IV
Jimmie did not even stop for supper. The greater part of the night
he worked at helping to organize the strikers, and all next day he
spent arranging Socialist meetings. He worked like a man possessed,
lifted above the limitations of the flesh. For everywhere that day
he carried with him the image of the proud, free, rich young
aristocrat, with his dark eyes roaming swiftly, his tall, perfectly
groomed figure eloquent of mastership, his voice ringing with
challenge. Jimmie was for the time utterly possessed by hatred; and
he saw about him thousands of others sharing the mood and shouting
it aloud. Every speaker who could be found was turned loose to talk
till he was hoarse, and in the evening there was to be half a dozen
street meetings. That was always the way when there were strikes;
then the working man had time to listen--and also the desire!
So came the final crisis, when the little machinist had to show the
stuff he was made of. He was holding aloft the torch at the regular
meeting-place on the corner of Main and Third Streets, and Comrade
Gerrity was explaining the strike and the ballot as two edges of the
sword of labour, when four policemen came suddenly round the corner
and pushed their way through the crowd. "You'll have to stop this!"
declared one.
"Stop?" cried Gerrity. "What do you mean?"
"There's to be no more street-speaking during the strike."
"Who says so?"
"Orders from the chief."
"But we've got a permit."
"All permits revoked. Cut it out."
"But this is an outrage!"
"We don't want any argument, young man--"
"But we're within our rights here."
"Forget it, young feller!"
Gerrity turned swiftly to the throng.
"Fellow-citizens," he cried, "we are here in the exercise of our
rights as American citizens! We are conducting a peaceable and
orderly political meeting, and we know our rights and propose to
maintain them. We--"
"Come down off that box, young feller!" commanded the officer; and
the crowd hooted and booed.
"Fellow-citizens!" began Gerrity again; but that was as far as he
got, for the policeman seized him by the arm and pulled; and Gerrity
knew the ways of American policemen too well to resist. He came
down--but still talking. "Fellow-citizens--"
"Are you goin' to shut up?" demanded the other, and as Gerrity still
went on orating, he announced: "You are under arrest."
There were half a dozen Socialists with the party, and this was a
challenge to the self-respect of everyone of them. In an instant
Comrade Mabel Smith had leaped on to the stand. "Fellow workers!"
she cried. "Is this America, or is it Russia?"
"That'll do, lady," said the policeman, as considerately as he
dared; for Comrade Mabel wore a big picture-hat and many other signs
of youth and beauty.
"I have a right to speak here, and I mean to speak," she declared.
"We don't want to have to arrest you, lady--"
"You either have to arrest me, or else allow me to speak."
"I'm sorry, lady, but it's orders. You are arrested."
Then came the turn of Comrade Stankewitz. "Vorking men, it is for
the rights of the vorkers ve are here." And so they jerked him off.
And then "Wild Bill". This hundred per cent, middle-of-the-road
proletarian had been hanging on the outskirts of the meeting, having
been forbidden by the local to take part in the speaking, because of
the intemperate nature of his utterances; but now, of course, all
rules went down, and Bill leaped on to the shaking platform. "Are we
slaves?" he yelled. "Are we dogs?" And it would seem that the police
thought so, for they yanked him off the platform, and one of them
seized him by the wrist and twisted so that his oration ended in a
shriek of pain.
Then came Johnny Edge, a shy youth with an armful of literature,
which he hung on to in spite of police violence; and then--then
there was one more!
Poor Jimmie! He did not in the least want to get arrested, and he
was terrified at the idea of making even so short a speech as was
here the order of the night. But, of course, his honour was at
stake, there was no way out. He handed his torch to a bystander, and
mounted the scaffold. "Is this a free country?" he cried. "Do we
have free speech?" And Jimmie's first effort at oratory ended in a
jerk at his coat-tail, which all but upset the frail platform upon
which he stood.
There were four policemen, with six prisoners, and a throng about
them howling with indignation, perhaps ready to become violent--who
could say? The guardians of order had been prepared however. One of
them stepped to the corner and blew his whistle, and a minute later
came the shriek of a siren, and round the corner came swinging the
city's big patrol-wagon, the "Black Maria". The crowd gave way, and
one by one the prisoners were thrust in. One of them, "Wild Bill",
feeling himself for a moment released from the grip of his captors,
raised his voice, shouting through the wire grating of the wagon: "I
denounce this outrage! I am a free American--" And suddenly Jimmie,
who was next in the wagon, felt himself flung to one side, and a
policeman leaped by him, and planted his fist with terrific violence
full in the orator's mouth. "Wild Bill" went down like a bullock
under the slaughter-man's axe, and the patrol-wagon started up, the
cry of its siren drowning the protests of the crowd.
Poor Bill! He lay across the seat, and Jimmie, who had to sit next
to him, caught him in his arms and held him. He was quivering, with
awful motions like a spasm. He made no sound, and Jimmie was
terrified, thinking that he was dying. Before long Jimmie felt a hot
wetness stealing over his hands, first slimy, then turning sticky.
He had to sit there, almost fainting with horror; he dared not say
anything, for maybe the policeman would strike him also. He sat,
clutching in his arms the shaking body, and whispering under his
breath, "Poor Bill! Poor Bill!"
