XX
The accident had happened in an ill-chosen neighborhood: one of
those crowded slum quarters, swarming with Mexicans and Italians and
other foreigners. Of course, that was the only neighborhood in which
it could have happened, because it is only there that children run
wild in the streets at night. There was one child under the front
wheels, crushed almost in half, so that you could not bear to look
at it, to say nothing of touching it; and there was another, struck
by the fender and knocked into the gutter. There was an old hag of a
woman standing by, with her hands lifted into the air, shrieking in
such a voice of mingled terror and fury as I had never heard in my
life before. It roused the whole quarter; there were people running
out of twenty houses, I think, before one of us could get out of the
car.
The first person out was Carpenter. He took one glance at the form
under the car, and saw there was no hope there; then he ran to the
child in the gutter and caught it into his arms. The poor people who
rushed to the scene found him sitting on the curb, gazing into the
pitiful, quivering little face, and whispering grief-stricken words.
There was a street-lamp near, so he could see the face of the child,
and the crowd could see him.
There came a woman, apparently the mother of the dead child. She saw
the form under the car, and gave a horrified scream, and fell into a
faint. There came a man, the father, no doubt, and other relatives;
there was a clamoring, frantic throng, swarming about the car and
about the victims. I went to Carpenter, and asked, "Is it dead?" He
answered, "It will live, I think." Then, seeing that the crowd was
likely to stifle the little one, he rose. "Where does this child
live?" he asked, and some one pointed out the house, and he carried
his burden into it. I followed him, and it was fortunate that I did
so, because of the part I was able to play.
I saw him lay the child upon a couch, and put his hands upon its
forehead, and close his eyes, apparently in prayer. Then, noting the
clamor outside growing louder, I went to the door and looked out,
and found the Stebbins family in a frightful predicament. The mob
had dragged Bertie and the chauffeur outside the car, and were
yelling menaces and imprecations into their faces; poor Bertie was
shouting back, that it wasn't his fault, how could _he_ help it? But
they thought he might have helped coming into their quarter with his
big rich car; why couldn't he stay in his own part of the city, and
kill the children of the rich? A man hit him a blow in the face and
knocked him over; his mother shrieked, and leaped out to help him,
and half a dozen women flung themselves at her, and as many men at
the chauffeur. There was a pile of bricks lying handy, and no doubt
also knives in the pockets of these foreign men; I believe the
little party would have been torn to pieces, had it not occurred to
me to run into the house and summon Carpenter.
Why did I do it? I think because I had seen how the crowd gave way
before him with the child in his arms. Anyhow, I knew that I could
do nothing alone, and before I could find a policeman it might be
many times too late. I told Carpenter what was happening, and he
rose, and ran out to the street.
It was like magic, of course. To these poor foreigners, Catholics
most of them, he did not suggest a moving picture actor on location;
he suggested something serious and miraculous. He called to the
crowd, stretching out his arms, and they gave way before him, and he
walked into them, and when he got to the struggling group he held
his arms over them, and that was all there was to it.
Except, of course, that he made them a speech. Seeing that he was
saving Bertie Stebbins' life, it was no more than fair that he
should have his own way, and that a member of the younger generation
should listen in unprotesting silence to a discourse, the political
and sociological implications of which must have been very offensive
to him. And Bertie listened; I think he would not have made a sound,
even if he could have, after the crack in the face he had got.
"My people," said Carpenter, "what good would it do you to kill
these wretches? The blood-suckers who drain the life of the poor are
not to be killed by blows. There are too many of them, and more of
them grow in place of those who die. And what is worse, if you kill
them, you destroy in yourselves that which makes you better than
they, which gives you the right to life. You destroy those virtues
of patience and charity, which are the jewels of the poor, and make
them princes in the kingdom of love. Let us guard our crown of pity,
and not acquire the vices of our oppressors. Let us grow in wisdom,
and find ways to put an end to the world's enslavement, without the
degradation of our own hearts. For so many ages we have been
patient, let us wait but a little longer, and find the true way! Oh,
my people, my beloved poor, not in violence, but in solidarity, in
brotherhood, lies the way! Let us bid the rich go on, to the sure
damnation which awaits them. Let us not soil our hands with their
blood!"
He spread out his arms again, majestically. "Stand back! Make way
for them!"
Not all the crowd understood the words, but enough of them did, and
set the example. In dead silence they withdrew from the sides and
front of the car. The body of the dead child had been dragged out of
the way and laid on the sidewalk, covered by a coat; and so
Carpenter said to the Stebbins family: "The road is clear before
you. Step in." Half dazed, the four people obeyed, and again
Carpenter raised his voice. "Drinkers of human blood, devourers of
human bodies, go your way! Go forward to that doom which history
prepares for parasites!"
The engine began to purr, and the car began to move. There was a low
mutter from the crowd, a moan of fury and baffled desire; but not a
hand was lifted, and the car shot away, and disappeared down the
street, leaving Carpenter standing on the curb, making a Socialist
speech to a mob of greasers and dagoes.
