Section 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.
