L
When I got to the meeting-place I found that a feast had been
spread. I don't know where the money came from; maybe it was
Bolshevik gold, as the enemy charged, or maybe it was the ill-gotten
gains of a "million dollar movie vamp." Anyhow, there was a table
spread with a couple of cloths that were clean, if ragged, and on
them flowers and fruit. Carpenter was seated at the head of the
table, and I noted to my surprise that he had on a beautiful robe of
snow-white linen, instead of the one he had formerly worn, which was
not only stained with kerosene but filthy with the dust of the
streets. I learned that Mrs. T-S had brought this festal garment--a
simple matter for her, because in movie studios they have wardrobe
rooms where they turn out any sort of costume imaginable.
This robe was so striking that it created a little controversy.
James, the carpenter, who had an ascetic spirit, considered it
necessary to speak plainly, and point out that Mrs. T-S would have
done better to take the money and give it to the poor. But the
prophet answered: "Let this woman alone. She has done a good thing.
The poor you have always with you, but me you have only for a short
time. This woman has helped to make our feast happy, and men will
tell about it in future years."
But that did not satisfy the ascetic James, who retired to his
corner grumbling. "I know, we're going to start a new church--the
same old graft all over again! A man has no business to say a thing
like that. The first thing you know, they'll be taking the widow's
mite to buy silk and velvet dresses for him and golden goblets for
him to drink from! And then, before you know it they'll be setting
him up in stained glass windows, and priests'll be wearing jewelled
robes, and saying it's all right, and quoting his words!" I
perceived that it wasn't so easy for a prophet to manage a bunch of
disciples in these modern days!
The controversy did not seem to trouble Mrs. T-S, who was waddling
about, perfectly happy in the kitchen--doing the things she would
have done all the time, if her husband's social position had not
required her to keep a dozen servants. Also, I noted to my great
astonishment that Mary Magna, instead of taking a place at the
prophet's right hand, according to the prerogative of queens, had
put on a plain apron and was helping "Maw" and Mrs. Abell. More
surprising yet, T-S had seated himself inconspicuously at the foot
of the table, while at the prophet's right hand there sat a convict
with a twenty year jail sentence hanging over him--John Colver, the
"wobbly" poet! Again an ancient phrase learned in childhood came
floating through my mind: "He hath put down the mighty from their
seats, and exalted them of low degree!"
Somehow word had been got to all the little group of agitators of
various shades. There was Korwsky, the secretary of the tailors'
union--whose first name I learned was Luka; also his fellow Russian,
the express-driver,--Simon Karlin, and Tom Moneta, the young Mexican
cigar-maker. There was Matthew Everett, free to be a guest on this
occasion, because T-S had brought along another stenographer. There
was Mark Abell, and another Socialist, a young Irishman named Andy
Lynch, a veteran of the late war who had come home completely cured
of militarism, and was now spending his time distributing Socialist
leaflets, and preaching to the workers wherever he could get two or
three to listen. Also there was Hamby, the pacifist whom I did not
like, and a second I. W. W., brought by Colver--a lad named Philip,
who had recently been indicted by the grand jury, and was at this
moment a fugitive from justice with a price upon his head.
The door of the room was opened, and another man came in; a striking
figure, tall and gaunt, with old and pitifully untidy clothing, and
a half month's growth of beard upon his chin. He wore an old black
hat, frayed at the edges; but under this hat was a face of such
gentleness and sadness that it made you think of Carpenter's own.
Withal, it was a Yankee face--of that lean, stringy kind that we
know so well. The newcomer's eyes fell upon Carpenter, and his face
lighted; he set down an old carpet-bag that he was carrying, and
stretched out his two hands, and went to him. "Carpenter! I've been
looking for you!"
And Carpenter answered, "My brother!" And the two clasped hands, and
I thought to myself with astonishment, "How does Carpenter know this
man?"
Presently I whispered to Abell, "Who is he?" I learned that he was
one I had heard of in the papers--Bartholomew Howard, the
"millionaire hobo;" he was grandson and heir of one of our great
captains of industry, and had taken literally the advice of the
prophet, to sell all that he had and give it to the unemployed. He
traveled over the country, living among the hobos and organizing
them into his Brotherhood. Now you would have thought that he and
Carpenter had known each other all their lives; as I watched them, I
found myself thinking: "Where are the clergy and the pillars of St.
Bartholomew's Church?" There were none of them at this supper-party!
