revolutionist who had somewhere, somehow, dreamed that in some former </p><p>existence I have lived in Berkeley and never known of life more violent </p><p>than teas and dances, debating societies, and lectures rooms? But then I </p><p>suppose this was a common experience of all of us who had rallied under </p><p>the red banner of the brotherhood of man. </p><p>I often remembered figures from that other life, and, curiously enough, </p><p>they appeared and disappeared, now and again, in my new life. There was </p><p>Bishop Morehouse. In vain we searched for him after our organization had </p><p>developed. He had been transferred from asylum to asylum. We traced him </p><p>from the state hospital for the insane at Napa to the one in Stockton,</p><p>and from there to the one in the Santa Clara Valley called Agnews, and </p><p>there the trail ceased. There was no record of his death. In some way he </p><p>must have escaped. Little did I dream of the awful manner in which I </p><p>was to see him once again--the fleeting glimpse of him in the whirlwind </p><p>carnage of the Chicago Commune. </p><p>Jackson, who had lost his arm in the Sierra Mills and who had been the </p><p>cause of my own conversion into a revolutionist, I never saw again; </p><p>but we all knew what he did before he died. He never joined the </p><p>revolutionists. Embittered by his fate, brooding over his wrongs, he </p><p>became an anarchist--not a philosophic anarchist, but a mere animal, mad </p><p>with hate and lust for revenge. And well he revenged himself. Evading </p><p>the guards, in the nighttime while all were asleep, he blew the </p><p>Pertonwaithe palace into atoms. Not a soul escaped, not even the guards. </p><p>And in prison, while awaiting trial, he suffocated himself under his </p><p>blankets. </p><p>Dr. Hammerfield and Dr. Ballingford achieved quite different fates from </p><p>that of Jackson. They have been faithful to their salt, and they have </p><p>been correspondingly rewarded with ecclesiastical palaces wherein they </p><p>dwell at peace with the world. Both are apologists for the Oligarchy. </p><p>Both have grown very fat. "Dr. Hammerfield," as Ernest once said, "has </p><p>succeeded in modifying his metaphysics so as to give God's sanction to </p><p>the Iron Heel, and also to include much worship of beauty and to reduce </p><p>to an invisible wraith the gaseous vertebrate described by Haeckel--the </p><p>difference between Dr. Hammerfield and Dr. Ballingford being that the </p><p>latter has made the God of the oligarchs a little more gaseous and a </p><p>little less vertebrate." </p><p>Peter Donnelly, the scab foreman at the Sierra Mills whom I encountered </p><p>while investigating the case of Jackson, was a surprise to all of us. In </p><p>1918 I was present at a meeting of the 'Frisco Reds. Of all our Fighting </p><p>Groups this one was the most formidable, ferocious, and merciless. It </p><p>was really not a part of our organization. Its members were fanatics, </p><p>madmen. We dared not encourage such a spirit. On the other hand, though </p><p>they did not belong to us, we remained on friendly terms with them. It </p><p>was a matter of vital importance that brought me there that night. I, </p><p>alone in the midst of a score of men, was the only person unmasked. </p><p>After the business that brought me there was transacted, I was led </p><p>away by one of them. In a dark passage this guide struck a match, and, </p><p>holding it close to his face, slipped back his mask. For a moment I </p><p>gazed upon the passion-wrought features of Peter Donnelly. Then the </p><p>match went out. </p><p>"I just wanted you to know it was me," he said in the darkness. "D'you </p><p>remember Dallas, the superintendent?" </p><p>I nodded at recollection of the vulpine-face superintendent of the </p><p>Sierra Mills. </p><p>"Well, I got him first," Donnelly said with pride. "'Twas after that I </p><p>joined the Reds." </p><p>"But how comes it that you are here?" I queried. "Your wife and </p><p>children?" </p><p>"Dead," he answered. "That's why. No," he went on hastily, "'tis not </p><p>revenge for them. They died easily in their beds--sickness, you see, </p><p>one time and another. They tied my arms while they lived. And now that</p><p>they're gone, 'tis revenge for my blasted manhood I'm after. I was </p><p>once Peter Donnelly, the scab foreman. But to-night I'm Number 27 of the </p><p>'Frisco Reds. Come on now, and I'll get you out of this." </p><p>More I heard of him afterward. In his own way he had told the truth </p><p>when he said all were dead. But one lived, Timothy, and him his father </p><p>considered dead because he had taken service with the Iron Heel in the </p><p>Mercenaries.* A member of the 'Frisco Reds pledged himself to twelve </p><p>annual executions. The penalty for failure was death. A member who </p><p>failed to complete his number committed suicide. These executions were </p><p>not haphazard. This group of madmen met frequently and passed wholesale </p><p>judgments upon offending members and servitors of the Oligarchy. The </p><p>executions were afterward apportioned by lot. </p><p> * In addition to the labor castes, there arose another</p><p> caste, the military. A standing army of professional</p><p> soldiers was created, officered by members of the Oligarchy</p><p> and known as the Mercenaries. This institution took the</p><p> place of the militia, which had proved impracticable under</p><p> the new regime. Outside the regular secret service of the</p><p> Iron Heel, there was further established a secret service of</p><p> the Mercenaries, this latter forming a connecting link</p><p> between the police and the military.</p><p>In fact, the business that brought me there the night of my visit was </p><p>such a trial. One of our own comrades, who for years had successfully </p><p>maintained himself in a clerical position in the local bureau of the </p><p>secret service of the Iron Heel, had fallen under the ban of the 'Frisco </p><p>Reds and was being tried. Of course he was not present, and of course </p><p>his judges did not know that he was one of our men. My mission had been </p><p>to testify to his identity and loyalty. It may be wondered how we came </p><p>to know of the affair at all. The explanation is simple. One of our </p><p>secret agents was a member of the 'Frisco Reds. It was necessary for us </p><p>to keep an eye on friend as well as foe, and this group of madmen was </p><p>not too unimportant to escape our surveillance. </p><p>But to return to Peter Donnelly and his son. All went well with Donnelly </p><p>until, in the following year, he found among the sheaf of executions </p><p>that fell to him the name of Timothy Donnelly. Then it was that that </p><p>clannishness, which was his to so extraordinary a degree, asserted </p><p>itself. To save his son, he betrayed his comrades. In this he was </p><p>partially blocked, but a dozen of the 'Frisco Reds were executed, and </p><p>the group was well-nigh destroyed. In retaliation, the survivors meted </p><p>out to Donnelly the death he had earned by his treason. </p><p>Nor did Timothy Donnelly long survive. The 'Frisco Reds pledged </p><p>themselves to his execution. Every effort was made by the Oligarchy to </p><p>save him. He was transferred from one part of the country to another. </p><p>Three of the Reds lost their lives in vain efforts to get him. The Group </p><p>was composed only of men. In the end they fell back on a woman, one </p><p>of our comrades, and none other than Anna Roylston. Our Inner </p><p>Circle forbade her, but she had ever a will of her own and disdained </p><p>discipline. Furthermore, she was a genius and lovable, and we could </p><p>never discipline her anyway. She is in a class by herself and not </p><p>amenable to the ordinary standards of the revolutionists. </p><p>Despite our refusal to grant permission to do the deed, she went on with </p><p>it. Now Anna Roylston was a fascinating woman. All she had to do was </p><p>to beckon a man to her. She broke the hearts of scores of our young</p><p>comrades, and scores of others she captured, and by their heart-strings </p><p>led into our organization. Yet she steadfastly refused to marry. She </p><p>dearly loved children, but she held that a child of her own would claim </p><p>her from the Cause, and that it was the Cause to which her life was </p><p>devoted. </p><p>It was an easy task for Anna Roylston to win Timothy Donnelly. Her </p><p>conscience did not trouble her, for at that very time occurred the </p><p>Nashville Massacre, when the Mercenaries, Donnelly in command, literally </p><p>murdered eight hundred weavers of that city. But she did not kill </p><p>Donnelly. She turned him over, a prisoner, to the 'Frisco Reds. </p><p>This happened only last year, and now she had been renamed. The </p><p>revolutionists everywhere are calling her the "Red Virgin."* </p><p> * It was not until the Second Revolt was crushed, that the</p><p> 'Frisco Reds flourished again. And for two generations the</p><p> Group flourished. Then an agent of the Iron Heel managed to</p><p> become a member, penetrated all its secrets, and brought</p><p> about its total annihilation. This occurred in 2002 A.D.</p><p> The members were executed one at a time, at intervals of</p><p> three weeks, and their bodies exposed in the labor-ghetto of</p><p> San Francisco.</p><p>Colonel Ingram and Colonel Van Gilbert are two more familiar figures </p><p>that I was later to encounter. Colonel Ingram rose high in the Oligarchy </p><p>and became Minister to Germany. He was cordially detested by the </p><p>proletariat of both countries. It was in Berlin that I met him, where, </p><p>as an accredited international spy of the Iron Heel, I was received by </p><p>him and afforded much assistance. Incidentally, I may state that in my </p><p>dual role I managed a few important things for the Revolution. </p><p>Colonel Van Gilbert became known as "Snarling" Van Gilbert. His </p><p>important part was played in drafting the new code after the Chicago </p><p>Commune. But before that, as trial judge, he had earned sentence of </p><p>death by his fiendish malignancy. I was one of those that tried him and </p><p>passed sentence upon him. Anna Roylston carried out the execution. </p><p>Still another figure arises out of the old life--Jackson's lawyer. Least </p><p>of all would I have expected again to meet this man, Joseph Hurd. It was </p><p>a strange meeting. Late at night, two years after the Chicago Commune, </p><p>Ernest and I arrived together at the Benton Harbor refuge. This was </p><p>in Michigan, across the lake from Chicago. We arrived just at the </p><p>conclusion of the trial of a spy. Sentence of death had been passed, and </p><p>he was being led away. Such was the scene as we came upon it. The next </p><p>moment the wretched man had wrenched free from his captors and flung </p><p>himself at my feet, his arms clutching me about the knees in a vicelike </p><p>grip as he prayed in a frenzy for mercy. As he turned his agonized face </p><p>up to me, I recognized him as Joseph Hurd. Of all the terrible things </p><p>I have witnessed, never have I been so unnerved as by this frantic </p><p>creature's pleading for life. He was mad for life. It was pitiable. He </p><p>refused to let go of me, despite the hands of a dozen comrades. And when </p><p>at last he was dragged shrieking away, I sank down fainting upon the </p><p>floor. It is far easier to see brave men die than to hear a coward beg </p><p>for life.* </p><p> * The Benton Harbor refuge was a catacomb, the entrance of</p><p> which was cunningly contrived by way of a well. It has been</p><p> maintained in a fair state of preservation, and the curious</p><p> visitor may to-day tread its labyrinths to the assembly</p><p> hall, where, without doubt, occurred the scene described by</p><p> Avis Everhard. Farther on are the cells where the prisoners</p><p> were confined, and the death chamber where the executions</p><p> took place. Beyond is the cemetery--long, winding galleries</p><p> hewn out of the solid rock, with recesses on either hand,</p><p> wherein, tier above tier, lie the revolutionists just as</p><p> they were laid away by their comrades long years agone.</p><p>CHAPTER XX </p><p>A LOST OLIGARCH </p><p>But in remembering the old life I have run ahead of my story into the </p><p>new life. The wholesale jail delivery did not occur until well along </p><p>into 1915. Complicated as it was, it was carried through without a </p><p>hitch, and as a very creditable achievement it cheered us on in our </p><p>work. From Cuba to California, out of scores of jails, military prisons, </p><p>and fortresses, in a single night, we delivered fifty-one of our </p><p>fifty-two Congressmen, and in addition over three hundred other leaders. </p><p>There was not a single instance of miscarriage. Not only did they </p><p>escape, but every one of them won to the refuges as planned. The one </p><p>comrade Congressman we did not get was Arthur Simpson, and he had </p><p>already died in Cabanas after cruel tortures. </p><p>The eighteen months that followed was perhaps the happiest of my life </p><p>with Ernest. During that time we were never apart. Later, when we went </p><p>back into the world, we were separated much. Not more impatiently do I </p><p>await the flame of to-morrow's revolt than did I that night await the </p><p>coming of Ernest. I had not seen him for so long, and the thought of a </p><p>possible hitch or error in our plans that would keep him still in his </p><p>island prison almost drove me mad. The hours passed like ages. I was </p><p>all alone. Biedenbach, and three young men who had been living in the </p><p>refuge, were out and over the mountain, heavily armed and prepared for </p><p>anything. The refuges all over the land were quite empty, I imagine, of </p><p>comrades that night. </p><p>Just as the sky paled with the first warning of dawn, I heard the </p><p>signal from above and gave the answer. In the darkness I almost embraced </p><p>Biedenbach, who came down first; but the next moment I was in Ernest's </p><p>arms. And in that moment, so complete had been my transformation, I </p><p>discovered it was only by an effort of will that I could be the old Avis </p><p>Everhard, with the old mannerisms and smiles, phrases and intonations of </p><p>voice. It was by strong effort only that I was able to maintain my </p><p>old identity; I could not allow myself to forget for an instant, so </p><p>automatically imperative had become the new personality I had created. </p><p>Once inside the little cabin, I saw Ernest's face in the light. With the </p><p>exception of the prison pallor, there was no change in him--at least, </p><p>not much. He was my same lover-husband and hero. And yet there was a </p><p>certain ascetic lengthening of the lines of his face. But he could well </p><p>stand it, for it seemed to add a certain nobility of refinement to the </p><p>riotous excess of life that had always marked his features. He might </p><p>have been a trifle graver than of yore, but the glint of laughter still </p><p>was in his eyes. He was twenty pounds lighter, but in splendid </p><p>physical condition. He had kept up exercise during the whole period of </p><p>confinement, and his muscles were like iron. In truth, he was in better</p><p>condition than when he had entered prison. Hours passed before his head </p><p>touched pillow and I had soothed him off to sleep. But there was no </p><p>sleep for me. I was too happy, and the fatigue of jail-breaking and </p><p>riding horseback had not been mine. </p><p>While Ernest slept, I changed my dress, arranged my hair differently, </p><p>and came back to my new automatic self. Then, when Biedenbach and the </p><p>other comrades awoke, with their aid I concocted a little conspiracy. </p><p>All was ready, and we were in the cave-room that served for kitchen </p><p>and dining room when Ernest opened the door and entered. At that moment </p><p>Biedenbach addressed me as Mary, and I turned and answered him. Then I </p><p>glanced at Ernest with curious interest, such as any young comrade might </p><p>betray on seeing for the first time so noted a hero of the Revolution. </p><p>But Ernest's glance took me in and questioned impatiently past and </p><p>around the room. The next moment I was being introduced to him as Mary </p><p>Holmes. </p><p>To complete the deception, an extra plate was laid, and when we sat down </p><p>to table one chair was not occupied. I could have cried with joy as I </p><p>noted Ernest's increasing uneasiness and impatience. Finally he could </p><p>stand it no longer. </p><p>"Where's my wife?" he demanded bluntly. </p><p>"She is still asleep," I answered. </p><p>It was the crucial moment. But my voice was a strange voice, and in it </p><p>he recognized nothing familiar. The meal went on. I talked a great </p><p>deal, and enthusiastically, as a hero-worshipper might talk, and it </p><p>was obvious that he was my hero. I rose to a climax of enthusiasm and </p><p>worship, and, before he could guess my intention, threw my arms around </p><p>his neck and kissed him on the lips. He held me from him at arm's length </p><p>and stared about in annoyance and perplexity. The four men greeted him </p><p>with roars of laughter, and explanations were made. At first he was </p><p>sceptical. He scrutinized me keenly and was half convinced, then shook </p><p>his head and would not believe. It was not until I became the old Avis </p><p>Everhard and whispered secrets in his ear that none knew but he and Avis </p><p>Everhard, that he accepted me as his really, truly wife. </p><p>It was later in the day that he took me in his arms, manifesting great </p><p>embarrassment and claiming polygamous emotions. </p><p>"You are my Avis," he said, "and you are also some one else. You are two </p><p>women, and therefore you are my harem. At any rate, we are safe now. </p><p>If the United States becomes too hot for us, why I have qualified for </p><p>citizenship in Turkey."* </p><p> * At that time polygamy was still practised in Turkey.</p><p>Life became for me very happy in the refuge. It is true, we worked </p><p>hard and for long hours; but we worked together. We had each other for </p><p>eighteen precious months, and we were not lonely, for there was always </p><p>a coming and going of leaders and comrades--strange voices from the </p><p>under-world of intrigue and revolution, bringing stranger tales of </p><p>strife and war from all our battle-line. And there was much fun and </p><p>delight. We were not mere gloomy conspirators. We toiled hard and </p><p>suffered greatly, filled the gaps in our ranks and went on, and through </p><p>all the labour and the play and interplay of life and death we found </p><p>time to laugh and love. There were artists, scientists, scholars,</p><p>musicians, and poets among us; and in that hole in the ground culture </p><p>was higher and finer than in the palaces of wonder-cities of the </p><p>oligarchs. In truth, many of our comrades toiled at making beautiful </p><p>those same palaces and wonder-cities.* </p><p> * This is not braggadocio on the part of Avis Everhard. The</p><p> flower of the artistic and intellectual world were</p><p> revolutionists. With the exception of a few of the</p><p> musicians and singers, and of a few of the oligarchs, all</p><p> the great creators of the period whose names have come down</p><p> to us, were revolutionists.</p><p>Nor were we confined to the refuge itself. Often at night we rode over </p><p>the mountains for exercise, and we rode on Wickson's horses. If only he </p><p>knew how many revolutionists his horses have carried! We even went on </p><p>picnics to isolated spots we knew, where we remained all day, going </p><p>before daylight and returning after dark. Also, we used Wickson's cream </p><p>and butter,* and Ernest was not above shooting Wickson's quail and </p><p>rabbits, and, on occasion, his young bucks. </p><p> * Even as late as that period, cream and butter were still</p><p> crudely extracted from cow's milk. The laboratory</p><p> preparation of foods had not yet begun.</p><p>Indeed, it was a safe refuge. I have said that it was discovered only </p><p>once, and this brings me to the clearing up of the mystery of the </p><p>disappearance of young Wickson. Now that he is dead, I am free to speak. </p><p>There was a nook on the bottom of the great hole where the sun shone for </p><p>several hours and which was hidden from above. Here we had carried </p><p>many loads of gravel from the creek-bed, so that it was dry and warm, </p><p>a pleasant basking place; and here, one afternoon, I was drowsing, half </p><p>asleep, over a volume of Mendenhall.* I was so comfortable and secure </p><p>that even his flaming lyrics failed to stir me. </p><p> * In all the extant literature and documents of that period,</p><p> continual reference is made to the poems of Rudolph</p><p> Mendenhall. By his comrades he was called "The Flame." He</p><p> was undoubtedly a great genius; yet, beyond weird and</p><p> haunting fragments of his verse, quoted in the writings of</p><p> others, nothing of his has come down to us. He was executed</p><p> by the Iron Heel in 1928 A.D.</p><p>I was aroused by a clod of earth striking at my feet. Then from above, </p><p>I heard a sound of scrambling. The next moment a young man, with a </p><p>final slide down the crumbling wall, alighted at my feet. It was Philip </p><p>Wickson, though I did not know him at the time. He looked at me coolly </p><p>and uttered a low whistle of surprise. </p><p>"Well," he said; and the next moment, cap in hand, he was saying, "I beg </p><p>your pardon. I did not expect to find any one here." </p><p>I was not so cool. I was still a tyro so far as concerned knowing how to </p><p>behave in desperate circumstances. Later on, when I was an international </p><p>spy, I should have been less clumsy, I am sure. As it was, I scrambled </p><p>to my feet and cried out the danger call. </p><p>"Why did you do that?" he asked, looking at me searchingly. </p><p>It was evident that he had no suspicion of our presence when making the</p><p>descent. I recognized this with relief. </p><p>"For what purpose do you think I did it?" I countered. I was indeed </p><p>clumsy in those days. </p><p>"I don't know," he answered, shaking his head. "Unless you've got </p><p>friends about. Anyway, you've got some explanations to make. I don't </p><p>like the look of it. You are trespassing. This is my father's land, </p><p>and--" </p><p>But at that moment, Biedenbach, every polite and gentle, said from </p><p>behind him in a low voice, "Hands up, my young sir." </p><p>Young Wickson put his hands up first, then turned to confront </p><p>Biedenbach, who held a thirty-thirty automatic rifle on him. Wickson was </p><p>imperturbable. </p><p>"Oh, ho," he said, "a nest of revolutionists--and quite a hornet's nest </p><p>it would seem. Well, you won't abide here long, I can tell you." </p><p>"Maybe you'll abide here long enough to reconsider that statement," </p><p>Biedenbach said quietly. "And in the meanwhile I must ask you to come </p><p>inside with me." </p><p>"Inside?" The young man was genuinely astonished. "Have you a catacomb </p><p>here? I have heard of such things." </p><p>"Come and see," Biedenbach answered with his adorable accent. </p><p>"But it is unlawful," was the protest. </p><p>"Yes, by your law," the terrorist replied significantly. "But by our </p><p>law, believe me, it is quite lawful. You must accustom yourself to </p><p>the fact that you are in another world than the one of oppression and </p><p>brutality in which you have lived." </p><p>"There is room for argument there," Wickson muttered. </p><p>"Then stay with us and discuss it." </p><p>The young fellow laughed and followed his captor into the house. He </p><p>was led into the inner cave-room, and one of the young comrades left to </p><p>guard him, while we discussed the situation in the kitchen. </p><p>Biedenbach, with tears in his eyes, held that Wickson must die, and was </p><p>quite relieved when we outvoted him and his horrible proposition. On the </p><p>other hand, we could not dream of allowing the young oligarch to depart. </p><p>"I'll tell you what to do," Ernest said. "We'll keep him and give him an </p><p>education." </p><p>"I bespeak the privilege, then, of enlightening him in jurisprudence," </p><p>Biedenbach cried. </p><p>And so a decision was laughingly reached. We would keep Philip Wickson </p><p>a prisoner and educate him in our ethics and sociology. But in the </p><p>meantime there was work to be done. All trace of the young oligarch must </p><p>be obliterated. There were the marks he had left when descending the </p><p>crumbling wall of the hole. This task fell to Biedenbach, and, slung on</p><p>a rope from above, he toiled cunningly for the rest of the day till no </p><p>sign remained. Back up the canyon from the lip of the hole all marks </p><p>were likewise removed. Then, at twilight, came John Carlson, who </p><p>demanded Wickson's shoes. </p><p>The young man did not want to give up his shoes, and even offered to </p><p>fight for them, till he felt the horseshoer's strength in Ernest's </p><p>hands. Carlson afterward reported several blisters and much grievous </p><p>loss of skin due to the smallness of the shoes, but he succeeded in </p><p>doing gallant work with them. Back from the lip of the hole, where ended </p><p>the young man's obliterated trial, Carlson put on the shoes and walked </p><p>away to the left. He walked for miles, around knolls, over ridges and </p><p>through canyons, and finally covered the trail in the running water of </p><p>a creek-bed. Here he removed the shoes, and, still hiding trail for a </p><p>distance, at last put on his own shoes. A week later Wickson got back </p><p>his shoes. </p><p>That night the hounds were out, and there was little sleep in the </p><p>refuge. Next day, time and again, the baying hounds came down the </p><p>canyon, plunged off to the left on the trail Carlson had made for them, </p><p>and were lost to ear in the farther canyons high up the mountain. And </p><p>all the time our men waited in the refuge, weapons in hand--automatic </p><p>revolvers and rifles, to say nothing of half a dozen infernal machines </p><p>of Biedenbach's manufacture. A more surprised party of rescuers could </p><p>not be imagined, had they ventured down into our hiding-place. </p><p>I have now given the true disappearance of Philip Wickson, one-time </p><p>oligarch, and, later, comrade in the Revolution. For we converted him </p><p>in the end. His mind was fresh and plastic, and by nature he was very </p><p>ethical. Several months later we rode him, on one of his father's </p><p>horses, over Sonoma Mountains to Petaluma Creek and embarked him in </p><p>a small fishing-launch. By easy stages we smuggled him along our </p><p>underground railway to the Carmel refuge. </p><p>There he remained eight months, at the end of which time, for two </p><p>reasons, he was loath to leave us. One reason was that he had fallen in </p><p>love with Anna Roylston, and the other was that he had become one of </p><p>us. It was not until he became convinced of the hopelessness of his </p><p>love affair that he acceded to our wishes and went back to his father. </p><p>Ostensibly an oligarch until his death, he was in reality one of the </p><p>most valuable of our agents. Often and often has the Iron Heel been </p><p>dumbfounded by the miscarriage of its plans and operations against us. </p><p>If it but knew the number of its own members who are our agents, it </p><p>would understand. Young Wickson never wavered in his loyalty to the </p><p>Cause. In truth, his very death was incurred by his devotion to duty. </p><p>In the great storm of 1927, while attending a meeting of our leaders, he </p><p>contracted the pneumonia of which he died.* </p><p> * The case of this young man was not unusual. Many young</p><p> men of the Oligarchy, impelled by sense of right conduct, or</p><p> their imaginations captured by the glory of the Revolution,</p><p> ethically or romantically devoted their lives to it. In</p><p> similar way, many sons of the Russian nobility played their</p><p> parts in the earlier and protracted revolution in that</p><p> country.</p><p>CHAPTER XXI </p><p>THE ROARING ABYSMAL BEAST </p><p>During the long period of our stay in the refuge, we were kept closely </p><p>in touch with what was happening in the world without, and we were </p><p>learning thoroughly the strength of the Oligarchy with which we were </p><p>at war. Out of the flux of transition the new institutions were </p><p>forming more definitely and taking on the appearance and attributes </p><p>of permanence. The oligarchs had succeeded in devising a governmental </p><p>machine, as intricate as it was vast, that worked--and this despite all </p><p>our efforts to clog and hamper. </p><p>This was a surprise to many of the revolutionists. They had not </p><p>conceived it possible. Nevertheless the work of the country went on. </p><p>The men toiled in the mines and fields--perforce they were no more than </p><p>slaves. As for the vital industries, everything prospered. The members </p><p>of the great labor castes were contented and worked on merrily. For the </p><p>first time in their lives they knew industrial peace. No more were they </p><p>worried by slack times, strike and lockout, and the union label. They </p><p>lived in more comfortable homes and in delightful cities of their </p><p>own--delightful compared with the slums and ghettos in which they had </p><p>formerly dwelt. They had better food to eat, less hours of labor, more </p><p>holidays, and a greater amount and variety of interests and pleasures. </p><p>And for their less fortunate brothers and sisters, the unfavored </p><p>laborers, the driven people of the abyss, they cared nothing. An age </p><p>of selfishness was dawning upon mankind. And yet this is not altogether </p><p>true. The labor castes were honeycombed by our agents--men whose </p><p>eyes saw, beyond the belly-need, the radiant figure of liberty and </p><p>brotherhood. </p><p>Another great institution that had taken form and was working smoothly </p><p>was the Mercenaries. This body of soldiers had been evolved out of the </p><p>old regular army and was now a million strong, to say nothing of the </p><p>colonial forces. The Mercenaries constituted a race apart. They dwelt in </p><p>cities of their own which were practically self-governed, and they </p><p>were granted many privileges. By them a large portion of the perplexing </p><p>surplus was consumed. They were losing all touch and sympathy with </p><p>the rest of the people, and, in fact, were developing their own class </p><p>morality and consciousness. And yet we had thousands of our agents among </p><p>them.* </p><p> * The Mercenaries, in the last days of the Iron Heel, played</p><p> an important role. They constituted the balance of power in</p><p> the struggles between the labor castes and the oligarchs,</p><p> and now to one side and now to the other, threw their</p><p> strength according to the play of intrigue and conspiracy.</p><p>The oligarchs themselves were going through a remarkable and, it must </p><p>be confessed, unexpected development. As a class, they disciplined </p><p>themselves. Every member had his work to do in the world, and this work </p><p>he was compelled to do. There were no more idle-rich young men. Their </p><p>strength was used to give united strength to the Oligarchy. They served </p><p>as leaders of troops and as lieutenants and captains of industry. </p><p>They found careers in applied science, and many of them became great </p><p>engineers. They went into the multitudinous divisions of the government, </p><p>took service in the colonial possessions, and by tens of thousands went </p><p>into the various secret services. They were, I may say, apprenticed </p><p>to education, to art, to the church, to science, to literature; and </p><p>in those fields they served the important function of moulding the</p><p>thought-processes of the nation in the direction of the perpetuity of </p><p>the Oligarchy. </p><p>They were taught, and later they in turn taught, that what they were </p><p>doing was right. They assimilated the aristocratic idea from the moment </p><p>they began, as children, to receive impressions of the world. The </p><p>aristocratic idea was woven into the making of them until it became bone </p><p>of them and flesh of them. They looked upon themselves as wild-animal </p><p>trainers, rulers of beasts. From beneath their feet rose always the </p><p>subterranean rumbles of revolt. Violent death ever stalked in their </p><p>midst; bomb and knife and bullet were looked upon as so many fangs </p><p>of the roaring abysmal beast they must dominate if humanity were </p><p>to persist. They were the saviours of humanity, and they regarded </p><p>themselves as heroic and sacrificing laborers for the highest good. </p><p>They, as a class, believed that they alone maintained civilization. </p><p>It was their belief that if ever they weakened, the great beast would </p><p>ingulf them and everything of beauty and wonder and joy and good in its </p><p>cavernous and slime-dripping maw. Without them, anarchy would reign and </p><p>humanity would drop backward into the primitive night out of which it </p><p>had so painfully emerged. The horrid picture of anarchy was held </p><p>always before their child's eyes until they, in turn, obsessed by this </p><p>cultivated fear, held the picture of anarchy before the eyes of the </p><p>children that followed them. This was the beast to be stamped upon, and </p><p>the highest duty of the aristocrat was to stamp upon it. In short, </p><p>they alone, by their unremitting toil and sacrifice, stood between </p><p>weak humanity and the all-devouring beast; and they believed it, firmly </p><p>believed it. </p><p>I cannot lay too great stress upon this high ethical righteousness of </p><p>the whole oligarch class. This has been the strength of the Iron Heel, </p><p>and too many of the comrades have been slow or loath to realize it. Many </p><p>of them have ascribed the strength of the Iron Heel to its system of </p><p>reward and punishment. This is a mistake. Heaven and hell may be the </p><p>prime factors of zeal in the religion of a fanatic; but for the great </p><p>majority of the religious, heaven and hell are incidental to right </p><p>and wrong. Love of the right, desire for the right, unhappiness with </p><p>anything less than the right--in short, right conduct, is the prime </p><p>factor of religion. And so with the Oligarchy. Prisons, banishment and </p><p>degradation, honors and palaces and wonder-cities, are all incidental. </p><p>The great driving force of the oligarchs is the belief that they are </p><p>doing right. Never mind the exceptions, and never mind the oppression </p><p>and injustice in which the Iron Heel was conceived. All is granted. The </p><p>point is that the strength of the Oligarchy today lies in its satisfied </p><p>conception of its own righteousness.* </p><p> * Out of the ethical incoherency and inconsistency of</p><p> capitalism, the oligarchs emerged with a new ethics,</p><p> coherent and definite, sharp and severe as steel, the most</p><p> absurd and unscientific and at the same time the most potent</p><p> ever possessed by any tyrant class. The oligarchs believed</p><p> their ethics, in spite of the fact that biology and</p><p> evolution gave them the lie; and, because of their faith,</p><p> for three centuries they were able to hold back the mighty</p><p> tide of human progress--a spectacle, profound, tremendous,</p><p> puzzling to the metaphysical moralist, and one that to the</p><p> materialist is the cause of many doubts and</p><p> reconsiderations.</p><p>For that matter, the strength of the Revolution, during these </p><p>frightful twenty years, has resided in nothing else than the sense </p><p>of righteousness. In no other way can be explained our sacrifices and </p><p>martyrdoms. For no other reason did Rudolph Mendenhall flame out his </p><p>soul for the Cause and sing his wild swan-song that last night of life. </p><p>For no other reason did Hurlbert die under torture, refusing to the last </p><p>to betray his comrades. For no other reason has Anna Roylston refused </p><p>blessed motherhood. For no other reason has John Carlson been the </p><p>faithful and unrewarded custodian of the Glen Ellen Refuge. It does </p><p>not matter, young or old, man or woman, high or low, genius or clod, </p><p>go where one will among the comrades of the Revolution, the motor-force </p><p>will be found to be a great and abiding desire for the right. </p><p>But I have run away from my narrative. Ernest and I well understood, </p><p>before we left the refuge, how the strength of the Iron Heel was </p><p>developing. The labor castes, the Mercenaries, and the great hordes </p><p>of secret agents and police of various sorts were all pledged to the </p><p>Oligarchy. In the main, and ignoring the loss of liberty, they were </p><p>better off than they had been. On the other hand, the great helpless </p><p>mass of the population, the people of the abyss, was sinking into a </p><p>brutish apathy of content with misery. Whenever strong proletarians </p><p>asserted their strength in the midst of the mass, they were drawn away </p><p>from the mass by the oligarchs and given better conditions by being made </p><p>members of the labor castes or of the Mercenaries. Thus discontent was </p><p>lulled and the proletariat robbed of its natural leaders. </p><p>The condition of the people of the abyss was pitiable. Common school </p><p>education, so far as they were concerned, had ceased. They lived </p><p>like beasts in great squalid labor-ghettos, festering in misery and </p><p>degradation. All their old liberties were gone. They were labor-slaves. </p><p>Choice of work was denied them. Likewise was denied them the right to </p><p>move from place to place, or the right to bear or possess arms. They </p><p>were not land serfs like the farmers. They were machine-serfs and </p><p>labor-serfs. When unusual needs arose for them, such as the building </p><p>of the great highways and air-lines, of canals, tunnels, subways, and </p><p>fortifications, levies were made on the labor-ghettos, and tens of </p><p>thousands of serfs, willy-nilly, were transported to the scene of </p><p>operations. Great armies of them are toiling now at the building of </p><p>Ardis, housed in wretched barracks where family life cannot exist, and </p><p>where decency is displaced by dull bestiality. In all truth, there in </p><p>the labor-ghettos is the roaring abysmal beast the oligarchs fear so </p><p>dreadfully--but it is the beast of their own making. In it they will not </p><p>let the ape and tiger die. </p><p>And just now the word has gone forth that new levies are being imposed </p><p>for the building of Asgard, the projected wonder-city that will far </p><p>exceed Ardis when the latter is completed.* We of the Revolution will go </p><p>on with that great work, but it will not be done by the miserable serfs. </p><p>The walls and towers and shafts of that fair city will arise to the </p><p>sound of singing, and into its beauty and wonder will be woven, not </p><p>sighs and groans, but music and laughter. </p><p> * Ardis was completed in 1942 A.D., Asgard was not completed</p><p> until 1984 A.D. It was fifty-two years in the building,</p><p> during which time a permanent army of half a million serfs</p><p> was employed. At times these numbers swelled to over a</p><p> million--without any account being taken of the hundreds of</p><p> thousands of the labor castes and the artists.</p><p>Ernest was madly impatient to be out in the world and doing, for our </p><p>ill-fated First Revolt, that had miscarried in the Chicago Commune, was </p><p>ripening fast. Yet he possessed his soul with patience, and during this </p><p>time of his torment, when Hadly, who had been brought for the purpose </p><p>from Illinois, made him over into another man* he revolved great plans </p><p>in his head for the organization of the learned proletariat, and for the </p><p>maintenance of at least the rudiments of education amongst the people of </p><p>the abyss--all this of course in the event of the First Revolt being a </p><p>failure. </p><p> * Among the Revolutionists were many surgeons, and in</p><p> vivisection they attained marvellous proficiency. In Avis</p><p> Everhard's words, they could literally make a man over. To</p><p> them the elimination of scars and disfigurements was a</p><p> trivial detail. They changed the features with such</p><p> microscopic care that no traces were left of their</p><p> handiwork. The nose was a favorite organ to work upon.</p><p> Skin-grafting and hair-transplanting were among their</p><p> commonest devices. The changes in expression they</p><p> accomplished were wizard-like. Eyes and eyebrows, lips,</p><p> mouths, and ears, were radically altered. By cunning</p><p> operations on tongue, throat, larynx, and nasal cavities a</p><p> man's whole enunciation and manner of speech could be</p><p> changed. Desperate times give need for desperate remedies,</p><p> and the surgeons of the Revolution rose to the need. Among</p><p> other things, they could increase an adult's stature by as</p><p> much as four or five inches and decrease it by one or two</p><p> inches. What they did is to-day a lost art. We have no</p><p> need for it.</p><p>It was not until January, 1917, that we left the refuge. All had been </p><p>arranged. We took our place at once as agents-provocateurs in the scheme </p><p>of the Iron Heel. I was supposed to be Ernest's sister. By oligarchs and </p><p>comrades on the inside who were high in authority, place had been made </p><p>for us, we were in possession of all necessary documents, and our pasts </p><p>were accounted for. With help on the inside, this was not difficult, </p><p>for in that shadow-world of secret service identity was nebulous. Like </p><p>ghosts the agents came and went, obeying commands, fulfilling duties, </p><p>following clews, making their reports often to officers they never saw </p><p>or cooperating with other agents they had never seen before and would </p><p>never see again. </p><p>CHAPTER XXII </p><p>THE CHICAGO COMMUNE </p><p>As agents-provocateurs, not alone were we able to travel a great deal, </p><p>but our very work threw us in contact with the proletariat and with our </p><p>comrades, the revolutionists. Thus we were in both camps at the same </p><p>time, ostensibly serving the Iron Heel and secretly working with all </p><p>our might for the Cause. There were many of us in the various </p><p>secret services of the Oligarchy, and despite the shakings-up and </p><p>reorganizations the secret services have undergone, they have never been </p><p>able to weed all of us out. </p><p>Ernest had largely planned the First Revolt, and the date set had been</p><p>somewhere early in the spring of 1918. In the fall of 1917 we were not </p><p>ready; much remained to be done, and when the Revolt was precipitated, </p><p>of course it was doomed to failure. The plot of necessity was </p><p>frightfully intricate, and anything premature was sure to destroy it. </p><p>This the Iron Heel foresaw and laid its schemes accordingly. </p><p>We had planned to strike our first blow at the nervous system of the </p><p>Oligarchy. The latter had remembered the general strike, and had </p><p>guarded against the defection of the telegraphers by installing wireless </p><p>stations, in the control of the Mercenaries. We, in turn, had countered </p><p>this move. When the signal was given, from every refuge, all over the </p><p>land, and from the cities, and towns, and barracks, devoted comrades </p><p>were to go forth and blow up the wireless stations. Thus at the first </p><p>shock would the Iron Heel be brought to earth and lie practically </p><p>dismembered. </p><p>At the same moment, other comrades were to blow up the bridges and </p><p>tunnels and disrupt the whole network of railroads. Still further, other </p><p>groups of comrades, at the signal, were to seize the officers of the </p><p>Mercenaries and the police, as well as all Oligarchs of unusual ability </p><p>or who held executive positions. Thus would the leaders of the enemy </p><p>be removed from the field of the local battles that would inevitably be </p><p>fought all over the land. </p><p>Many things were to occur simultaneously when the signal went forth. The </p><p>Canadian and Mexican patriots, who were far stronger than the Iron Heel </p><p>dreamed, were to duplicate our tactics. Then there were comrades (these </p><p>were the women, for the men would be busy elsewhere) who were to post </p><p>the proclamations from our secret presses. Those of us in the higher </p><p>employ of the Iron Heel were to proceed immediately to make confusion </p><p>and anarchy in all our departments. Inside the Mercenaries were </p><p>thousands of our comrades. Their work was to blow up the magazines </p><p>and to destroy the delicate mechanism of all the war machinery. In the </p><p>cities of the Mercenaries and of the labor castes similar programmes of </p><p>disruption were to be carried out. </p><p>In short, a sudden, colossal, stunning blow was to be struck. Before the </p><p>paralyzed Oligarchy could recover itself, its end would have come. </p><p>It would have meant terrible times and great loss of life, but no </p><p>revolutionist hesitates at such things. Why, we even depended much, in </p><p>our plan, on the unorganized people of the abyss. They were to be loosed </p><p>on the palaces and cities of the masters. Never mind the destruction </p><p>of life and property. Let the abysmal brute roar and the police and </p><p>Mercenaries slay. The abysmal brute would roar anyway, and the police </p><p>and Mercenaries would slay anyway. It would merely mean that various </p><p>dangers to us were harmlessly destroying one another. In the meantime we </p><p>would be doing our own work, largely unhampered, and gaining control of </p><p>all the machinery of society. </p><p>Such was our plan, every detail of which had to be worked out in secret, </p><p>and, as the day drew near, communicated to more and more comrades. </p><p>This was the danger point, the stretching of the conspiracy. But that </p><p>danger-point was never reached. Through its spy-system the Iron Heel </p><p>got wind of the Revolt and prepared to teach us another of its bloody </p><p>lessons. Chicago was the devoted city selected for the instruction, and </p><p>well were we instructed. </p><p>Chicago* was the ripest of all--Chicago which of old time was the city </p><p>of blood and which was to earn anew its name. There the revolutionary</p><p>spirit was strong. Too many bitter strikes had been curbed there in the </p><p>days of capitalism for the workers to forget and forgive. Even the </p><p>labor castes of the city were alive with revolt. Too many heads had </p><p>been broken in the early strikes. Despite their changed and favorable </p><p>conditions, their hatred for the master class had not died. This spirit </p><p>had infected the Mercenaries, of which three regiments in particular </p><p>were ready to come over to us en masse. </p><p> * Chicago was the industrial inferno of the nineteenth</p><p> century A.D. A curious anecdote has come down to us of John</p><p> Burns, a great English labor leader and one time member of</p><p> the British Cabinet. In Chicago, while on a visit to the</p><p> United States, he was asked by a newspaper reporter for his</p><p> opinion of that city. "Chicago," he answered, "is a pocket</p><p> edition of hell." Some time later, as he was going aboard</p><p> his steamer to sail to England, he was approached by another</p><p> reporter, who wanted to know if he had changed his opinion</p><p> of Chicago. "Yes, I have," was his reply. "My present</p><p> opinion is that hell is a pocket edition of Chicago."</p><p>Chicago had always been the storm-centre of the conflict between </p><p>labor and capital, a city of street-battles and violent death, with a </p><p>class-conscious capitalist organization and a class-conscious workman </p><p>organization, where, in the old days, the very school-teachers were </p><p>formed into labor unions and affiliated with the hod-carriers and </p><p>brick-layers in the American Federation of Labor. And Chicago became the </p><p>storm-centre of the premature First Revolt. </p><p>The trouble was precipitated by the Iron Heel. It was cleverly done. The </p><p>whole population, including the favored labor castes, was given a course </p><p>of outrageous treatment. Promises and agreements were broken, and most </p><p>drastic punishments visited upon even petty offenders. The people of </p><p>the abyss were tormented out of their apathy. In fact, the Iron Heel was </p><p>preparing to make the abysmal beast roar. And hand in hand with this, in </p><p>all precautionary measures in Chicago, the Iron Heel was inconceivably </p><p>careless. Discipline was relaxed among the Mercenaries that remained, </p><p>while many regiments had been withdrawn and sent to various parts of the </p><p>country. </p><p>It did not take long to carry out this programme--only several weeks. We </p><p>of the Revolution caught vague rumors of the state of affairs, but had </p><p>nothing definite enough for an understanding. In fact, we thought it was </p><p>a spontaneous spirit of revolt that would require careful curbing on our </p><p>part, and never dreamed that it was deliberately manufactured--and it </p><p>had been manufactured so secretly, from the very innermost circle of </p><p>the Iron Heel, that we had got no inkling. The counter-plot was an able </p><p>achievement, and ably carried out. </p><p>I was in New York when I received the order to proceed immediately to </p><p>Chicago. The man who gave me the order was one of the oligarchs, I could </p><p>tell that by his speech, though I did not know his name nor see his </p><p>face. His instructions were too clear for me to make a mistake. Plainly </p><p>I read between the lines that our plot had been discovered, that we had </p><p>been countermined. The explosion was ready for the flash of powder, and </p><p>countless agents of the Iron Heel, including me, either on the ground </p><p>or being sent there, were to supply that flash. I flatter myself that I </p><p>maintained my composure under the keen eye of the oligarch, but my heart </p><p>was beating madly. I could almost have shrieked and flown at his throat </p><p>with my naked hands before his final, cold-blooded instructions were</p><p>given. </p><p>Once out of his presence, I calculated the time. I had just the moments </p><p>to spare, if I were lucky, to get in touch with some local leader before </p><p>catching my train. Guarding against being trailed, I made a rush of it </p><p>for the Emergency Hospital. Luck was with me, and I gained access at </p><p>once to comrade Galvin, the surgeon-in-chief. I started to gasp out my </p><p>information, but he stopped me. </p><p>"I already know," he said quietly, though his Irish eyes were flashing. </p><p>"I knew what you had come for. I got the word fifteen minutes ago, and I </p><p>have already passed it along. Everything shall be done here to keep the </p><p>comrades quiet. Chicago is to be sacrificed, but it shall be Chicago </p><p>alone." </p><p>"Have you tried to get word to Chicago?" I asked. </p><p>He shook his head. "No telegraphic communication. Chicago is shut off. </p><p>It's going to be hell there." </p><p>He paused a moment, and I saw his white hands clinch. Then he burst out: </p><p>"By God! I wish I were going to be there!" </p><p>"There is yet a chance to stop it," I said, "if nothing happens to </p><p>the train and I can get there in time. Or if some of the other </p><p>secret-service comrades who have learned the truth can get there in </p><p>time." </p><p>"You on the inside were caught napping this time," he said. </p><p>I nodded my head humbly. </p><p>"It was very secret," I answered. "Only the inner chiefs could have </p><p>known up to to-day. We haven't yet penetrated that far, so we couldn't </p><p>escape being kept in the dark. If only Ernest were here. Maybe he is in </p><p>Chicago now, and all is well." </p><p>Dr. Galvin shook his head. "The last news I heard of him was that he had </p><p>been sent to Boston or New Haven. This secret service for the enemy must </p><p>hamper him a lot, but it's better than lying in a refuge." </p><p>I started to go, and Galvin wrung my hand. </p><p>"Keep a stout heart," were his parting words. "What if the First Revolt </p><p>is lost? There will be a second, and we will be wiser then. Good-by and </p><p>good luck. I don't know whether I'll ever see you again. It's going to </p><p>be hell there, but I'd give ten years of my life for your chance to be </p><p>in it." </p><p>The Twentieth Century* left New York at six in the evening, and was </p><p>supposed to arrive at Chicago at seven next morning. But it lost time </p><p>that night. We were running behind another train. Among the travellers </p><p>in my Pullman was comrade Hartman, like myself in the secret service </p><p>of the Iron Heel. He it was who told me of the train that immediately </p><p>preceded us. It was an exact duplicate of our train, though it contained </p><p>no passengers. The idea was that the empty train should receive the </p><p>disaster were an attempt made to blow up the Twentieth Century. For that </p><p>matter there were very few people on the train--only a baker's dozen in</p><p>our car. </p><p> * This was reputed to be the fastest train in the world</p><p> then. It was quite a famous train.</p><p>"There must be some big men on board," Hartman concluded. "I noticed a </p><p>private car on the rear." </p><p>Night had fallen when we made our first change of engine, and I walked </p><p>down the platform for a breath of fresh air and to see what I could see. </p><p>Through the windows of the private car I caught a glimpse of three </p><p>men whom I recognized. Hartman was right. One of the men was General </p><p>Altendorff; and the other two were Mason and Vanderbold, the brains of </p><p>the inner circle of the Oligarchy's secret service. </p><p>It was a quiet moonlight night, but I tossed restlessly and could not </p><p>sleep. At five in the morning I dressed and abandoned my bed. </p><p>I asked the maid in the dressing-room how late the train was, and she </p><p>told me two hours. She was a mulatto woman, and I noticed that her </p><p>face was haggard, with great circles under the eyes, while the eyes </p><p>themselves were wide with some haunting fear. </p><p>"What is the matter?" I asked. </p><p>"Nothing, miss; I didn't sleep well, I guess," was her reply. </p><p>I looked at her closely, and tried her with one of our signals. She </p><p>responded, and I made sure of her. </p><p>"Something terrible is going to happen in Chicago," she said. "There's </p><p>that fake* train in front of us. That and the troop-trains have made us </p><p>late." </p><p> * False.</p><p>"Troop-trains?" I queried. </p><p>She nodded her head. "The line is thick with them. We've been passing </p><p>them all night. And they're all heading for Chicago. And bringing them </p><p>over the air-line--that means business. </p><p>"I've a lover in Chicago," she added apologetically. "He's one of us, </p><p>and he's in the Mercenaries, and I'm afraid for him." </p><p>Poor girl. Her lover was in one of the three disloyal regiments. </p><p>Hartman and I had breakfast together in the dining car, and I forced </p><p>myself to eat. The sky had clouded, and the train rushed on like a </p><p>sullen thunderbolt through the gray pall of advancing day. The very </p><p>negroes that waited on us knew that something terrible was impending. </p><p>Oppression sat heavily upon them; the lightness of their natures had </p><p>ebbed out of them; they were slack and absent-minded in their service, </p><p>and they whispered gloomily to one another in the far end of the car </p><p>next to the kitchen. Hartman was hopeless over the situation. </p><p>"What can we do?" he demanded for the twentieth time, with a helpless </p><p>shrug of the shoulders. </p><p>He pointed out of the window. "See, all is ready. You can depend upon it </p><p>that they're holding them like this, thirty or forty miles outside the </p><p>city, on every road." </p><p>He had reference to troop-trains on the side-track. The soldiers were </p><p>cooking their breakfasts over fires built on the ground beside the </p><p>track, and they looked up curiously at us as we thundered past without </p><p>slackening our terrific speed. </p><p>All was quiet as we entered Chicago. It was evident nothing had happened </p><p>yet. In the suburbs the morning papers came on board the train. There </p><p>was nothing in them, and yet there was much in them for those skilled </p><p>in reading between the lines that it was intended the ordinary reader </p><p>should read into the text. The fine hand of the Iron Heel was apparent </p><p>in every column. Glimmerings of weakness in the armor of the Oligarchy </p><p>were given. Of course, there was nothing definite. It was intended that </p><p>the reader should feel his way to these glimmerings. It was </p><p>cleverly done. As fiction, those morning papers of October 27th were </p><p>masterpieces. </p><p>The local news was missing. This in itself was a masterstroke. It </p><p>shrouded Chicago in mystery, and it suggested to the average Chicago </p><p>reader that the Oligarchy did not dare give the local news. Hints that </p><p>were untrue, of course, were given of insubordination all over the land, </p><p>crudely disguised with complacent references to punitive measures to be </p><p>taken. There were reports of numerous wireless stations that had </p><p>been blown up, with heavy rewards offered for the detection of the </p><p>perpetrators. Of course no wireless stations had been blown up. Many </p><p>similar outrages, that dovetailed with the plot of the revolutionists, </p><p>were given. The impression to be made on the minds of the Chicago </p><p>comrades was that the general Revolt was beginning, albeit with a </p><p>confusing miscarriage in many details. It was impossible for one </p><p>uninformed to escape the vague yet certain feeling that all the land was </p><p>ripe for the revolt that had already begun to break out. </p><p>It was reported that the defection of the Mercenaries in California had </p><p>become so serious that half a dozen regiments had been disbanded and </p><p>broken, and that their members with their families had been driven </p><p>from their own city and on into the labor-ghettos. And the California </p><p>Mercenaries were in reality the most faithful of all to their salt! </p><p>But how was Chicago, shut off from the rest of the world, to know? Then </p><p>there was a ragged telegram describing an outbreak of the populace in </p><p>New York City, in which the labor castes were joining, concluding with </p><p>the statement (intended to be accepted as a bluff*) that the troops had </p><p>the situation in hand. </p><p> * A lie.</p><p>And as the oligarchs had done with the morning papers, so had they done </p><p>in a thousand other ways. These we learned afterward, as, for example, </p><p>the secret messages of the oligarchs, sent with the express purpose of </p><p>leaking to the ears of the revolutionists, that had come over the wires, </p><p>now and again, during the first part of the night. </p><p>"I guess the Iron Heel won't need our services," Hartman remarked, </p><p>putting down the paper he had been reading, when the train pulled into </p><p>the central depot. "They wasted their time sending us here. Their plans </p><p>have evidently prospered better than they expected. Hell will break </p><p>loose any second now."</p><p>He turned and looked down the train as we alighted. </p><p>"I thought so," he muttered. "They dropped that private car when the </p><p>papers came aboard." </p><p>Hartman was hopelessly depressed. I tried to cheer him up, but he </p><p>ignored my effort and suddenly began talking very hurriedly, in a </p><p>low voice, as we passed through the station. At first I could not </p><p>understand. </p><p>"I have not been sure," he was saying, "and I have told no one. I have </p><p>been working on it for weeks, and I cannot make sure. Watch out for </p><p>Knowlton. I suspect him. He knows the secrets of a score of our refuges. </p><p>He carries the lives of hundreds of us in his hands, and I think he is </p><p>a traitor. It's more a feeling on my part than anything else. But I </p><p>thought I marked a change in him a short while back. There is the danger </p><p>that he has sold us out, or is going to sell us out. I am almost sure </p><p>of it. I wouldn't whisper my suspicions to a soul, but, somehow, I don't </p><p>think I'll leave Chicago alive. Keep your eye on Knowlton. Trap him. </p><p>Find out. I don't know anything more. It is only an intuition, and so </p><p>far I have failed to find the slightest clew." We were just stepping out </p><p>upon the sidewalk. "Remember," Hartman concluded earnestly. "Keep your </p><p>eyes upon Knowlton." </p><p>And Hartman was right. Before a month went by Knowlton paid for his </p><p>treason with his life. He was formally executed by the comrades in </p><p>Milwaukee. </p><p>All was quiet on the streets--too quiet. Chicago lay dead. There was no </p><p>roar and rumble of traffic. There were not even cabs on the streets. The </p><p>surface cars and the elevated were not running. Only occasionally, on </p><p>the sidewalks, were there stray pedestrians, and these pedestrians did </p><p>not loiter. They went their ways with great haste and definiteness, </p><p>withal there was a curious indecision in their movements, as though they </p><p>expected the buildings to topple over on them or the sidewalks to sink </p><p>under their feet or fly up in the air. A few gamins, however, were </p><p>around, in their eyes a suppressed eagerness in anticipation of </p><p>wonderful and exciting things to happen. </p><p>From somewhere, far to the south, the dull sound of an explosion came to </p><p>our ears. That was all. Then quiet again, though the gamins had startled </p><p>and listened, like young deer, at the sound. The doorways to all the </p><p>buildings were closed; the shutters to the shops were up. But there </p><p>were many police and watchmen in evidence, and now and again automobile </p><p>patrols of the Mercenaries slipped swiftly past. </p><p>Hartman and I agreed that it was useless to report ourselves to the </p><p>local chiefs of the secret service. Our failure so to report would be </p><p>excused, we knew, in the light of subsequent events. So we headed for </p><p>the great labor-ghetto on the South Side in the hope of getting in </p><p>contact with some of the comrades. Too late! We knew it. But we could </p><p>not stand still and do nothing in those ghastly, silent streets. Where </p><p>was Ernest? I was wondering. What was happening in the cities of the </p><p>labor castes and Mercenaries? In the fortresses? </p><p>As if in answer, a great screaming roar went up, dim with distance, </p><p>punctuated with detonation after detonation. </p><p>"It's the fortresses," Hartman said. "God pity those three regiments!" </p><p>At a crossing we noticed, in the direction of the stockyards, a gigantic </p><p>pillar of smoke. At the next crossing several similar smoke pillars were </p><p>rising skyward in the direction of the West Side. Over the city of the </p><p>Mercenaries we saw a great captive war-balloon that burst even as we </p><p>looked at it, and fell in flaming wreckage toward the earth. There was </p><p>no clew to that tragedy of the air. We could not determine whether the </p><p>balloon had been manned by comrades or enemies. A vague sound came to </p><p>our ears, like the bubbling of a gigantic caldron a long way off, and </p><p>Hartman said it was machine-guns and automatic rifles. </p><p>And still we walked in immediate quietude. Nothing was happening where </p><p>we were. The police and the automobile patrols went by, and once half </p><p>a dozen fire-engines, returning evidently from some conflagration. A </p><p>question was called to the fireman by an officer in an automobile, and </p><p>we heard one shout in reply: "No water! They've blown up the mains!" </p><p>"We've smashed the water supply," Hartman cried excitedly to me. "If we </p><p>can do all this in a premature, isolated, abortive attempt, what can't </p><p>we do in a concerted, ripened effort all over the land?" </p><p>The automobile containing the officer who had asked the question darted </p><p>on. Suddenly there was a deafening roar. The machine, with its human </p><p>freight, lifted in an upburst of smoke, and sank down a mass of wreckage </p><p>and death. </p><p>Hartman was jubilant. "Well done! well done!" he was repeating, over </p><p>and over, in a whisper. "The proletariat gets its lesson to-day, but it </p><p>gives one, too." </p><p>Police were running for the spot. Also, another patrol machine had </p><p>halted. As for myself, I was in a daze. The suddenness of it was </p><p>stunning. How had it happened? I knew not how, and yet I had been </p><p>looking directly at it. So dazed was I for the moment that I was </p><p>scarcely aware of the fact that we were being held up by the police. I </p><p>abruptly saw that a policeman was in the act of shooting Hartman. But </p><p>Hartman was cool and was giving the proper passwords. I saw the levelled </p><p>revolver hesitate, then sink down, and heard the disgusted grunt of the </p><p>policeman. He was very angry, and was cursing the whole secret service. </p><p>It was always in the way, he was averring, while Hartman was talking </p><p>back to him and with fitting secret-service pride explaining to him the </p><p>clumsiness of the police. </p><p>The next moment I knew how it had happened. There was quite a group </p><p>about the wreck, and two men were just lifting up the wounded officer </p><p>to carry him to the other machine. A panic seized all of them, and </p><p>they scattered in every direction, running in blind terror, the wounded </p><p>officer, roughly dropped, being left behind. The cursing policeman </p><p>alongside of me also ran, and Hartman and I ran, too, we knew not why, </p><p>obsessed with the same blind terror to get away from that particular </p><p>spot. </p><p>Nothing really happened then, but everything was explained. The flying </p><p>men were sheepishly coming back, but all the while their eyes were </p><p>raised apprehensively to the many-windowed, lofty buildings that towered </p><p>like the sheer walls of a canyon on each side of the street. From one </p><p>of those countless windows the bomb had been thrown, but which window? </p><p>There had been no second bomb, only a fear of one.</p><p>Thereafter we looked with speculative comprehension at the windows. </p><p>Any of them contained possible death. Each building was a possible </p><p>ambuscade. This was warfare in that modern jungle, a great city. Every </p><p>street was a canyon, every building a mountain. We had not changed much </p><p>from primitive man, despite the war automobiles that were sliding by. </p><p>Turning a corner, we came upon a woman. She was lying on the pavement, </p><p>in a pool of blood. Hartman bent over and examined her. As for myself, </p><p>I turned deathly sick. I was to see many dead that day, but the total </p><p>carnage was not to affect me as did this first forlorn body lying </p><p>there at my feet abandoned on the pavement. "Shot in the breast," was </p><p>Hartman's report. Clasped in the hollow of her arm, as a child might be </p><p>clasped, was a bundle of printed matter. Even in death she seemed loath </p><p>to part with that which had caused her death; for when Hartman had </p><p>succeeded in withdrawing the bundle, we found that it consisted of large </p><p>printed sheets, the proclamations of the revolutionists. </p><p>"A comrade," I said. </p><p>But Hartman only cursed the Iron Heel, and we passed on. Often we </p><p>were halted by the police and patrols, but our passwords enabled us </p><p>to proceed. No more bombs fell from the windows, the last pedestrians </p><p>seemed to have vanished from the streets, and our immediate quietude </p><p>grew more profound; though the gigantic caldron continued to bubble in </p><p>the distance, dull roars of explosions came to us from all directions, </p><p>and the smoke-pillars were towering more ominously in the heavens. </p><p>CHAPTER XXIII </p><p>THE PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS </p><p>Suddenly a change came over the face of things. A tingle of excitement </p><p>ran along the air. Automobiles fled past, two, three, a dozen, and from </p><p>them warnings were shouted to us. One of the machines swerved wildly </p><p>at high speed half a block down, and the next moment, already left well </p><p>behind it, the pavement was torn into a great hole by a bursting bomb. </p><p>We saw the police disappearing down the cross-streets on the run, and </p><p>knew that something terrible was coming. We could hear the rising roar </p><p>of it. </p><p>"Our brave comrades are coming," Hartman said. </p><p>We could see the front of their column filling the street from gutter to </p><p>gutter, as the last war-automobile fled past. The machine stopped for a </p><p>moment just abreast of us. A soldier leaped from it, carrying something </p><p>carefully in his hands. This, with the same care, he deposited in the </p><p>gutter. Then he leaped back to his seat and the machine dashed on, took </p><p>the turn at the corner, and was gone from sight. Hartman ran to the </p><p>gutter and stooped over the object. </p><p>"Keep back," he warned me. </p><p>I could see he was working rapidly with his hands. When he returned to </p><p>me the sweat was heavy on his forehead. </p><p>"I disconnected it," he said, "and just in the nick of time. The soldier </p><p>was clumsy. He intended it for our comrades, but he didn't give it </p><p>enough time. It would have exploded prematurely. Now it won't explode at </p><p>all." </p><p>Everything was happening rapidly now. Across the street and half a block </p><p>down, high up in a building, I could see heads peering out. I had just </p><p>pointed them out to Hartman, when a sheet of flame and smoke ran along </p><p>that portion of the face of the building where the heads had appeared, </p><p>and the air was shaken by the explosion. In places the stone facing of </p><p>the building was torn away, exposing the iron construction beneath. The </p><p>next moment similar sheets of flame and smoke smote the front of the </p><p>building across the street opposite it. Between the explosions we could </p><p>hear the rattle of the automatic pistols and rifles. For several minutes </p><p>this mid-air battle continued, then died out. It was patent that our </p><p>comrades were in one building, that Mercenaries were in the other, and </p><p>that they were fighting across the street. But we could not tell </p><p>which was which--which building contained our comrades and which the </p><p>Mercenaries. </p><p>By this time the column on the street was almost on us. As the front of </p><p>it passed under the warring buildings, both went into action again--one </p><p>building dropping bombs into the street, being attacked from across the </p><p>street, and in return replying to that attack. Thus we learned which </p><p>building was held by our comrades, and they did good work, saving those </p><p>in the street from the bombs of the enemy. </p><p>Hartman gripped my arm and dragged me into a wide entrance. </p><p>"They're not our comrades," he shouted in my ear. </p><p>The inner doors to the entrance were locked and bolted. We could not </p><p>escape. The next moment the front of the column went by. It was not a </p><p>column, but a mob, an awful river that filled the street, the people </p><p>of the abyss, mad with drink and wrong, up at last and roaring for the </p><p>blood of their masters. I had seen the people of the abyss before, gone </p><p>through its ghettos, and thought I knew it; but I found that I was now </p><p>looking on it for the first time. Dumb apathy had vanished. It was now </p><p>dynamic--a fascinating spectacle of dread. It surged past my vision in </p><p>concrete waves of wrath, snarling and growling, carnivorous, drunk with </p><p>whiskey from pillaged warehouses, drunk with hatred, drunk with lust </p><p>for blood--men, women, and children, in rags and tatters, dim ferocious </p><p>intelligences with all the godlike blotted from their features and all </p><p>the fiendlike stamped in, apes and tigers, anaemic consumptives and </p><p>great hairy beasts of burden, wan faces from which vampire society had </p><p>sucked the juice of life, bloated forms swollen with physical grossness </p><p>and corruption, withered hags and death's-heads bearded like patriarchs, </p><p>festering youth and festering age, faces of fiends, crooked, twisted, </p><p>misshapen monsters blasted with the ravages of disease and all the </p><p>horrors of chronic innutrition--the refuse and the scum of life, a </p><p>raging, screaming, screeching, demoniacal horde. </p><p>And why not? The people of the abyss had nothing to lose but the misery </p><p>and pain of living. And to gain?--nothing, save one final, awful glut of </p><p>vengeance. And as I looked the thought came to me that in that rushing </p><p>stream of human lava were men, comrades and heroes, whose mission had </p><p>been to rouse the abysmal beast and to keep the enemy occupied in coping </p><p>with it. </p><p>And now a strange thing happened to me. A transformation came over me. </p><p>The fear of death, for myself and for others, left me. I was strangely </p><p>exalted, another being in another life. Nothing mattered. The Cause for </p><p>this one time was lost, but the Cause would be here to-morrow, the </p><p>same Cause, ever fresh and ever burning. And thereafter, in the orgy </p><p>of horror that raged through the succeeding hours, I was able to take </p><p>a calm interest. Death meant nothing, life meant nothing. I was an </p><p>interested spectator of events, and, sometimes swept on by the rush, </p><p>was myself a curious participant. For my mind had leaped to a star-cool </p><p>altitude and grasped a passionless transvaluation of values. Had it not </p><p>done this, I know that I should have died. </p><p>Half a mile of the mob had swept by when we were discovered. A woman </p><p>in fantastic rags, with cheeks cavernously hollow and with narrow black </p><p>eyes like burning gimlets, caught a glimpse of Hartman and me. She </p><p>let out a shrill shriek and bore in upon us. A section of the mob tore </p><p>itself loose and surged in after her. I can see her now, as I write </p><p>these lines, a leap in advance, her gray hair flying in thin tangled </p><p>strings, the blood dripping down her forehead from some wound in the </p><p>scalp, in her right hand a hatchet, her left hand, lean and wrinkled, a </p><p>yellow talon, gripping the air convulsively. Hartman sprang in front of </p><p>me. This was no time for explanations. We were well dressed, and that </p><p>was enough. His fist shot out, striking the woman between her burning </p><p>eyes. The impact of the blow drove her backward, but she struck the wall </p><p>of her on-coming fellows and bounced forward again, dazed and helpless, </p><p>the brandished hatchet falling feebly on Hartman's shoulder. </p><p>The next moment I knew not what was happening. I was overborne by the </p><p>crowd. The confined space was filled with shrieks and yells and curses. </p><p>Blows were falling on me. Hands were ripping and tearing at my flesh </p><p>and garments. I felt that I was being torn to pieces. I was being borne </p><p>down, suffocated. Some strong hand gripped my shoulder in the thick of </p><p>the press and was dragging fiercely at me. Between pain and pressure I </p><p>fainted. Hartman never came out of that entrance. He had shielded me and </p><p>received the first brunt of the attack. This had saved me, for the jam </p><p>had quickly become too dense for anything more than the mad gripping and </p><p>tearing of hands. </p><p>I came to in the midst of wild movement. All about me was the same </p><p>movement. I had been caught up in a monstrous flood that was sweeping me </p><p>I knew not whither. Fresh air was on my cheek and biting sweetly in my </p><p>lungs. Faint and dizzy, I was vaguely aware of a strong arm around my </p><p>body under the arms, and half-lifting me and dragging me along. Feebly </p><p>my own limbs were helping me. In front of me I could see the moving back </p><p>of a man's coat. It had been slit from top to bottom along the centre </p><p>seam, and it pulsed rhythmically, the slit opening and closing regularly </p><p>with every leap of the wearer. This phenomenon fascinated me for a time, </p><p>while my senses were coming back to me. Next I became aware of stinging </p><p>cheeks and nose, and could feel blood dripping on my face. My hat was </p><p>gone. My hair was down and flying, and from the stinging of the scalp I </p><p>managed to recollect a hand in the press of the entrance that had torn </p><p>at my hair. My chest and arms were bruised and aching in a score of </p><p>places. </p><p>My brain grew clearer, and I turned as I ran and looked at the man who </p><p>was holding me up. He it was who had dragged me out and saved me. He </p><p>noticed my movement. </p><p>"It's all right!" he shouted hoarsely. "I knew you on the instant."</p><p>I failed to recognize him, but before I could speak I trod upon </p><p>something that was alive and that squirmed under my foot. I was swept on </p><p>by those behind and could not look down and see, and yet I knew that it </p><p>was a woman who had fallen and who was being trampled into the pavement </p><p>by thousands of successive feet. </p><p>"It's all right," he repeated. "I'm Garthwaite." </p><p>He was bearded and gaunt and dirty, but I succeeded in remembering him </p><p>as the stalwart youth that had spent several months in our Glen Ellen </p><p>refuge three years before. He passed me the signals of the Iron Heel's </p><p>secret service, in token that he, too, was in its employ. </p><p>"I'll get you out of this as soon as I can get a chance," he assured me. </p><p>"But watch your footing. On your life don't stumble and go down." </p><p>All things happened abruptly on that day, and with an abruptness that </p><p>was sickening the mob checked itself. I came in violent collision with </p><p>a large woman in front of me (the man with the split coat had vanished), </p><p>while those behind collided against me. A devilish pandemonium </p><p>reigned,--shrieks, curses, and cries of death, while above all rose the </p><p>churning rattle of machine-guns and the put-a-put, put-a-put of rifles. </p><p>At first I could make out nothing. People were falling about me right </p><p>and left. The woman in front doubled up and went down, her hands on her </p><p>abdomen in a frenzied clutch. A man was quivering against my legs in a </p><p>death-struggle. </p><p>It came to me that we were at the head of the column. Half a mile of it </p><p>had disappeared--where or how I never learned. To this day I do not know </p><p>what became of that half-mile of humanity--whether it was blotted out </p><p>by some frightful bolt of war, whether it was scattered and destroyed </p><p>piecemeal, or whether it escaped. But there we were, at the head of the </p><p>column instead of in its middle, and we were being swept out of life by </p><p>a torrent of shrieking lead. </p><p>As soon as death had thinned the jam, Garthwaite, still grasping my arm, </p><p>led a rush of survivors into the wide entrance of an office building. </p><p>Here, at the rear, against the doors, we were pressed by a panting, </p><p>gasping mass of creatures. For some time we remained in this position </p><p>without a change in the situation. </p><p>"I did it beautifully," Garthwaite was lamenting to me. "Ran you right </p><p>into a trap. We had a gambler's chance in the street, but in here </p><p>there is no chance at all. It's all over but the shouting. Vive la </p><p>Revolution!" </p><p>Then, what he expected, began. The Mercenaries were killing without </p><p>quarter. At first, the surge back upon us was crushing, but as the </p><p>killing continued the pressure was eased. The dead and dying went down </p><p>and made room. Garthwaite put his mouth to my ear and shouted, but in </p><p>the frightful din I could not catch what he said. He did not wait. He </p><p>seized me and threw me down. Next he dragged a dying woman over on top </p><p>of me, and, with much squeezing and shoving, crawled in beside me and </p><p>partly over me. A mound of dead and dying began to pile up over us, and </p><p>over this mound, pawing and moaning, crept those that still survived. </p><p>But these, too, soon ceased, and a semi-silence settled down, broken by </p><p>groans and sobs and sounds of strangulation. </p><p>I should have been crushed had it not been for Garthwaite. As it was, </p><p>it seemed inconceivable that I could bear the weight I did and live. And </p><p>yet, outside of pain, the only feeling I possessed was one of curiosity. </p><p>How was it going to end? What would death be like? Thus did I receive </p><p>my red baptism in that Chicago shambles. Prior to that, death to me had </p><p>been a theory; but ever afterward death has been a simple fact that does </p><p>not matter, it is so easy. </p><p>But the Mercenaries were not content with what they had done. They </p><p>invaded the entrance, killing the wounded and searching out the unhurt </p><p>that, like ourselves, were playing dead. I remember one man they dragged </p><p>out of a heap, who pleaded abjectly until a revolver shot cut him short. </p><p>Then there was a woman who charged from a heap, snarling and shooting. </p><p>She fired six shots before they got her, though what damage she did we </p><p>could not know. We could follow these tragedies only by the sound. Every </p><p>little while flurries like this occurred, each flurry culminating in the </p><p>revolver shot that put an end to it. In the intervals we could hear </p><p>the soldiers talking and swearing as they rummaged among the carcasses, </p><p>urged on by their officers to hurry up. </p><p>At last they went to work on our heap, and we could feel the pressure </p><p>diminish as they dragged away the dead and wounded. Garthwaite began </p><p>uttering aloud the signals. At first he was not heard. Then he raised </p><p>his voice. </p><p>"Listen to that," we heard a soldier say. And next the sharp voice of an </p><p>officer. "Hold on there! Careful as you go!" </p><p>Oh, that first breath of air as we were dragged out! Garthwaite did the </p><p>talking at first, but I was compelled to undergo a brief examination to </p><p>prove service with the Iron Heel. </p><p>"Agents-provocateurs all right," was the officer's conclusion. He was </p><p>a beardless young fellow, a cadet, evidently, of some great oligarch </p><p>family. </p><p>"It's a hell of a job," Garthwaite grumbled. "I'm going to try and </p><p>resign and get into the army. You fellows have a snap." </p><p>"You've earned it," was the young officer's answer. "I've got some pull, </p><p>and I'll see if it can be managed. I can tell them how I found you." </p><p>He took Garthwaite's name and number, then turned to me. </p><p>"And you?" </p><p>"Oh, I'm going to be married," I answered lightly, "and then I'll be out </p><p>of it all." </p><p>And so we talked, while the killing of the wounded went on. It is all </p><p>a dream, now, as I look back on it; but at the time it was the most </p><p>natural thing in the world. Garthwaite and the young officer fell into </p><p>an animated conversation over the difference between so-called modern </p><p>warfare and the present street-fighting and sky-scraper fighting that </p><p>was taking place all over the city. I followed them intently, fixing up </p><p>my hair at the same time and pinning together my torn skirts. And all </p><p>the time the killing of the wounded went on. Sometimes the revolver </p><p>shots drowned the voices of Garthwaite and the officer, and they were </p><p>compelled to repeat what they had been saying.</p><p>I lived through three days of the Chicago Commune, and the vastness of </p><p>it and of the slaughter may be imagined when I say that in all that time </p><p>I saw practically nothing outside the killing of the people of the abyss </p><p>and the mid-air fighting between sky-scrapers. I really saw nothing of </p><p>the heroic work done by the comrades. I could hear the explosions of </p><p>their mines and bombs, and see the smoke of their conflagrations, and </p><p>that was all. The mid-air part of one great deed I saw, however, and </p><p>that was the balloon attacks made by our comrades on the fortresses. </p><p>That was on the second day. The three disloyal regiments had been </p><p>destroyed in the fortresses to the last man. The fortresses were crowded </p><p>with Mercenaries, the wind blew in the right direction, and up went our </p><p>balloons from one of the office buildings in the city. </p><p>Now Biedenbach, after he left Glen Ellen, had invented a most powerful </p><p>explosive--"expedite" he called it. This was the weapon the balloons </p><p>used. They were only hot-air balloons, clumsily and hastily made, but </p><p>they did the work. I saw it all from the top of an office building. The </p><p>first balloon missed the fortresses completely and disappeared into the </p><p>country; but we learned about it afterward. Burton and O'Sullivan were </p><p>in it. As they were descending they swept across a railroad directly </p><p>over a troop-train that was heading at full speed for Chicago. They </p><p>dropped their whole supply of expedite upon the locomotive. The </p><p>resulting wreck tied the line up for days. And the best of it was that, </p><p>released from the weight of expedite, the balloon shot up into the </p><p>air and did not come down for half a dozen miles, both heroes escaping </p><p>unharmed. </p><p>The second balloon was a failure. Its flight was lame. It floated too </p><p>low and was shot full of holes before it could reach the fortresses. </p><p>Herford and Guinness were in it, and they were blown to pieces along </p><p>with the field into which they fell. Biedenbach was in despair--we heard </p><p>all about it afterward--and he went up alone in the third balloon. He, </p><p>too, made a low flight, but he was in luck, for they failed seriously to </p><p>puncture his balloon. I can see it now as I did then, from the lofty top </p><p>of the building--that inflated bag drifting along the air, and that tiny </p><p>speck of a man clinging on beneath. I could not see the fortress, but </p><p>those on the roof with me said he was directly over it. I did not </p><p>see the expedite fall when he cut it loose. But I did see the balloon </p><p>suddenly leap up into the sky. An appreciable time after that the great </p><p>column of the explosion towered in the air, and after that, in turn, I </p><p>heard the roar of it. Biedenbach the gentle had destroyed a fortress. </p><p>Two other balloons followed at the same time. One was blown to pieces </p><p>in the air, the expedite exploding, and the shock of it disrupted the </p><p>second balloon, which fell prettily into the remaining fortress. </p><p>It couldn't have been better planned, though the two comrades in it </p><p>sacrificed their lives. </p><p>But to return to the people of the abyss. My experiences were confined </p><p>to them. They raged and slaughtered and destroyed all over the city </p><p>proper, and were in turn destroyed; but never once did they succeed in </p><p>reaching the city of the oligarchs over on the west side. The oligarchs </p><p>had protected themselves well. No matter what destruction was wreaked in </p><p>the heart of the city, they, and their womenkind and children, were to </p><p>escape hurt. I am told that their children played in the parks during </p><p>those terrible days and that their favorite game was an imitation of </p><p>their elders stamping upon the proletariat. </p><p>But the Mercenaries found it no easy task to cope with the people of the</p><p>abyss and at the same time fight with the comrades. Chicago was true to </p><p>her traditions, and though a generation of revolutionists was wiped out, </p><p>it took along with it pretty close to a generation of its enemies. </p><p>Of course, the Iron Heel kept the figures secret, but, at a very </p><p>conservative estimate, at least one hundred and thirty thousand </p><p>Mercenaries were slain. But the comrades had no chance. Instead of the </p><p>whole country being hand in hand in revolt, they were all alone, and the </p><p>total strength of the Oligarchy could have been directed against them </p><p>if necessary. As it was, hour after hour, day after day, in endless </p><p>train-loads, by hundreds of thousands, the Mercenaries were hurled into </p><p>Chicago. </p><p>And there were so many of the people of the abyss! Tiring of the </p><p>slaughter, a great herding movement was begun by the soldiers, the </p><p>intent of which was to drive the street mobs, like cattle, into Lake </p><p>Michigan. It was at the beginning of this movement that Garthwaite and I </p><p>had encountered the young officer. This herding movement was practically </p><p>a failure, thanks to the splendid work of the comrades. Instead of the </p><p>great host the Mercenaries had hoped to gather together, they succeeded </p><p>in driving no more than forty thousand of the wretches into the lake. </p><p>Time and again, when a mob of them was well in hand and being driven </p><p>along the streets to the water, the comrades would create a diversion, </p><p>and the mob would escape through the consequent hole torn in the </p><p>encircling net. </p><p>Garthwaite and I saw an example of this shortly after meeting with the </p><p>young officer. The mob of which we had been a part, and which had been </p><p>put in retreat, was prevented from escaping to the south and east by </p><p>strong bodies of troops. The troops we had fallen in with had held it </p><p>back on the west. The only outlet was north, and north it went toward </p><p>the lake, driven on from east and west and south by machine-gun fire and </p><p>automatics. Whether it divined that it was being driven toward the lake, </p><p>or whether it was merely a blind squirm of the monster, I do not know; </p><p>but at any rate the mob took a cross street to the west, turned down </p><p>the next street, and came back upon its track, heading south toward the </p><p>great ghetto. </p><p>Garthwaite and I at that time were trying to make our way westward to </p><p>get out of the territory of street-fighting, and we were caught right in </p><p>the thick of it again. As we came to the corner we saw the howling mob </p><p>bearing down upon us. Garthwaite seized my arm and we were just starting </p><p>to run, when he dragged me back from in front of the wheels of half a </p><p>dozen war automobiles, equipped with machine-guns, that were rushing for </p><p>the spot. Behind them came the soldiers with their automatic rifles. </p><p>By the time they took position, the mob was upon them, and it looked as </p><p>though they would be overwhelmed before they could get into action. </p><p>Here and there a soldier was discharging his rifle, but this scattered </p><p>fire had no effect in checking the mob. On it came, bellowing with brute </p><p>rage. It seemed the machine-guns could not get started. The automobiles </p><p>on which they were mounted blocked the street, compelling the soldiers </p><p>to find positions in, between, and on the sidewalks. More and more </p><p>soldiers were arriving, and in the jam we were unable to get away. </p><p>Garthwaite held me by the arm, and we pressed close against the front of </p><p>a building. </p><p>The mob was no more than twenty-five feet away when the machine-guns </p><p>opened up; but before that flaming sheet of death nothing could live. </p><p>The mob came on, but it could not advance. It piled up in a heap, a</p><p>mound, a huge and growing wave of dead and dying. Those behind urged on, </p><p>and the column, from gutter to gutter, telescoped upon itself. Wounded </p><p>creatures, men and women, were vomited over the top of that awful wave </p><p>and fell squirming down the face of it till they threshed about under </p><p>the automobiles and against the legs of the soldiers. The latter </p><p>bayoneted the struggling wretches, though one I saw who gained his feet </p><p>and flew at a soldier's throat with his teeth. Together they went down, </p><p>soldier and slave, into the welter. </p><p>The firing ceased. The work was done. The mob had been stopped in its </p><p>wild attempt to break through. Orders were being given to clear the </p><p>wheels of the war-machines. They could not advance over that wave of </p><p>dead, and the idea was to run them down the cross street. The soldiers </p><p>were dragging the bodies away from the wheels when it happened. We </p><p>learned afterward how it happened. A block distant a hundred of our </p><p>comrades had been holding a building. Across roofs and through buildings </p><p>they made their way, till they found themselves looking down upon the </p><p>close-packed soldiers. Then it was counter-massacre. </p><p>Without warning, a shower of bombs fell from the top of the building. </p><p>The automobiles were blown to fragments, along with many soldiers. We, </p><p>with the survivors, swept back in mad retreat. Half a block down another </p><p>building opened fire on us. As the soldiers had carpeted the street with </p><p>dead slaves, so, in turn, did they themselves become carpet. Garthwaite </p><p>and I bore charmed lives. As we had done before, so again we sought </p><p>shelter in an entrance. But he was not to be caught napping this time. </p><p>As the roar of the bombs died away, he began peering out. </p><p>"The mob's coming back!" he called to me. "We've got to get out of </p><p>this!" </p><p>We fled, hand in hand, down the bloody pavement, slipping and sliding, </p><p>and making for the corner. Down the cross street we could see a few </p><p>soldiers still running. Nothing was happening to them. The way was </p><p>clear. So we paused a moment and looked back. The mob came on slowly. </p><p>It was busy arming itself with the rifles of the slain and killing the </p><p>wounded. We saw the end of the young officer who had rescued us. </p><p>He painfully lifted himself on his elbow and turned loose with his </p><p>automatic pistol. </p><p>"There goes my chance of promotion," Garthwaite laughed, as a woman bore </p><p>down on the wounded man, brandishing a butcher's cleaver. "Come on. It's </p><p>the wrong direction, but we'll get out somehow." </p><p>And we fled eastward through the quiet streets, prepared at every cross </p><p>street for anything to happen. To the south a monster conflagration was </p><p>filling the sky, and we knew that the great ghetto was burning. At last </p><p>I sank down on the sidewalk. I was exhausted and could go no farther. </p><p>I was bruised and sore and aching in every limb; yet I could not escape </p><p>smiling at Garthwaite, who was rolling a cigarette and saying: </p><p>"I know I'm making a mess of rescuing you, but I can't get head nor </p><p>tail of the situation. It's all a mess. Every time we try to break out, </p><p>something happens and we're turned back. We're only a couple of blocks </p><p>now from where I got you out of that entrance. Friend and foe are all </p><p>mixed up. It's chaos. You can't tell who is in those darned buildings. </p><p>Try to find out, and you get a bomb on your head. Try to go peaceably on </p><p>your way, and you run into a mob and are killed by machine-guns, or </p><p>you run into the Mercenaries and are killed by your own comrades from a</p><p>roof. And on the top of it all the mob comes along and kills you, too." </p><p>He shook his head dolefully, lighted his cigarette, and sat down beside </p><p>me. </p><p>"And I'm that hungry," he added, "I could eat cobblestones." </p><p>The next moment he was on his feet again and out in the street prying up </p><p>a cobblestone. He came back with it and assaulted the window of a store </p><p>behind us. </p><p>"It's ground floor and no good," he explained as he helped me through </p><p>the hole he had made; "but it's the best we can do. You get a nap and </p><p>I'll reconnoitre. I'll finish this rescue all right, but I want time, </p><p>time, lots of it--and something to eat." </p><p>It was a harness store we found ourselves in, and he fixed me up a couch </p><p>of horse blankets in the private office well to the rear. To add to my </p><p>wretchedness a splitting headache was coming on, and I was only too glad </p><p>to close my eyes and try to sleep. </p><p>"I'll be back," were his parting words. "I don't hope to get an auto, </p><p>but I'll surely bring some grub,* anyway." </p><p> * Food.</p><p>And that was the last I saw of Garthwaite for three years. Instead of </p><p>coming back, he was carried away to a hospital with a bullet through his </p><p>lungs and another through the fleshy part of his neck. </p><p>CHAPTER XXIV </p><p>NIGHTMARE </p><p>I had not closed my eyes the night before on the Twentieth Century, and </p><p>what of that and of my exhaustion I slept soundly. When I first awoke, </p><p>it was night. Garthwaite had not returned. I had lost my watch and had </p><p>no idea of the time. As I lay with my eyes closed, I heard the same </p><p>dull sound of distant explosions. The inferno was still raging. I crept </p><p>through the store to the front. The reflection from the sky of vast </p><p>conflagrations made the street almost as light as day. One could have </p><p>read the finest print with ease. From several blocks away came the </p><p>crackle of small hand-bombs and the churning of machine-guns, and from a </p><p>long way off came a long series of heavy explosions. I crept back to my </p><p>horse blankets and slept again. </p><p>When next I awoke, a sickly yellow light was filtering in on me. It was </p><p>dawn of the second day. I crept to the front of the store. A smoke pall, </p><p>shot through with lurid gleams, filled the sky. Down the opposite </p><p>side of the street tottered a wretched slave. One hand he held tightly </p><p>against his side, and behind him he left a bloody trail. His eyes roved </p><p>everywhere, and they were filled with apprehension and dread. Once he </p><p>looked straight across at me, and in his face was all the dumb pathos </p><p>of the wounded and hunted animal. He saw me, but there was no kinship </p><p>between us, and with him, at least, no sympathy of understanding; for </p><p>he cowered perceptibly and dragged himself on. He could expect no aid</p><p>in all God's world. He was a helot in the great hunt of helots that the </p><p>masters were making. All he could hope for, all he sought, was some hole </p><p>to crawl away in and hide like any animal. The sharp clang of a passing </p><p>ambulance at the corner gave him a start. Ambulances were not for such </p><p>as he. With a groan of pain he threw himself into a doorway. A minute </p><p>later he was out again and desperately hobbling on. </p><p>I went back to my horse blankets and waited an hour for Garthwaite. My </p><p>headache had not gone away. On the contrary, it was increasing. It was </p><p>by an effort of will only that I was able to open my eyes and look </p><p>at objects. And with the opening of my eyes and the looking came </p><p>intolerable torment. Also, a great pulse was beating in my brain. Weak </p><p>and reeling, I went out through the broken window and down the street, </p><p>seeking to escape, instinctively and gropingly, from the awful shambles. </p><p>And thereafter I lived nightmare. My memory of what happened in the </p><p>succeeding hours is the memory one would have of nightmare. Many events </p><p>are focussed sharply on my brain, but between these indelible pictures </p><p>I retain are intervals of unconsciousness. What occurred in those </p><p>intervals I know not, and never shall know. </p><p>I remember stumbling at the corner over the legs of a man. It was the </p><p>poor hunted wretch that had dragged himself past my hiding-place. How </p><p>distinctly do I remember his poor, pitiful, gnarled hands as he lay </p><p>there on the pavement--hands that were more hoof and claw than hands, </p><p>all twisted and distorted by the toil of all his days, with on the palms </p><p>a horny growth of callous a half inch thick. And as I picked myself </p><p>up and started on, I looked into the face of the thing and saw that it </p><p>still lived; for the eyes, dimly intelligent, were looking at me and </p><p>seeing me. </p><p>After that came a kindly blank. I knew nothing, saw nothing, merely </p><p>tottered on in my quest for safety. My next nightmare vision was a </p><p>quiet street of the dead. I came upon it abruptly, as a wanderer in the </p><p>country would come upon a flowing stream. Only this stream I gazed upon </p><p>did not flow. It was congealed in death. From pavement to pavement, and </p><p>covering the sidewalks, it lay there, spread out quite evenly, with </p><p>only here and there a lump or mound of bodies to break the surface. Poor </p><p>driven people of the abyss, hunted helots--they lay there as the rabbits </p><p>in California after a drive.* Up the street and down I looked. There was </p><p>no movement, no sound. The quiet buildings looked down upon the scene </p><p>from their many windows. And once, and once only, I saw an arm that </p><p>moved in that dead stream. I swear I saw it move, with a strange </p><p>writhing gesture of agony, and with it lifted a head, gory with nameless </p><p>horror, that gibbered at me and then lay down again and moved no more. </p><p> * In those days, so sparsely populated was the land that</p><p> wild animals often became pests. In California the custom</p><p> of rabbit-driving obtained. On a given day all the farmers</p><p> in a locality would assemble and sweep across the country in</p><p> converging lines, driving the rabbits by scores of thousands</p><p> into a prepared enclosure, where they were clubbed to death</p><p> by men and boys.</p><p>I remember another street, with quiet buildings on either side, and the </p><p>panic that smote me into consciousness as again I saw the people of the </p><p>abyss, but this time in a stream that flowed and came on. And then I saw </p><p>there was nothing to fear. The stream moved slowly, while from it arose </p><p>groans and lamentations, cursings, babblings of senility, hysteria, and </p><p>insanity; for these were the very young and the very old, the feeble and</p><p>the sick, the helpless and the hopeless, all the wreckage of the ghetto. </p><p>The burning of the great ghetto on the South Side had driven them forth </p><p>into the inferno of the street-fighting, and whither they wended and </p><p>whatever became of them I did not know and never learned.* </p><p> * It was long a question of debate, whether the burning of</p><p> the South Side ghetto was accidental, or whether it was done</p><p> by the Mercenaries; but it is definitely settled now that</p><p> the ghetto was fired by the Mercenaries under orders from</p><p> their chiefs.</p><p>I have faint memories of breaking a window and hiding in some shop to </p><p>escape a street mob that was pursued by soldiers. Also, a bomb burst </p><p>near me, once, in some still street, where, look as I would, up and </p><p>down, I could see no human being. But my next sharp recollection begins </p><p>with the crack of a rifle and an abrupt becoming aware that I am being </p><p>fired at by a soldier in an automobile. The shot missed, and the next </p><p>moment I was screaming and motioning the signals. My memory of riding in </p><p>the automobile is very hazy, though this ride, in turn, is broken by one </p><p>vivid picture. The crack of the rifle of the soldier sitting beside me </p><p>made me open my eyes, and I saw George Milford, whom I had known in the </p><p>Pell Street days, sinking slowly down to the sidewalk. Even as he sank </p><p>the soldier fired again, and Milford doubled in, then flung his body </p><p>out, and fell sprawling. The soldier chuckled, and the automobile sped </p><p>on. </p><p>The next I knew after that I was awakened out of a sound sleep by a man </p><p>who walked up and down close beside me. His face was drawn and strained, </p><p>and the sweat rolled down his nose from his forehead. One hand was </p><p>clutched tightly against his chest by the other hand, and blood </p><p>dripped down upon the floor as he walked. He wore the uniform of the </p><p>Mercenaries. From without, as through thick walls, came the muffled roar </p><p>of bursting bombs. I was in some building that was locked in combat with </p><p>some other building. </p><p>A surgeon came in to dress the wounded soldier, and I learned that it </p><p>was two in the afternoon. My headache was no better, and the surgeon </p><p>paused from his work long enough to give me a powerful drug that would </p><p>depress the heart and bring relief. I slept again, and the next I knew I </p><p>was on top of the building. The immediate fighting had ceased, and I </p><p>was watching the balloon attack on the fortresses. Some one had an arm </p><p>around me and I was leaning close against him. It came to me quite as a </p><p>matter of course that this was Ernest, and I found myself wondering how </p><p>he had got his hair and eyebrows so badly singed. </p><p>It was by the merest chance that we had found each other in that </p><p>terrible city. He had had no idea that I had left New York, and, coming </p><p>through the room where I lay asleep, could not at first believe that </p><p>it was I. Little more I saw of the Chicago Commune. After watching the </p><p>balloon attack, Ernest took me down into the heart of the building, </p><p>where I slept the afternoon out and the night. The third day we spent </p><p>in the building, and on the fourth, Ernest having got permission and an </p><p>automobile from the authorities, we left Chicago. </p><p>My headache was gone, but, body and soul, I was very tired. I lay back </p><p>against Ernest in the automobile, and with apathetic eyes watched the </p><p>soldiers trying to get the machine out of the city. Fighting was </p><p>still going on, but only in isolated localities. Here and there whole </p><p>districts were still in possession of the comrades, but such districts</p><p>were surrounded and guarded by heavy bodies of troops. In a hundred </p><p>segregated traps were the comrades thus held while the work of </p><p>subjugating them went on. Subjugation meant death, for no quarter was </p><p>given, and they fought heroically to the last man.* </p><p> * Numbers of the buildings held out over a week, while one</p><p> held out eleven days. Each building had to be stormed like</p><p> a fort, and the Mercenaries fought their way upward floor by</p><p> floor. It was deadly fighting. Quarter was neither given</p><p> nor taken, and in the fighting the revolutionists had the</p><p> advantage of being above. While the revolutionists were</p><p> wiped out, the loss was not one-sided. The proud Chicago</p><p> proletariat lived up to its ancient boast. For as many of</p><p> itself as were killed, it killed that many of the enemy.</p><p>Whenever we approached such localities, the guards turned us back and </p><p>sent us around. Once, the only way past two strong positions of the </p><p>comrades was through a burnt section that lay between. From either side </p><p>we could hear the rattle and roar of war, while the automobile picked </p><p>its way through smoking ruins and tottering walls. Often the streets </p><p>were blocked by mountains of debris that compelled us to go around. We </p><p>were in a labyrinth of ruin, and our progress was slow. </p><p>The stockyards (ghetto, plant, and everything) were smouldering ruins. </p><p>Far off to the right a wide smoke haze dimmed the sky,--the town of </p><p>Pullman, the soldier chauffeur told us, or what had been the town of </p><p>Pullman, for it was utterly destroyed. He had driven the machine out </p><p>there, with despatches, on the afternoon of the third day. Some of the </p><p>heaviest fighting had occurred there, he said, many of the streets being </p><p>rendered impassable by the heaps of the dead. </p><p>Swinging around the shattered walls of a building, in the stockyards </p><p>district, the automobile was stopped by a wave of dead. It was for all </p><p>the world like a wave tossed up by the sea. It was patent to us what </p><p>had happened. As the mob charged past the corner, it had been swept, at </p><p>right angles and point-blank range, by the machine-guns drawn up on the </p><p>cross street. But disaster had come to the soldiers. A chance bomb must </p><p>have exploded among them, for the mob, checked until its dead and dying </p><p>formed the wave, had white-capped and flung forward its foam of living, </p><p>fighting slaves. Soldiers and slaves lay together, torn and mangled, </p><p>around and over the wreckage of the automobiles and guns. </p><p>Ernest sprang out. A familiar pair of shoulders in a cotton shirt and a </p><p>familiar fringe of white hair had caught his eye. I did not watch him, </p><p>and it was not until he was back beside me and we were speeding on that </p><p>he said: </p><p>"It was Bishop Morehouse." </p><p>Soon we were in the green country, and I took one last glance back at </p><p>the smoke-filled sky. Faint and far came the low thud of an explosion. </p><p>Then I turned my face against Ernest's breast and wept softly for the </p><p>Cause that was lost. Ernest's arm about me was eloquent with love. </p><p>"For this time lost, dear heart," he said, "but not forever. We have </p><p>learned. To-morrow the Cause will rise again, strong with wisdom and </p><p>discipline." </p><p>The automobile drew up at a railroad station. Here we would catch a</p><p>train to New York. As we waited on the platform, three trains thundered </p><p>past, bound west to Chicago. They were crowded with ragged, unskilled </p><p>laborers, people of the abyss. </p><p>"Slave-levies for the rebuilding of Chicago," Ernest said. "You see, the </p><p>Chicago slaves are all killed." </p><p>CHAPTER XXV </p><p>THE TERRORISTS </p><p>It was not until Ernest and I were back in New York, and after weeks had </p><p>elapsed, that we were able to comprehend thoroughly the full sweep of </p><p>the disaster that had befallen the Cause. The situation was bitter and </p><p>bloody. In many places, scattered over the country, slave revolts and </p><p>massacres had occurred. The roll of the martyrs increased mightily. </p><p>Countless executions took place everywhere. The mountains and waste </p><p>regions were filled with outlaws and refugees who were being hunted down </p><p>mercilessly. Our own refuges were packed with comrades who had prices on </p><p>their heads. Through information furnished by its spies, scores of our </p><p>refuges were raided by the soldiers of the Iron Heel. </p><p>Many of the comrades were disheartened, and they retaliated with </p><p>terroristic tactics. The set-back to their hopes made them despairing </p><p>and desperate. Many terrorist organizations unaffiliated with us sprang </p><p>into existence and caused us much trouble.* These misguided people </p><p>sacrificed their own lives wantonly, very often made our own plans go </p><p>astray, and retarded our organization. </p><p> * The annals of this short-lived era of despair make bloody</p><p> reading. Revenge was the ruling motive, and the members of</p><p> the terroristic organizations were careless of their own</p><p> lives and hopeless about the future. The Danites, taking</p><p> their name from the avenging angels of the Mormon mythology,</p><p> sprang up in the mountains of the Great West and spread over</p><p> the Pacific Coast from Panama to Alaska. The Valkyries were</p><p> women. They were the most terrible of all. No woman was</p><p> eligible for membership who had not lost near relatives at</p><p> the hands of the Oligarchy. They were guilty of torturing</p><p> their prisoners to death. Another famous organization of</p><p> women was The Widows of War. A companion organization to</p><p> the Valkyries was the Berserkers. These men placed no value</p><p> whatever upon their own lives, and it was they who totally</p><p> destroyed the great Mercenary city of Bellona along with its</p><p> population of over a hundred thousand souls. The Bedlamites</p><p> and the Helldamites were twin slave organizations, while a</p><p> new religious sect that did not flourish long was called The</p><p> Wrath of God. Among others, to show the whimsicality of</p><p> their deadly seriousness, may be mentioned the following:</p><p> The Bleeding Hearts, Sons of the Morning, the Morning Stars,</p><p> The Flamingoes, The Triple Triangles, The Three Bars, The</p><p> Rubonics, The Vindicators, The Comanches, and the</p><p> Erebusites.</p><p>And through it all moved the Iron Heel, impassive and deliberate, </p><p>shaking up the whole fabric of the social structure in its search for</p><p>the comrades, combing out the Mercenaries, the labor castes, and all its </p><p>secret services, punishing without mercy and without malice, suffering </p><p>in silence all retaliations that were made upon it, and filling the gaps </p><p>in its fighting line as fast as they appeared. And hand in hand with </p><p>this, Ernest and the other leaders were hard at work reorganizing the </p><p>forces of the Revolution. The magnitude of the task may be understood </p><p>when it is taken into.* </p><p> * This is the end of the Everhard Manuscript. It breaks off</p><p> abruptly in the middle of a sentence. She must have</p><p> received warning of the coming of the Mercenaries, for she</p><p> had time safely to hide the Manuscript before she fled or</p><p> was captured. It is to be regretted that she did not live</p><p> to complete her narrative, for then, undoubtedly, would have</p><p> been cleared away the mystery that has shrouded for seven</p><p> centuries the execution of Ernest Everhard.</p><p>End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Iron Heel, by Jack London </p><p>*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRON HEEL *** </p><p>***** This file should be named 1164.txt or 1164.zip ***** </p><p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: </p><p> http://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/6/1164/</p><p>Produced by Donald Lainson </p><p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions </p><p>will be renamed. </p><p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no </p><p>one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation </p><p>(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without </p><p>permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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