§ 57
Peter went to the American House and met McGivney, and was put to
work on a job that precisely suited his mood. The time had come for
action, said the rat-faced man. The executive committee of the I. W. W.
local had been drafting an appeal to the main organization for help, and
the executive committee was to meet that evening; Peter was to get in
touch with the secretary, Grady, and find out where this meeting was to
be, and make the suggestion that all the membership be gathered, and
other Reds also. The business men of the city were going to pull off
their big stroke that night, said McGivney; the younger members of the
Chamber of Commerce and the Merchants' and Manufacturers' Association
had got together and worked out a secret plan, and all they wanted was
to have the Reds collected in one place.
So Peter set out and found Shawn Grady, the young
Irish boy who kept the membership lists and other papers
of the organization, in a place so secret that not even Peter had been
able to find them. Peter brought the latest news about the sufferings of
Mac in the "hole," and how Gus, the sailor, had joined Henderson in the
hospital. He was so eloquent in his indignation that presently Grady
told him about the meeting for that evening, and about the place, and
Peter said they really ought to get some of their friends together, and
work out some way to get their protest literature distributed quickly,
because it was evident they could no longer use the mails. What was the
use of resolutions of executive committees, when what was wanted was
action by the entire membership? Grady said all right, they would notify
the active members and sympathizers, and he gave Peter the job of
telephoning and travelling about town getting word to a dozen people.
At six o'clock that evening Peter reported the results to
McGivney, and then he got a shock. "You must go to that meeting
yourself," said the rat-faced man. "You mustn't take any chance of their
suspecting you."
"But, my God!" cried Peter. "What's going to happen
there?"
"You don't need to worry about that," answered the
other. "I'll see that you're protected."
The gathering was to take place at the home of Ada Ruth, the
poetess, and McGivney had Peter describe this home to him. Beyond the
living-room was a hallway, and in this hallway was a big clothes closet.
At the first alarm Peter must make for this place. He must get into the
closet, and McGivney would be on hand, and they would pen Peter up and
pretend to club him, but in reality would protect him from whatever
happened to the rest. Peter's
knees began to tremble, and he denounced the idea indignantly; what
would happen to him if anything were to happen to McGivney, or to his
automobile, and were to fail to get there in time? McGivney declared
that Peter need not worry — he was too valuable a man for them to take
any chances with. McGivney would be there, and all Peter would have to
do was to scream and raise a rumpus, and finally fall unconscious, and
McGivney and Hammett and Cummings would carry him out to their
automobile and take him away!
Peter was so frightened that he couldn't eat any dinner,
but wandered about the street talking to himself and screwing
up his courage. He had to stop and look at the American
flags, still waving from the buildings, and read the
evening edition of the American City "Times," in order to
work up his patriotic fervor again. As he set out for the
home of the little cripple who wrote pacifist poetry, he really
felt like the soldier boys marching away to war.
Ada Ruth was there, and her mother, a dried-up old lady who knew
nothing about all these dreadful world movements, but whose pleadings
had no effect upon her inspired daughter; also Ada's cousin, a lean
old-maid school teacher, secretary of the Peoples' Council; also Miriam
Yankovitch, and Sadie Todd, and Donald Gordon. On the way Peter had met
Tom Duggan, and the mournful poet revealed that he had composed a new
poem about Mac in the "hole." Immediately afterwards came Grady, the
secretary, his pockets stuffed with his papers. Grady, a tall,
dark-eyed, impulsive-tempered Irish boy, was what the Socialists called
a "Jimmie Higgins," that is, one of the fellows who did the hard and
dreary work of the movement,
who were always on hand no matter what happened, always ready to have
some new responsibility put upon their shoulders. Grady had no use for
the Socialists, being only interested in "industrial action," but he was
willing to be called a "Jimmie Higgins"; he had said that Peter was one
too, and Peter had smiled to himself, thinking that a "Jimmie Higgins"
was about the last thing in the world he ever would be. Peter was on the
way to independence and prosperity, and it did not occur to him to
reflect that he might be a "Jimmie Higgins" to the "Whites" instead of
to the Reds!
Grady now pulled out his papers, and began to talk over with
Donald Gordon the proceedings of the evening. He had had a telegram
from the national headquarters of the I. W. W., promising support, and
his thin, hungry face lighted up with pride as he showed this. Then he
announced that "Bud" Connor was to be present — a well-known organizer,
who had been up in the oil country with McCormick, and brought news that
the workers there were on the verge of a big strike. Then came Mrs.
Jennings, a poor, tormented little woman who was slowly dying of a
cancer, and whose husband was suing her for divorce because she had
given money to the I. W. W. With her, and helping her along, came "Andy"
Adams, a big machinist, who had been kicked out of his lodge for talking
too much "direct action." He pulled from his pocket a copy of the
"Evening Telegraph," and read a few lines from an editorial, denouncing
"direct action" as meaning dynamiting, which it didn't, of course, and
asking how long it would be before the friends of law and order in
American City would use a little "direct action" of their own.
