Samuel rushed home, breathless, to tell Sophie; and pretty soon came the Bremers, who had been watching the scene from a distance. And the thrilling tale had to be told all over to them.
Then Johann made a novel announcement. “For that meeting,” he said, “you must get a permit.”
“A permit!” exclaimed Samuel. “From whom?”
“From the police,” replied the other. “You must haf it for all street meetings.”
“And where do I get it?”
“At the station house, I think.”
Samuel did not much fancy a visit to the station house, which he knew far too well already; but he would have gone into a den of lions for the sake of his cause. So, bright and early the next morning, he set out. With Mrs. Stedman's help he had persuaded Sophie that she must return to the Wygants, and so he walked part of the way with her.
There was a new sergeant at the desk, an Irishman. “Please, sir,” said the boy, “is this where I get a permit?”
“For what?” asked the other.
“To hold a meeting on the street, sir.”
“What sort of a meeting?”
“Why—I've just got something to say to the people, sir.”
“Something to say to the people!” echoed the other; and then, suddenly, “What's your name?”
“Samuel Prescott, sir.”
And the sergeant's eyes opened wide. “Oh!” he said. “You're that fellow!”
“What did you say?” asked Samuel.
“The chief wants to see you,” replied the other.
And so Samuel was escorted into the private room, where Chief McCullagh, red-faced and burly, sat at his desk. When he saw Samuel he bounded to his feet. “So here you are!” he cried.
To the sergeant he said, “Leave us alone.” And when the man had shut the door, he strode toward Samuel, and thrust a finger into his face. “Young fellow,” he cried, “you promised me you would get out of this town!”
“No!” exclaimed the boy.
“What?” roared the other.
“No, sir! It was Charlie Swift promised you that!”
“And what did you promise?”
“I promised I wouldn't tell anyone about—about Master Albert, sir. And I haven't done it.”
“I told Charlie Swift to take you out of town. And why didn't you go?”
“He didn't—” And then Samuel stopped. He had promised to tell nothing about Charlie.
“Go on!” cried the chief.
“I—I can't tell,” he stammered.
“What?” exclaimed the other. “You want to hide things from me? Don't you suppose I know that he's still in town; and that you and him have been doin' jobs?”
“No—no!” cried Samuel in terror.
“You can't lie to me!” threatened the chief. “I know you, you young villain!”
He stood glaring at the boy for a few moments. “And you have the nerve to come here!” he cried. “What do you want anyway?”
“I—I want to hold a meeting, sir.”
“Who's given you a license to make trouble in this town?”
“Nobody's given me one yet,” replied Samuel. “That's what I came for.”
“Don't you get gay with me!” snapped the chief. But Samuel was far from the thought of getting gay with anyone—he was trembling in his boots. The man towered over him like a huge gorilla, and his red face was ferocious.
“Now look here, young fellow!” he went on. “You might as well get this straight. You'll get no permit to make any speeches in Lockmanville! D'ye see?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what's more, you'll not make any speech. D'ye see?”
“But—but—” gasped the boy.
And McCullagh shook his finger so that it almost hit Samuel's nose. “You'll not make any speech! You'll not make it on the street, and you'll not make it anywheres else in town! And you might as well get that through your nut and save yourself trouble. And if I hear of you givin' out any more papers on the street—you'll wish you hadn't—that's all, young fellow! D'ye see?”
“I see,” gasped Samuel.
“All right,” said the chief. “And if you take my advice, you'll get the first train out of Lockmanville and never show your face in it again. Now get out of here!”
And Samuel got out, and went down the street dumb with dismay. So they had got the police after him!
Of course he would make his speech. He could not let himself be stopped by such a thing as that. But he saw at once how matters were complicated—if the police were to stop him before he had made clear what he had to say, they might ruin all his plans.
He must seek advice about it; and he went at once to the carpet factory, and sought out the little room where the Bremers sat with their drawing boards and paints.
“So that's it!” exclaimed Johann. “They vill shut you up!”
“Do you think they can?” asked the boy.
“Sure they can!” cried the other. “They hafn't let the Socialists speak on the streets for years. We should haf fought them!”
He reached for his coat. “Come,” he said. “I vill take you to see Tom Everley.”
“Who is Tom Everley?” asked the boy.
“He's a lawyer, and he vill tell you. He's the secretary of the local.”
“A Socialist!” exclaimed Samuel, startled. Again it was the Socialists!
Everley sat in a little office in an out-of-the-way street. He was a young chap, frank and boyish-looking, and Samuel's heart warmed to him at once. “Comrade Everley,” said the carpet designer, “here is a boy you ought to help. Tell him all about it, Samuel—you can trust him.”
So Samuel told his tale once more. And the other listened with breathless interest, and with many exclamations of incredulity and delight. When the boy had finished, he sprang up excitedly and grasped his hand. “Samuel Prescott,” he cried, “put it there! You are a brick!”
“Then you'll stand by me!” exclaimed Samuel, breathless with relief.
“Stand by you?” echoed the other. “I'll stand by you until hell freezes solid!”
Then he sat down again, and began tapping nervously on the desk with his pencil. “I'll call a special meeting of the local,” he said. “They must take you up. The movement's been slow in Lockmanville of late, and a fight like this is just what the comrades need.”
“But I'm not a Socialist!” objected Samuel.
“That's all right,” replied Everley, “we don't care about that.”
Samuel had not meant it that way, but he could not think how to make his trouble clear.
“I can get the local together to-morrow night,” went on the other. “There's no time to be lost. We must get out a lot of circulars and cover the town.”
“But I only wanted the people of the church to come,” said the boy.
“But others will come anyway,” said Everley. “And haven't the people a right to know how they've been robbed?”
“Yes,” said Samuel, “they have.”
“And perhaps,” added the other with a smile, “if the congregation has a little pressure from outside, it will be much more apt to take action. What we've got to do with this thing is to make a free speech fight out of it, and open the eyes of the whole town. Otherwise the police will nip the thing in the bud, and no one will ever know what we had.”
“You must be careful how you give out those circulars,” put in Johann. “They will nip you there, if they can.”
“That's all right,” laughed Everley. “You trust the comrades for that! We know a printer we can rely on!”
Samuel drew a deep breath of satisfaction. Here was a man who understood things, and took hold with conviction—a man who was really willing to do something. It was very disconcerting that he happened to be a Socialist!
Everley took up a pencil and wrote the new announcement:
“Having made the discovery that members of the vestry of St. Matthew's Church had been bribing the city council, I demanded an investigation, and I was turned out of the church.
“I called a meeting to tell the congregation about it, but I was refused a permit to speak. Chief of Police McCullagh declared to me that I should never make my speech in this town.
“Will you stand by me?
“I intend to speak on Wednesday night, at 8 P.M., at the vacant lot opposite the church.
“In the name of Free Speech and Civic Decency,
“SAMUEL PRESCOTT.”
“How's that?” he asked.
“Fine!” exclaimed Samuel in delight.
“I'll take the risk of having it set up,” added the lawyer. “And I'll get the notices to the members of the local off in this evening's mail. Come, we'll go to see one or two of them now and talk it over with them.”
So they went down, and while Johann hurried back to his work, Samuel and Everley stopped in a cigar store a couple of doors down the street, kept by a little Russian Jew with a merry face and dancing black eyes. “Comrade Lippman,” said Everley, “this is Mr. Prescott.”
There came also “Comrade Minsky,” from the rear workroom, a cigar maker, bare-armed and very yellow and emaciated. To them Everley told briefly the story of Samuel's adventures and what he proposed to do. The glow of excitement with which they received the tidings left no doubt as to their attitude. And a couple of blocks around the corner was a little shop where a grizzled old carpenter, “Comrade Beggs,” clutched Samuel's hand in a grip like one of his vises, while he expressed his approval of his course. And then they called on Dr. Barton, a young physician, whom Everley declared to be one of the mainstays of the local of the town. “He got his education abroad,” he explained, “so he has none of the narrowness of our physicians. His wife's quite a speaker, too.”
Mrs. Barton was a sweet-faced and mild-looking lady, who reminded Samuel of the picture of his mother. All the while that Everley was telling his story the boy was staring at her, and trying to straighten out the tangle of perplexity that was caused in his mind by the idea of her being a Socialist speaker!
By and by the doctor came in, and the story had to be told yet again. They were so much interested and excited that they begged their visitors to remain to luncheon. They talked the whole problem out, and Samuel was struck by the certainty with which their minds took hold of it. There was no need of any long explanations with them—they seemed to know just what to expect; it was as if they possessed some magic key to the inner life of Lockmanville, enabling them to understand everyone in it, and exactly how he felt and exactly how he would act under any given circumstances.
All this was an amazing experience for Samuel. A few hours ago he had been a voice crying in the wilderness; forlorn and solitary; and now here was a band of allies, sprung up suddenly, from the very ground, as it seemed. Men who knew exactly what was wanted, and exactly how to get it; who required no persuading, who set to work without wasting a word—just as if they had been doing such things all their lives! He was so swept away with delight that for a while he was tempted to forget what sort of people they were.
But it came back to him suddenly, when they had returned to Everley's office. He sat gazing at the young lawyer with such a worried expression on his face that the other asked, “What's the matter?”
“Tell me, Mr. Everley,” said the boy, “how can the Bartons believe in free love?”
“Believe in free love?” echoed Everley. “What put that into your head?”
“But don't they believe in free love?” persisted Samuel.
“Why, of course not. Who said they did?”
“But they are Socialists!”
And the other put down his work and laughed heartily. “Where did you pick that up?” he asked.
“Why,” stammered the boy, “I've read everywhere that Socialists believe in free love!”
“Wait till you get well going in this reform of yours!” laughed the young lawyer, “and then see what you read about yourself!”
“But,” gasped Samuel, aghast, “don't Socialists believe in free love?”
“Some of them do, I suppose,” was the reply. “I know one who believes in ghosts, and one who believes in the Pope, and one who believes in Adam and Eve. How can I help what they believe?”
There was a pause. “You see,” explained Everley, “we are a political party; and we can't keep anybody from joining us who wants to. And because we are an advanced party, all sorts of wild people come to us. How can we help that?”
“But,” exclaimed Samuel, “you are against religion!”
“We have nothing to do with religion,” replied the other. “I told you we are a political party. Some of us have found it necessary to leave the capitalist churches—but you will hardly blame us for that!”
“N-no,” admitted the boy; then he added, “But don't you want to destroy the Government?”
“On the contrary, we want to strengthen it. But first we have to get it away from the capitalists.”
“Then, what DO you believe?” asked Samuel in perplexity.
Then the other explained that they were seeking to organize and educate the working class, for the purpose of bringing about an economic change. They wished to take the land and the mines, the railroads and the factories out of the hands of the capitalists. “We believe that such things should not belong to individuals,” he said, “but to the people. Then there will be work for everyone, and everyone will get the full value of his labor, and no man will be able to live without working.”
There was a pause, while Samuel was getting the meaning of this into his mind. “But,” he exclaimed in amazement, “that is exactly what I believe!”
“Of course,” replied the other, “it is exactly what everyone with sense believes.”
“But—but—” gasped the boy, “then am I a Socialist?”
“Nine tenths of the people in the country are Socialists,” replied Everley—“only they haven't found it out yet.”
“But,” cried Samuel, “you ought to teach them!”
“We're doing our best,” laughed the other. “Come and help us.”
Samuel was quite dumfounded. “But how do people come to have all these false ideas about you?” he asked.
“Those are the ideas that the masters want them to have.”
Samuel was clutching at the arms of his chair. “Why—it's a conspiracy!” he cried.
“Precisely,” said the other. “A conspiracy of the ruling class. They own the newspapers and the books, the colleges and churches and governments. And they tell lies about us and keep us down.”
And so Samuel found himself face to face with the ultimate horror of Capitalism. It was bad enough to own the means whereby the people lived, and to starve and exploit their bodies. But to own their minds, and to lead them astray! To keep them from finding out the way of their deliverance! Surely that was the crime of crimes!
“I can't believe it!” he panted.
yourself.”
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg