XLVII
There was shouting, and people running from every direction. The
throng would surge back, and a few run from it. "What's the matter?"
I cried to one of these, and the answer was, "They're cleaning out
the reds!" Comrade Abell, who knew the neighborhood, exclaimed in
dismay, "It's Erman's Book Store!"
"Who's doing this?" I asked of another bystander, and the answer
was, "The Brigade! They're cleaning up the city before the
convention!" And Comrade Abell clasped his hands to his forehead,
and wailed in despair, "It's because they've been selling the
'Liberator'! Erman told me last week he'd been warned to stop
selling it!"
Now, I don't know whether or not Carpenter had ever heard of this
radical monthly. But he knew that here was a mob, and people in
trouble, and he shook off the hands which sought to restrain him,
and pushed his way into the throng, which gave way before him,
either from respect or from curiosity. I learned later that some of
the mob had dragged the bookseller and his two clerks out by the
rear entrance, and were beating them pretty severely. But
fortunately Carpenter did not see this. All he saw were a dozen or
so ex-soldiers in uniform carrying armfuls of magazines and books
out into a little square, which was made by the oblique intersection
of two avenues. They were dumping the stuff into a pile, and a man
with a five gallon can was engaged in pouring kerosene over it.
"My friend," said Carpenter, "what is this that you do?"
The other turned upon him and stared. "What the hell you got to do
with it? Get out of the way there!" And to emphasize his words he
slopped a jet of kerosene over the prophet's robes.
Said Carpenter: "Do you know what a book is? One of your poets has
described it as the precious life-blood of a great spirit, embalmed
and preserved to all posterity."
The other laughed scornfully. "Was he talkin' about Bolsheviki
books, you reckon?"
Said Carpenter: "Are you one that should be set to judge books? Have
you read these that you are about to destroy?" And as the other,
paying no attention, knelt down to strike a match and light the
pyre, he cried, in a louder voice: "Behold what a thing is war! You
have been trained to kill your fellow men; the beast has been let
loose in your heart, and he raves within!"
"One of these God-damn pacifists, eh?" cried the ex-soldier; and he
dropped his matches and sprang up with fists clenched. Carpenter
faced him without flinching; there was something so majestic about
him, the man did not strike him, he merely put his spread hand
against the prophet's chest and shoved him violently. "Get back out
of the way!"
I well knew the risk I was taking, but I could not refrain. "Now,
look here, buddy!" I began; and the soldier whirled upon me. "You
one of these Huns, too?"
"I was all through the Argonne," I said quickly. "And I belong to
the Brigade."
"Oh ho! Well, pitch in here, and help carry out this bloody
Arnychist literature!"
I was about to answer, but Carpenter's voice rang out again. He had
turned and stretched out his arms to the crowd, and we both stopped
to listen to his words.
"Shall ye be wolves, or shall ye be men? That is the choice, and ye
have chosen wolfhood. The blood of your brothers is upon your hands,
and murder in your hearts. You have trained your young men to be
killers of their brothers, and now they know only the law of
madness."
There were a dozen ex-doughboys in sound of this discourse, and I
judged they would not stand much of it. Suddenly one of them began
to chant; and the rest took it up, half laughing, half shouting:
Rough! Tough!
We're the stuff!
We want to fight and we can't get enough!
And after that:
Hail! Hail! The gang's all here!
We're going to get the Kaiser!
The crowd joined in, and the words of the prophet were completely
drowned out. A moment later I heard a gruff voice behind me. "Make
way here!" There came a policeman, shoving through. "What's all this
about?"
The fellow with the kerosene can spoke up: "Here's this damn
Arnychist prophet been incitin' the crowd and preachin' sedition!
You better take him along, officer, and put him somewhere he'll be
safe, because me and my buddies won't stand no more Bolsheviki
rantin'."
It seemed ludicrous when I looked back upon it; though at the moment
I did not appreciate the funny side. Here was a group of men engaged
in raiding a book-store, beating up the proprietor and his clerks,
and burning a thousand dollars worth of books and magazines on the
public street; but the policeman did not see a bit of that, he had
no idea that any such thing was happening! All he saw was a prophet,
in a white nightgown dripping with kerosene, engaged in denouncing
war! He took him firmly by the arm, saying, "Come along now! I guess
we've heard enough o' this;" and he started to march Carpenter down
the street.
"Take me too!" cried Moneta, the Mexican, beside himself with
excitement; and the policeman grabbed him with the other hand, and
the three set out to march.
