II
The strikers had announced a parade for Tuesday morning,
but Colonel Nixon had forbidden it, the newspapers said.
When Babbitt drove west from his office at ten that morning
he saw a drove of shabby men heading toward the tangled,
dirty district beyond Court House Square. He hated them,
because they were poor, because they made him feel insecure
"Damn loafers! Wouldn't be common workmen if they had
any pep,'' he complained. He wondered if there was going
to be a riot. He drove toward the starting-point of the
parade, a triangle of limp and faded grass known as Moore
Street Park, and halted his car.
The park and streets were buzzing with strikers, young men
in blue denim shirts, old men with caps. Through them,
keeping them stirred like a boiling pot, moved the militiamen.
Babbitt could hear the soldiers' monotonous orders: "Keep
moving—move on, 'bo—keep your feet warm!'' Babbitt admired
their stolid good temper. The crowd shouted, "Tin
soldiers,'' and "Dirty dogs—servants of the capitalists!'' but
the militiamen grinned and answered only, "Sure, that's right.
Keep moving, Billy!''
Babbitt thrilled over the citizen-soldiers, hated the scoundrels
who were obstructing the pleasant ways of prosperity,
admired Colonel Nixon's striding contempt for the crowd; and
as Captain Clarence Drum, that rather puffing shoe-dealer,
came raging by, Babbitt respectfully clamored, "Great work,
Captain! Don't let 'em march!'' He watched the strikers
filing from the park. Many of them bore posters with "They
can't stop our peacefully walking.'' The militiamen tore away
the posters, but the strikers fell in behind their leaders and
straggled off, a thin unimpressive trickle between steel-glinting
lines of soldiers. Babbitt saw with disappointment that there
wasn't going to be any violence, nothing interesting at all.
Then he gasped.
Among the marchers, beside a bulky young workman, was
Seneca Doane, smiling, content. In front of him was Professor
Brockbank, head of the history department in the State University,
an old man and white-bearded, known to come from
a distinguished Massachusetts family.
"Why, gosh,'' Babbitt marveled, "a swell like him in with
the strikers? And good ole Senny Doane! They're fools to
get mixed up with this bunch. They're parlor socialists! But
they have got nerve. And nothing in it for them, not a cent!
And—I don't know 's all the strikers look like
such tough
nuts. Look just about like anybody else to me!''
The militiamen were turning the parade down a side street.
"They got just as much right to march as anybody else!
They own the streets as much as Clarence Drum or the American
Legion does!'' Babbitt grumbled. "Of course, they're
—they're a bad element, but— Oh, rats!''
At the Athletic Club, Babbitt was silent during lunch, while
the others fretted, "I don't know what the world's coming to,''
or solaced their spirits with "kidding.''
Captain Clarence Drum came swinging by, splendid in
khaki.
"How's it going, Captain?'' inquired Vergil Gunch.
"Oh, we got 'em stopped. We worked 'em off on side streets
and separated 'em and they got discouraged and went home.''
"Fine work. No violence.''
"Fine work nothing!'' groaned Mr. Drum. "If I had my
way, there'd be a whole lot of violence, and I'd start it, and
then the whole thing would be over. I don't believe in standing
back and wet-nursing these fellows and letting the disturbances
drag on. I tell you these strikers are nothing in
God's world but a lot of bomb-throwing socialists and thugs,
and the only way to handle 'em is with a club! That's what
I'd do; beat up the whole lot of 'em!''
Babbitt heard himself saying, "Oh, rats, Clarence, they look
just about like you and me, and I certainly didn't notice any
bombs.''
Drum complained, "Oh, you didn't, eh? Well, maybe you'd
like to take charge of the strike! Just tell Colonel Nixon
what innocents the strikers are! He'd be glad to hear about
it!'' Drum strode on, while all the table stared at Babbitt.
"What's the idea? Do you want us to give those hell-hounds
love and kisses, or what?'' said Orville Jones.
"Do you defend a lot of hoodlums that are trying to take
the bread and butter away from our families?'' raged Professor
Pumphrey.
Vergil Gunch intimidatingly said nothing. He put on sternness
like a mask; his jaw was hard, his bristly short hair
seemed cruel, his silence was a ferocious thunder. While the
others assured Babbitt that they must have misunderstood
him, Gunch looked as though he had understood only too well.
Like a robed judge he listened to Babbitt's stammering:
"No, sure; course they're a bunch of toughs. But I just
mean— Strikes me it's bad policy to talk about clubbing
'em. Cabe Nixon doesn't. He's got the fine Italian hand.
And that's why he's colonel. Clarence Drum is jealous of
him.''
"Well,'' said Professor Pumphrey, "you hurt Clarence's
feelings, George. He's been out there all morning getting hot
and dusty, and no wonder he wants to beat the tar out of
those sons of guns!''
Gunch said nothing, and watched; and Babbitt knew that
he was being watched.