§ 31
So there was Peter, down and out once more. But fate was kind to
him. That very day came a letter signed "Two forty-three," which meant
McGivney. "Two forty-three" had some important work for Peter, so would
he please call at once? Peter pawned his last bit of jewelry for his
fare to American City, and met McGivney at the usual rendezvous.
The purpose of the meeting was quickly explained. America was
now at war, and the time had come when the mouths of these Reds were to
be stopped for good. You could do things in war-time that you couldn't
do in peace-time, and one of the things you were going to do was to put
an end to the agitation against property. Peter licked his lips,
metaphorically speaking. It was something he had many times told
McGivney ought to be done. Pat McCormick especially ought to be put away
for good. These were a dangerous bunch, these Reds, and Mac was the
worst of all. It was every man's duty to help, and what could Peter do?
McGivney answered that the authorities were making a complete
list of all the radical organizations and their members, getting
evidence preliminary to arrests. Guffey was in charge of the job; as in
the Goober case, the big business interests of the city were going ahead
while the government was still wiping the sleep out of its eyes. Would
Peter take a job spying upon the Reds in American City?
"I can't!" exclaimed Peter. "They're all sore at me because
I didn't testify in the Goober case."
"We can easily fix that up," answered the rat-faced man. "It may
mean a little inconvenience for you. You may have to go to jail for a
few days."
"To jail!" cried Peter, in dismay.
"Yes," said the other, "you'll have to get arrested, and made
into a martyr. Then, you see, they'll all be sure you're straight, and
they'll take you back again and welcome you."
Peter didn't like the idea of going to jail; his memories
of the jail in American City were especially painful. But
McGivney explained that this was a time when men couldn't consider their
own feelings; the country was in danger, public safety must be
protected, and it was up to everybody to make some patriotic sacrifice.
The rich men were all subscribing to liberty bonds; the poor men were
going to give their lives; and what was Peter Gudge going to give?
"Maybe I'll be drafted into the army," Peter remarked.
"No, you won't — not if you take this job," said McGivney. "We
can fix that. A man like you, who has special abilities, is too precious
to be wasted." Peter decided forthwith that he would accept the
proposition. It was much more sensible to spend a few days in jail than
to spend a few years in the trenches, and maybe the balance of eternity
under the sod of France.
Matters were quickly arranged. Peter took off his good clothes,
and dressed himself as became a workingman, and went into the
eating-room where Donald Gordon, the Quaker boy, always got his lunch.
Peter was quite sure that Donald would be one of the leading agitators
against the draft, and in this he was not mistaken.
Donald was decidedly uncordial in his welcoming of Peter; without
saying a word the young Quaker made Peter aware that he was a renegade,
a coward who had "thrown down" the Goober defense. But Peter was patient
and tactful; he did not try to defend himself, nor did he ask any
questions about Donald and Donald's activities. He simply announced that
he had been studying the subject of militarism, and had come to a
definite point of view. He was a Socialist and an Internationalist; he
considered America's entry into the war a crime, and he was willing to
do his part in agitating against it. He was going to take
his stand as a conscientious objector; they might send him to jail if
they pleased, or even stand him against a wall and shoot him, but they
would never get him to put on a uniform.
It was impossible for Donald Gordon to hold out against a man who
talked like that; a man who looked him in the eye and expressed his
convictions so simply and honestly. And that evening Peter went to a
meeting of Local American City of the Socialist Party, and renewed his
acquaintance with all the comrades. He didn't make a speech or do
anything conspicuous, but simply got into the spirit of things; and next
day he managed to meet some of the members, and whenever and wherever he
was asked, he expressed his convictions as a conscientious objector. So
before a week had passed Peter found that he was being tolerated, that
nobody was going to denounce him as a traitor, or kick him out of the
room.
At the next weekly meeting of Local American City, Peter ventured
to say a few words. It was a red-hot meeting, at which the war and the
draft were the sole subjects of discussion. There were some Germans in
the local, some Irishmen, and one or two Hindoos; they, naturally, were
all ardent pacifists. Also there were agitators of what was coming to be
called the "left wing"; the group within the party who considered it too
conservative, and were always clamoring for more radical declarations,
for "mass action" and general strikes and appeals to the proletariat to
rise forthwith and break their chains. These were days of great events;
the Russian revolution had electrified the world, and these comrades of
the "left wing" felt themselves lifted upon pinions of hope.
Peter spoke as one who had been out on the road, meeting the rank
and file; he could speak for the men on the job. What was the use of
opposing the draft here in a hall, where nobody but party members were
present? What was wanted was for them to lift up their voices on the
street, to awaken the people before it was too late! Was there anybody
in this gathering bold enough to organize a street meeting?
There were some who could not resist this challenge, and in a few
minutes Peter had secured the pledges of half a dozen young hot-heads,
Donald Gordon among them. Before the evening was past it had been
arranged that these would-be-martyrs should hire a truck, and make their
debut on Main Street the very next evening. Old hands in the movement
warned them that they would only get their heads cracked by the police.
But the answer to that was obvious — they might as well get their heads
cracked by the police as get them blown to pieces by German artillery.
