Suddenly I recalled what I had read in the morning's paper. The workers of the famous lobster palace had gone on strike, and trouble was feared. I told T-S, and he exclaimed: “Oh, hell! Ain't we got troubles enough vit strikers in de studios, vitout dey come spoilin' our dinner?”
The footman had jumped from his seat, and had the door open, and the great man began to alight. At that moment the mob set up a howl. “For shame! For shame! Unfair! Don't go in there! They starve their workers! They're taking the bread out of our mouths! Scabs! Scabs!”
I got out second, and saw a spectacle of haggard faces, shouting menaces and pleadings; I saw hands waved wildly, one or two fists clenched; I saw the police, shoving against the mass, poking with their sticks, none too gently. A poor devil in a waiter's costume stretched out his arms to me, yelling in a foreign dialect: “You take de food from my babies!” The next moment the club of a policeman came down on his head, crack. I heard Mary scream behind me, and I turned, just in the nick of time. Carpenter was leaping toward the policeman, crying, “Stop!”
There was no chance to parley in this emergency. I grabbed Carpenter in a foot-ball tackle. I got one arm pinned to his side, and Mary, good old scout, got the other as quickly. She is a bit of an athlete—has to keep in training for those hoochie-coochies and things she does, when she wins the love of emperors and sultans and such-like world-conquerors. Also, when we got hold of Carpenter, we discovered that he wasn't much but skin and bones anyhow. We fairly lifted him up and rushed him into the restaurant; and after the first moment he stopped resisting, and let us lead him between the aisles of diners, on the heels of the toddling T-S. There was a table reserved, in an alcove, and we brought him to it, and then waited to see what we had done.
Carpenter turned to me-and those sad but everchanging eyes were flashing. “You have taken a great liberty!”
“There wasn't any time to argue,” I said. “If you knew what I know about the police of Western City and their manners, you wouldn't want to monkey with them.”
Mary backed me up earnestly. “They'd have mashed your face, Mr. Carpenter.”
“My face?” he repeated. “Is not a man more than his face?”
You should have heard the shout of T-S! “Vot? Ain't I shoost offered you five hunded dollars a veek fer dat face, and you vant to go git it smashed? And fer a lot o' lousy bums dat vont vork for honest vages, and vont let nobody else vork! Honest to Gawd, Mr. Carpenter, I tell you some stories about strikes vot we had on our own lot—you vouldn't spoil your face for such lousy sons-o'-guns—”
“Ssh, Abey, don't use such langwich, you should to be shamed of yourself!” It was Maw, guardian of the proprieties, who had been extracted from the car by the footman, and helped to the table.
“Vell, Mr. Carpenter, he dunno vot dem fellers is like—”
“Sit down, Abey!” commanded the old lady. “Ve ain't ordered no stump speeches fer our dinner.”
We seated ourselves. And Carpenter turned his dark eyes on me. “I observe that you have many kinds of mobs in your city,” he remarked. “And the police do interfere with some of them.”
“My Gawd!” cried T-S. “You gonna have a lot o' bums jumpin' on people ven dey try to git to dinner?”
Said Carpenter: “Mr. Rosythe said that the police would not work unless they were paid. May I ask, who pays them to work here? Is it the proprietor of the restaurant?”
“Vell,” cried T-S, “ain't he gotta take care of his place?”
“As a matter of fact,” said I, laughing, “from what I read in the 'Times' this morning, I gather that an old friend of Mr. Carpenter's has been paying in this case.”
Carpenter looked at me inquiringly.
“Mr. Algernon de Wiggs, president of the Chamber of Commerce, issued a statement denouncing the way the police were letting mobs of strikers interfere with business, and proposing that the Chamber take steps to stop it. You remember de Wiggs, and how we left him?”
“Yes, I remember,” said Carpenter; and we exchanged a smile over that trick we had played.
I could see T-S prick forward his ears. “Vot? You know de Viggs?”
“Mr. Carpenter possesses an acquaintance with our best society which will astonish you when you realize it.”
“Vy didn't you tell me dat?” demanded the other; and I could complete the sentence for him: “Somebody has offered him more money!”
Here the voice of Maw was heard: “Ain't we gonna git nuttin' to eat?”
So for a time the problem of capital and labor was put to one side. There were two waiters standing by, very nervous, because of the strike. T-S grabbed the card from one, and read off a list of food, which the waiter wrote down. Maw, who was learning the rudiments of etiquette, handed her card to Mary, who gave her order, and then Maw gave hers, and I gave mine, and there was only Carpenter left.
He was sitting, his dark eyes roaming here and there about the dining-room. Prince's, as you may know, is a gorgeous establishment: too much so for my taste—it has almost as much gilded moulding as if T-S had designed it for a picture palace. In front of Carpenter's eyes sat a dame with a bare white back, and a rope of big pearls about it, and a tiara of diamonds on top; and beyond her were more dames, and yet more, and men in dinner-coats, putting food into red faces. You and I get used to such things, but I could understand that to a stranger it must be shocking to see so many people feeding so expensively.
“Vot you vant to order, Mr. Carpenter?” demanded T-S; and I waited, full of curiosity. What would this man choose to eat in a “lobster palace”?
Carpenter took the card from his host and studied it. Apparently he had no difficulty in finding the most substantial part of the menu. “I'll have prime ribs of beef,” said he; “and boiled mutton with caper sauce; and young spring turkey; and squab en casserole; and milk fed guinea fowl—” The waiter, of course, was obediently writing down each item. “And planked steak with mushrooms; and braised spare ribs—”
“My Gawd!” broke in the host.
“And roast teal duck; and lamb kidneys—”
“Fer the love o' Mike, Mr. Carpenter, you gonna eat all dat?”
“No; of course not.”
“Den vot you gonna do vit it?”
“I'm going to take it to the hungry men outside.”
Well, sir, you'd have thought the world had stopped turning round, so still it was. The two waiters nearly dropped their order-pads and their napkins; they did drop their jaws, and Mrs. T-S's permanent wave seemed about to go flat.
“Oh, hell!” cried T-S at last. “You can't do it!”
“I can't?”
“You can't order only vot you gonna eat.”
“But then, I don't want anything. I'm not hungry.”
“But you can't sit here like a dummy, man!” He turned to the waiter. “You bring him de same vot you bring me. Unnerstand? And git a move on, cause I'm starvin'. Fade out now!” And the waiter turned and fled.
The proprietor of Eternal City wiped his perspiring forehead with his napkin, and started rather hurriedly to make conversation. I understood that he wanted to enjoy his dinner, and proposed to talk about something pleasant in the meantime. “I vonna tell you about dis picture ve're goin' to see took, Mr. Carpenter. I vant you should see de scale we do tings on, ven we got a big subjic. Y'unnerstand, dis is a feature picture ve're makin' now; a night picture, a big mob scene.”.
“Mob scene?” said Carpenter. “You have so many mobs in this world of yours!”
“Vell, sure,” said T-S. “You gotta take dis vorld de vay you find it. Y'can't change human nature, y'know. But dis vot you're gonna see tonight is only a play mob, y'unnerstand.”
“That is what seems strangest of all to me,” said the other, thoughtfully. “You like mobs so well that you make imitation ones!”
“Vell, de people, dey like to see crowds in a picture, and dey like to see action. If you gonna have a big picture, you gotta spend de money.”
“Why not take this real mob that is outside the door?”
“Ha, ha, ha! Ve couldn't verk dat very good, Mr. Carpenter. Ve gotta have it in de right set; and ven you git a real mob, it don't alvays do vot you vant exactly! Besides, you can't take night pictures unless you got your lights and everyting. No, ve gotta make our mobs to order; we got two tousand fellers hired—”
“What Mr. Rosythe called 'studio bums'? You have that many?”
“Sure, we could git ten tousand if de set vould hold 'em. Dis picture is called 'De Tale o' Two Cities,' and it's de French revolution. It's about a feller vot takes anodder feller's place and gits his head cut off; and say, dere's a sob story in it vot's a vunder. Ven dey brought me de scenario, I says, 'Who's de author?' Dey says, 'It's a guy named Charles Dickens.' 'Dickens?' says I. 'Vell, I like his verk. Vot's his address?' And Lipsky, he says, says he, 'Dey tell me he stays in a place called Vestminster Abbey, in England.' 'Vell,' says I, 'send him a cablegram and find out vot he'll take fer an exclusive contract.' So we sent a cablegram to Charles Dickens, Vestminster Abbey, England, and we didn't git no answer, and come to find out, de boys in de studios vas havin' a laugh on old Abey, because dis guy Dickens is some old time feller, and de Abbey is vere dey got his bones. Vell, dey can have deir fun—how de hell's a feller like me gonna git time to know about writers? Vy, only twelve years ago, Maw here and me vas carryin' pants in a push-cart fer a livin', and we didn't know if a book vas top-side up or bottom—ain't it, Maw?”
Maw certified that it was—though I thought not quite so eagerly as her husband. There were five little T-S's growing up, and bringing pressure to let the dead past stay buried, in Vestminster Abbey or wherever it might be.
The waiter brought the dinner, and spread it before us. And T-S tucked his napkin under both ears, and grabbed his knife in one hand and his fork in the other, and took a long breath, and said: “Good-bye, folks. See you later!” And he went to work.
For five minutes or so there was no sound but that of one man's food going in and going down. Then suddenly the man stopped, with his knife and fork upright on the table in each hand, and cried: “Mr. Carpenter, you ain't eatin' nuttin'!”
The stranger, who had apparently been in a daydream, came suddenly back to Prince's. He looked at the quantities of food spread about him. “If you'd only let me take a little to those men outside!” He said it pleadingly.
But T-S tapped imperiously on the table, with both his knife and fork together. “Mr. Carpenter, eat your dinner! Eat it, now, I say!” It was as if he were dealing with one of the five little T-S's. And Carpenter, strange as it may seem, obeyed. He picked up a bit of bread, and began to nibble it, and T-S went to work again.
There was another five minutes of silence; and then the picture magnate stopped, with a look of horror on his face. “My Gawd! He's cryin'!” Sure enough, there were two large tears trickling, one down each cheek of the stranger, and dropping on the bread he was putting into his mouth!
“Look here, Mr. Carpenter,” protested T-S. “Is it dem strikers?”
“I'm sorry; you see—”
“Now, honest, man, vy should you spoil your dinner fer a bunch o' damn lousy loafers—”
“Abey, vot a vay to talk at a dinner-party!” broke in Maw.
And then suddenly Mary Magna spoke. It was a strange thing, though I did not realize it until afterwards. Mary, the irrepressible, had hardly said one word since we left the beauty parlors! Mary, always the life of dinner parties, was sitting like a woman who had seen the ghost of a dead child; her eyes following Carpenter's, her mind evidently absorbed in probing his thoughts.
“Abey!” said she, with sudden passion, of a sort I'd never seen her display before. “Forget your grub for a moment, I have something to say. Here's a man with a heart full of love for other people—while you and I are just trying to see what we can get out of them! A man who really has a religion—and you're trying to turn him into a movie doll! Try to get it through your skull, Abey!”
The great man's eyes were wide open. “Holy smoke, Mary! Vot's got into you?” And suddenly he almost shrieked. “Lord! She's cryin' too!”
“No, I'm not,” declared Mary, vialiantly. But there were two drops on her cheeks, so big that she was forced to wipe them away. “It's just a little shame, that's all. Here we sit, with three times as much food before us as we can eat; and all over this city are poor devils with nothing to eat, and no homes to go to—don't you know that's true, Abey? Don't you know it, Maw?”
“Looka here, kid,” said the magnate; “you know vot'll happen to you if you git to broodin' over tings? You git your face full o' wrinkles—you already gone and spoilt your make-up.”
“Shucks, Abey,” broke in Maw, “vot you gotta do vit dat? Vy don't you mind your own business?”
“Mind my own business? My own business, you say? Vell, I like to know vot you call my business! Ven I got a contract to pay a girl tirty-five hunded dollars a veek fer her face, and she goes and gits it all wrinkles, I ask any jury, is it my business or ain't it? And if a feller vants to pull de tremulo stop fer a lot o' hoboes and Bullsheviki, and goes and spills his tears into his soup—”
It sounded fierce; but Mary apparently knew her Abey; also, she saw that Maw was starting to cry. “There's no use trying to bluff me, Abey. You know as well as I do there are hungry people in this city, and no fault of theirs. You know, too, you eat twice what you ought to, because I've heard the doctor tell you. I'm not blaming you a bit more than I do myself—me, with two automobiles, and a whole show-window on my back.” And suddenly she turned to Carpenter. “What can we do?”
He answered: “Here, men gorge themselves; in Russia they are eating their dead.”
T-S dropped his knife and fork, and Maw gave a gulp. “Oh, my Gawd!”
“There are ten million people doomed to starve. Their children eat grass, and their bellies swell up and their legs dwindle to broom-sticks; they stagger and fall into the ditches, and other children tear their flesh and devour it.”
“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!” wailed Maw; and the diners at Prince's began to stare.
“Now looka here!” cried T-S, wildly. “I say dis ain't no decent way to behave at a party. I say it ain't on de level to be a feller's guest, and den jump on him and spoil his dinner. See here, Mr. Carpenter, I tell you vot I do. You be good and eat your grub, so it don't git vasted, and I promise you, tomorrow I go and hunt up strike headquarters, and give dem a check fer a tousand dollars, and if de damn graftin' leaders don't hog it, dey all git someting to eat. And vot's more, I send a check fer five tousand to de Russian relief. Now ain't dat square? Vot you say?”
“What I say is, Mr. T-S, I cannot be the keeper of another man's conscience. But I'll try to eat, so as not to be rude.”
And T-S grunted, and went back to his feeding; and the stranger made a pretense of eating, and we did the same.
It happens that I was brought up in a highly conscientious family. To my dear mother, and to her worthy sisters, there is nothing in the world more painful than what they call a “scene”—unless possibly it is what they call a “situation.” And here we had certainly had a “scene,” and still had a “situation.” So I sat, racking my brains to think of something safe to talk about. I recalled that T-S had had pretty good success with his “Tale of Two Cities” as a topic of conversation, so I began:
“Mr. Carpenter, the spectacle you are going to see this evening is rather remarkable from the artistic point of view. One of the greatest scenic artists of Paris has designed the set, and the best judges consider it a real achievement, a landmark in moving picture work.”
“Tell me about it,” said Carpenter; and I was grateful for his tone of interest.
“Well, I don't know how much you know about picture making—”
“You had better explain everything.”
“Well, Mr. T-S has built a large set, representing a street scene in Paris over a century ago. He has hired a thousand men—”
“Two tousand!” broke in T-S.
“In the advertisements?” I suggested, with a smile.
“No, no,” insisted the other. “Two tousand, really. In de advertisements, five tousand.”
“Well,” said I, “these men wear costumes which T-S has had made for them, and they pretend to be a mob. They have been practicing all day, and by now they know what to do. There is a man with a megaphone, shouting orders to them, and enormous lights playing upon them, so that men with cameras can take pictures of the scene. It is very vivid, and as a portrayal of history, is truly educational.”
“And when it is done—what becomes of the men?”
Utterly hopeless, you see! We were right back on the forbidden ground! “How do you mean?” I evaded.
“I mean, how do they live?”
“Dey got deir five dollars, ain't dey?” It was T-S, of course.
“Yes, but that won' last very long, will it? What is the cost of this dinner we are eating?”
The magnate of the movies looked to the speaker, and then burst into a laugh. “Ho, ho, ho! Dat's a good vun!”
Said I, hastily: “Mr. T-S means that there are cheaper eating places to be found.”
“Well,” said Carpenter, “why don't we find one?”
“It's no use, Billy. He thinks it's up to me to feed all de bums on de lot. Is dat it, Mr. Carpenter?”
“I can't say, Mr. T-S; I don't know how many there are, and I don't know how rich you are.”
“Vell, dey got five million out o' verks in this country now, and if I vanted to bust myself, I could feed 'em vun day, maybe two. But ven I got done, dey vouldn't be nobody to make pictures, and somebody vould have to feed old Abey—or maybe me and Maw could go back to carryin' pants in a push cart! If you tink I vouldn't like to see all de hungry fed, you got me wrong, Mr. Carpenter; but vot I learned is dis—if you stop fer all de misery you see in de vorld about you, you vouldn't git novhere.”
“Well,” said Carpenter, “what difference would that make?”
The proprietor of Eternal City really wanted to make out the processes of this abnormal mind. He wrinkled his brows, and thought very hard over it.
“See here, Mr. Carpenter,” he began at last, “I tink you got hold o' de wrong feller. I'm a verkin' man, de same as any mechanic on my lot. I verked ever since I vas a liddle boy, and if I eat too much now, maybe it's because I didn't get enough ven I vas liddle. And maybe I got more money dan vot I got a right to, but I know dis—I ain't never had enough to do half vot I vant to! But dere's plenty fellers got ten times vot I got, and never done a stroke o' vork fer it. Dey're de vuns y'oughter git after!”
Said Carpenter: “I would, if I knew how.”
“Dey's plenty of 'em right in dis room, I bet.” And Mary added: “Ask Billy; he knows them all!”
“You flatter me, Mary,” I laughed.
“Ain't dey some of 'em here?” demanded T-S.
“Yes, that's true. There are some not far away, who are developing a desire to meet Mr. Carpenter, unless I miss the signs.”
“Vere are dey at?” demanded T-S.
“I won't tell you that,” I laughed, “because you'd turn and stare into their faces.”
“So he vould!” broke in Maw. “How often I gotta tell you, Abey? You got no more manners dan if you vas a jimpanzy.”
“All right,” said the magnate, grinning good naturedly. “I'll keep a-eatin' my dinner. Who is it?”
“It's Mrs. Parmelee Stebbins,” said I. “She boasts a salon, and has to have what are called lions, and she's been watching Mr. Carpenter out of the corner of her eye ever since he came into the room—trying to figure out whether he's a lion, or only an actor. If his skin were a bit dark, she would be sure he was an Eastern potentate; as it, she's afraid he's of domestic origin, in which case he's vulgar. The company he keeps is against him; but still—Mrs. Stebbins has had my eye three times, hoping I would give her a signal, I haven't given it, so she's about to leave.”
“Vell, she can go to hell!” said T-S, keeping his promise to devote himself to his dinner. “I offered Parmelee Stebbins a tird share in 'De Pride o' Passion' fer a hunded tousand dollars, and de damn fool turned me down, and de picture has made a million and a quarter a'ready.”
“Well,” said I, “he's probably paying for it by sitting up late to buy the city council on this new franchise grab of his; and so he hasn't kept his date to dine with his expensive family at Prince's. Here is Miss Lucinda Stebbins; she's engaged to Babcock, millionaire sport and man about town, but he's taking part in a flying race over the Rocky Mountains tonight, and so Lucinda feels bored, and she knows the vaudeville show is going to be tiresome, but still she doesn't want to meet any freaks. She has just said to her mother that she can't see why a person in her mother's position can't be content to meet proper people, but always has to be getting herself into the newspapers with some new sort of nut.”
“My Gawd, Billy!” cried Maw. “You got a dictaphone on dem people?”
“No, but I know the type so well, I can tell by their looks. Lucinda is thinking about their big new palace on Grand Avenue, and she regards everyone outside her set as a burglar trying to break in. And then there's Bertie Stebbins, who's thinking about a new style of collar he saw advertised to-day, and how it would look on him, and what impression it would make on his newest girl.”
It was Mary who spoke now: “I know that little toad. I've seen him dancing at the Palace with Dorothy Doodles, or whatever her name is.”
“Well,” said I, “Mrs. Stebbins runs the newer set—those who hunt sensations, and make a splurge in the papers. It costs like smoke, of course—” And suddenly I stopped. “Look out!” I whispered. “Here she comes!”
I heard Maw catch her breath, and I heard Maw's husband give a grunt. Then I rose. “How are you, Billy?” gurgled a voice—one of those voices made especially for social occasions. “Wretched boy, why do you never come to see us?”
“I was coming to-morrow,” I said—for who could prove otherwise? “Mrs. Stebbins, permit me to introduce Mrs. Tszchniczklefritszch.”
“Charmed to meet you, I'm sure,” said Mrs. Stebbins. “I've heard my husband speak of your husband so often. How well you are looking, Mrs.—”
She stopped; and Maw, knowing the terrors of her name, made haste to say something agreeable. “Yes, ma'am; dis country agrees vit me fine. Since I come here, I've rode and et, shoost rode and et.”
“And Mr. T-S,” said I.
“Howdydo, Mr. T-S?”
“Pretty good, ma'am,” said T-S. He had been caught with his mouth full, and was making desperate efforts to swallow.
A singular thing is the power of class prestige! Here was Maw, a good woman, according to her lights, who had worked hard all her life, and had achieved a colossal and astounding success. She had everything in the world that money could buy; her hair was done by the best hair-dresser, her gown had been designed by the best costumer, her rings and bracelets selected by the best jeweller; and yet nothing was right, no power on earth could make it right, and Maw knew it, and writhed the consciousness of it. And here was Mrs. Parmelee Stebbins, who had never done a useful thing in all her days—except you count the picking out of a rich husband; yet Mrs. Stebbins was “right,” and Maw knew it, and in the presence of the other woman she was in an utter panic, literally quivering in every nerve. And here was old T-S, who, left to himself, might have really meant what he said, that Mrs. Stebbins could go to hell; but because he was married, and loved his wife, he too trembled, and gulped down his food!
Mrs. Stebbins is one of those American matrons who do not allow marriage and motherhood to make vulgar physical impressions upon them. Her pale blue gown might have been worn by her daughter; her cool grey eyes looked out through a face without a wrinkle from a soul without a care. She was a patroness of art and intellect; but never did she forget her fundamental duty, the enhancing of the prestige of a family name. When she was introduced to a screen-actress, she was gracious, but did not forget the difference between an actress and a lady. When she was introduced to a strange man who did not wear trousers, she took it quite as an everyday matter, revealing no trace of vulgar human curiosity.
There came Bertie, full grown, but not yet out of the pimply stage, and still conscious of the clothes which he had taken such pains to get right. Bertie's sister remained in her seat, refusing naughtily to be compromised by her mother's vagaries; but Bertie had a purpose, and after I had introduced him round, I saw what he wanted—Mary Magna! Bertie had a vision of himself as a sort of sporting prince in this movie world. His social position would make conquests easy; it was a sort of Christmas-tree, all a-glitter with prizes.
I was standing near, and heard the beginning of their conversation. “Oh, Miss Magna, I'm so pleased to meet you. I've heard so much about you from Miss Dulles.”
“Miss Dulles?”
“Yes; Dorothy Dulles.”
“I'm sorry. I don't think I ever heard of her.”
“What? Dorothy Dulles, the screen actress?”
“No, I can't place her.”
“But—but she's a star!”
“Well, but you know, Mr. Stebbins—there are so many stars in the heavens, and not all of them visible to the eye.”
I turned to Bertie's mamma. She had discovered that Carpenter looked even more thrilling on a close view; he was not a stage figure, but a really grave and impressive personality, exactly the thing to thrill the ladies of the Higher Arts Club at their monthly luncheon, and to reflect prestige upon his discoverer. So here she was, inviting the party to share her box at the theatre; and here was T-S explaining that it couldn't be done, he had got to see his French revolution pictures took, dey had five tousand men hired to make a mob. I noted that Mrs. Stebbins received the “advertising” figures on the production!
The upshot of it was that the great lady consented to forget her box at the theatre, and run out to the studios to see the mob scenes for the “The Tale of Two Cities.” T-S hadn't quite finished his dinner, but he waved his hand and said it was nuttin', he vouldn't keep Mrs. Stebbins vaitin'. He beckoned the waiter, and signed his magic name on the check, with a five-dollar bill on top for a tip. Mrs. Stebbins collected her family and floated to the door, and our party followed.
I expected another scene with the mob; but I found that the street had been swept clear of everything but policemen and chauffeurs. I knew that this must have meant rough work on the part of the authorities, but I said nothing, and hoped that Carpenter would not think of it. The Stebbins car drew up by the porte-cochere; and suddenly I discovered why the wife of the street-car magnate was known as a “social leader.” “Billy,” she said, “you come in our car, and bring Mr. Carpenter; I have something to talk to you about.” Just that easily, you see! She wanted something, so she asked for it!
I took Carpenter by the arm and put him in. Bertie drove, the chauffeur sitting in the seat beside him. “Beat you to it!” called Bertie, with his invincible arrogance, and waved his hand to the picture magnate as we rolled away.
As it happened, we made a poor start. Turning the corner into Broadway, we found ourselves caught in the jam of the theatre traffic, and our car was brought to a halt in front of the “Empire Varieties.” If you have been on any Broadway between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, you can imagine the sight; the flaring electric signs, the pictures of the head line artists, the people waiting to buy tickets, and the crowds on the sidewalk pushing past. There was one additional feature, a crowd of “rah-rah boys,” with yellow and purple flags in their hands, and the glory of battle in their eyes. As our car halted, the cheer-leader gave a signal, and a hundred throats let out in unison:
“Rickety zim, rickety zam,Brickety, stickety, slickety slam!Wallybaloo! Billybazoo!We are the boys for a hullabaloo—Western City!”
It sounded all the more deafening, because Bertie, in the front seat, had joined in.
“Hello!” said I. “We must have won the ball-game!”
“Youbetwe did!” said Bertie, in his voice of bursting self-importance.
“Ball-game?” asked Carpenter.
“Foot-ball,” said I. “Western City played Union Tech today. Wonder what the score was.”
The cheer leader seemed to take the words out of my mouth. Again the hundred voices roared:
“What was the score?Seventeen to four!Who got it in the neck?Union Tech!Who took the kitty?Western City!”
Then more waving of flags, and yells for our prize captain and our agile quarter-back: “Rah, rah, rah, Jerry Wilson! Rah, rah, rah, Harriman! Western City, Western City, Western City! W-E-S-T-E-R-N-C-I-T-Y! Western City!”
You have heard college yells, no doubt, and can imagine the tempo of these cries, the cumulative rush of the spelled out letters, the booming roar at the end. The voice of Bertie beat back from the wind-shield with devastating effect upon our ears; and then our car rolled on, and the clamor died away, and I answered the questions of Carpenter. “They are college boys. They have won a game with another college, and are celebrating the victory.”
“But,” said the other, “how do they manage to shout all together that way?”
“Oh, they've practiced that, of course.”
“You mean—they gather and practice making those noises?”
“Surely.”
“They make them in cold blood?”
I laughed. “Well, the blood of youth is seldom entirely cold. They imagine the victory while they rehearse, no doubt.”
When Carpenter spoke again, it was half to himself. “You make your children into mobs! You train them for it!”
“It really isn't that bad,” I replied. “It's all in good temper—it's their play.”
“Yes, yes! But what is play but practice for reality? And how shall love be learned in savage war-dances?”
They tell us that we have a new generation of young people since the war; a generation which thinks for itself, and has its own way. I was an advocate of this idea in the abstract, but I must admit that I was startled by the concrete case which I now encountered. Bertie suddenly looked round from his place in the driver's seat. “Say,” he demanded, in a grating voice, “where was that guy raised?”
“Bertiedear!” cried his mother. “Don't be rude!”
“I'm not being rude,” replied the other. “I just want to know where he got his nut ideas.”
“Bertiedear!” cried the mother, again; and you knew that for eighteen or nineteen years she had been crying “Bertiedear!”—in a tone in which rebuke was tempered by fatuous maternal admiration. And all the time, Bertie had gone on doing what he pleased, knowing that in her secret heart his mother was smiling with admiration of his masterfulness, taking it as one more symptom of the greatness of the Stebbins line. I could see him in early childhood, stamping on the floor and commanding his governess to bring him a handkerchief—and throwing his shoe at her when she delayed!
Presently it was Lucinda's turn. Lucinda, you understand, was in revolt against the social indignity which her mother had inflicted upon her. When Carpenter had entered the car, she had looked at him once, with a deliberate stare, then lifted her chin, ignoring my effort to introduce him to her. Since then she had sat silent, cold, and proud. But now she spoke. “Mother, tell me, do we have to meet those horrid fat old Jews again?”
Mrs. Stebbins wisely decided that this was not a good time to explore the soul of a possible Eastern potentate. Instead, she elected to talk for a minute or two about a lawn fete she was planning to give next week for the benefit of the Polish relief. “Poland is the World's Bulwark against Bolshevism,” she explained; and then added: “Bertiedear, aren't you driving recklessly?”
Bertie turned his head. “Didn't you hear me tell that old sheeny I was going to beat him to it?”
“But, Bertiedear, this street is crowded!”
“Well, let them look out for themselves!”
But a few seconds later it appeared as if the son and heir of the Stebbins family had decided to take his mother's advice. The car suddenly slowed up—so suddenly as to slide us out of our seats. There was a grinding of brakes, and a bump of something under the wheels; then a wild stream from the sidewalk, and a half-stifled cry from the chauffeur. Mrs. Stebbins gasped, “Oh, my God!” and put her hands over her face; and Lucinda exclaimed, in outraged irritation, “Mamma!” Carpenter looked at me, puzzled, and asked, “What is the matter?”
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 couldhehelp 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.
When he stopped speaking, it was because a woman pressed her way through the crowd, and caught one of his hands. “Master, my baby!” she sobbed. “The little one that was hurt!” So Carpenter said to the crowd, “The sick child needs me. I must go in.” They started to press after him, and he added, “You must not come into the room. The child will need air.” He went inside, and knelt once more by the couch, and put his hand on the little one's forehead. The mother, a frail, dark Mexican woman, crouched at the foot, not daring to touch either the man or the child, but staring from one to the other, pressing her hands together in an agony of dread.
The little one opened his eyes, and gazed up. Evidently he liked what he saw, for he kept on gazing, and a smile spread over his features, a wistful and tender and infinitely sad little smile, of a child who perhaps never had a good meal in his lifetime. “Nice man!” he whispered; and the woman, hearing his voice again, began sobbing wildly, and caught Carpenter's free hand and covered it with her tears. “It is all right,” said he; “all right, all right! He will get well—do not be afraid.” He smiled back at the child, saying: “It is better now; you will not have so much pain.” To me he remarked, “What is there so lovely as a child?”
The people thronging the doorway spread word what was going on, and there were shouts of excitement, and presently the voice of a woman, clamoring for admission. The throng made way, and she brought a bundle in her arms, which being unfolded proved to contain a sick baby. I never knew what was the matter with it; I don't suppose the mother knew, nor did Carpenter seem to care. The woman knelt at his feet, praying to him; but he bade her stand up, and took the child from her, and looked into its face, and then closed his eyes in prayer. When he handed back the burden, a few minutes later, she gazed at it. Something had happened, or at least she thought it had happened, for she gave a cry of joy, and fell at Carpenter's feet again, and caught the hem of his garment with one hand and began to kiss it. The rumor spread outside, and there were more people clamoring. Before long, filtering into the room, came the lame, and the halt, and the blind.
I had been reading not long ago of the miracles of Lourdes, so I knew in a general way what to expect. I know that modern science vindicates these things, demonstrating that any powerful stimulus given to the unconscious can awaken new vital impulses, and heal not merely the hysterical and neurotic, but sometimes actual physical ailments. Of course, to these ignorant Mexicans and Italians, there was no possible excitement so great as that caused by Carpenter's appearance and behavior. I understood the thing clearly; and yet, somehow, I could not watch it without being startled—thrilled in a strange, uncomfortable way.
And later on I had company in these unaccustomed emotions; the crowd gave way, and who should come into the room but Mary Magna! She did not speak to either of us, but slipped to one side and stood in silence—while the crowd watched her furtively out of the corner of its eyes, thinking her some foreign princess, with her bold, dark beauty and her costly attire. I went over to her, whispering, “How did you get here?” She explained that, when we did not arrive at the studios, she had called up the Stebbins home and learned about the accident. “They warned me not to come here, because this man was a terrible Bolshevik; he made a blood-thirsty speech to the mob. What did he say?”
I started to tell; but I was interrupted by a piercing shriek. A sick and emaciated young girl with paralyzed limbs had been carried into the room. They had laid her on the couch, from which the child had been taken away, and Carpenter had put his hands upon her. At once the girl had risen up—and here she stood, her hands flung into the air, literally screaming her triumphant joy. Of course the crowd took it up—these primitive people are always glad of a chance to make a big noise, so the whole room was in a clamor, and Carpenter had hard work to extract himself from the throng which wished to touch his hands and his clothing, and to worship him on their knees.
He came over to us, and smiled. “Is not this better than acting, Mary?
“Yes, surely—if one can do it.”
Said he: “Everyone could do it, if they knew.”
“Is that really true?” she asked, with passionate earnestness.
“There is a god in every man, and in every woman.”
“Why don't they know it, then?”
“There is a god, and also a beast. The beast is old, and familiar, and powerful; the god is new, and strange, and afraid. Because of his fear, the beast kills him.”
“What is the beast?”
“His name is self; and he has many forms. In men he is greed; in women he is vanity, and goes attired in much raiment—the chains, and the bracelets, and the mufflers—”
“Oh, don't!” cried Mary, wildly.
“Very well, Mary; I won't.” And he didn't. But, looking at Mary, it seemed that she was just as unhappy as if he had.
He turned to an old man who had hobbled into the room on crutches. “Poor old comrade! Poor old friend!” His voice seemed to break with pity. “They have worked you like an old mule, until your skin is cracked and your joints grown hard; but they have not been so kind to you as to an old mule—they have left you to suffer!”
To a pale young woman who staggered towards him, coughing, he cried: “What can I do for you? They are starving you to death! You need food—and I have no food to give!” He raised his arms, in sudden wrath. “Bring forth the masters of this city, who starve the poor, while they themselves riot in wantonness!”
But the members of the Chamber of Commerce and of the Bankers' Association of Western City were not within hearing, nor are their numbers as a rule to be found in the telephone book. Carpenter looked about the place, now lined pretty well with cripples and invalids. Only a couple of hours of spreading rumor had been needed to bring them forth, unholy and dreadful secrets, dragged from the dark corners and back alley-ways of these tenements. He gazed from one crooked and distorted face to another, and put his hand to his forehead with a gesture of despair. “No, no!” he said. “It is of no use!” He lifted his voice, calling once more to the masters of the city. “You make them faster than I can heal them! You make them by machinery—and he who would help them must break the machine!”
He turned to me; and I was startled, for it was as if he had been inside my mind. “I know, it will not be easy! But remember, I broke the empire of Rome!”
That was his last flare. “I can do no more,” he whispered. “My power is gone from me; I must rest.” And his voice gave way. “I beg you to go, unhappy poor of the world! I have done all that I can do for you tonight.”
And silently, patiently, as creatures accustomed to the voice of doom, the sick and the crippled began to hobble and crawl from the room.
He sat on the edge of the couch, gazing into space, lost in tragic thought; and Mary and I sat watching him, not quite certain whether we ought to withdraw with the rest. But he did not seem aware of our presence, so we stayed.
In our world it is not considered permissible for people to remain in company without talking. If the talk lags, we have to cast hurriedly about in our minds for something to say—it is called “making conversation.” But Carpenter evidently did not know about this custom, and neither of us instructed him. Once or twice I stole a glance at Mary, marvelling at her. All her life she had been a conversational volcano, in a state of perpetual eruption; but now, apparently she passed judgment on her own remarks, and found them not worth making.
In the doorway of the room appeared the little boy who had been knocked down by the car. He looked at Carpenter, and then came towards him. When Carpenter saw him, a smile of welcome came upon his face; he stretched out an arm, and the little fellow nestled in it. Other children appeared in the doorway, and soon he had a group about him, sitting on his knees and on the couch. They were little gutter-urchins, but he, seemingly, was interested in knowing their names and their relationships, what they learned in school, and what games they played. I think he had Bertie's foot-ball crowd in mind, for he said: “Some day they will teach you games of love and friendship, instead of rivalry and strife.”
Presently the mother of the household appeared. She was distressed, because it did not seem possible that a great man should be interested in the prattle of children, when he had people like us, evidently rich people, to talk to. “You will bother the master,” she said, in Spanish. He seemed to understand, and answered, “Let the children stay with me. They teach me that the world might be happy.”
So the prattle went on, and the woman stood in the doorway, with other women behind her, all beaming with delight. They had known all their lives there was something especially remarkable about these children; and here was their pride confirmed! When the little ones laughed, and the stranger laughed with them, you should have seen the pleasure shining from a doorway full of dusky Mexican faces!
But after a while one of the children began to rub his eyes, and the mother exclaimed—it was so late! The children had stayed awake because of the excitement, but now they must go to bed. She bundled them out of the room, and presently came back, bearing a glass of milk and a plate with bread and an orange on it. The master might be hungry, she said, with a humble little bow. In her halting English she offered to bring something to us, but she did not suppose we would care for poor people's food. She took it for granted that “poor people's food” was what Carpenter would want; and apparently she was right, for he ate it with relish. Meantime he tried to get the woman to sit on the couch beside him; but she would not sit in his presence—or was it in the presence of Mary and me? I had a feeling, as she withdrew, that she might have been glad to chat with him, if a million-dollar movie queen and a spoiled young club man had not been there to claim prior rights.
So presently we three were alone once more; and Mary, gazing intently with those big dark eyes that the public knows so well, opened up: “Tell me, Mr. Carpenter! Have you ever been in love?”
I was startled, but if Carpenter was, he gave no sign. “Mary,” he said, “I have been in grief.” Then thinking, perhaps, that he had been abrupt, he added: “You, Mary—you have been in love?”
She answered: “No.” I'm not sure if I said anything out loud, but my thought was easy to read, and she turned upon me. “You don't know what love is. But a woman knows, even though she doesn't act it.”
“Well, of course,” I replied; “if you want to go into metaphysics—”
“Metaphysics be damned!” said Mary, and turned again to Carpenter.
Said he: “A good woman like you—”
“Me?” cried Mary. And she laughed, a wild laugh. “Don't hit me when you've got me down! I've sold myself for every job I ever got; I sold myself for every jewel you saw on me this afternoon. You notice I've got them off now!”
“I don't understand, Mary,” he said, gently. “Why does a woman like you sell herself?”
“What else has she got? I was a rat in a tenement. I could have been a drudge, but I wasn't made for that. I sold myself for a job in a store, and then for ribbons to be pretty, and then for a place in the chorus, and then for a speaking part—so on all the way. Now I portray other women selling themselves. They get fancy prices, and so do I, and that makes me a 'star.' I hope you'll never see my pictures.”
I sat watching this scene, marvelling more than ever. That tone in Mary Magna's voice was a new one to me; perhaps she had not used it since she played her last “speaking part!” I thought to myself, there was a crisis impending in the screen industry.
Said Carpenter: “What are you going to do about it, Mary?”
“What can I do? My contract has seven years to run.”
“Couldn't you do something honest? I mean, couldn't you tell an honest story in your pictures?”
“Me? My God! Tell that to T-S, and watch his face! Why, they hunt all the world over for some new kind of clothes for me to take off; they search all history for some war I can cause, some empire I can wreck. Me play an honest woman? The public would call it a joke, and the screen people would call it indecent.”
Carpenter got up, and began to pace the room. “Mary,” said he, “I once lived under the Roman empire—”
“Yes, I know. I was Cleopatra, and again I was Nero's mistress while he watched the city burning.”
“Rome was rough, and crude, and poor, Mary. Rome was nothing to this. This is Satan on my Father's throne, making new worlds for himself.” He paced the room again, then turned and said: “I don't understand this world. I must know more about it, if I am to save it!” There was such grief, such selfless pity in his voice as he repeated this: “I must know more!”
“You know everything!” exclaimed Mary, suddenly. “You are all wisdom!”
But he went on, speaking as if to himself, pondering his problem: “To serve others, yet not to indulge them; for the cause of their enslavment is that they have accepted service without return. And how shall one preach patience to the poor, when the masters make such preaching a new means of enslavement?” He looked at me, as if he thought that I could answer his question. Then with sudden energy he exclaimed: “I must meet those who are in rebellion against enslavement! Tomorrow I want to meet the strikers—all the strikers in your city.”
“You'll have your hands full,” I said—for I was a coward, and wanted to keep him out of it.
“How shall I find them?” he persisted.
“I don't know; I suppose their headquarters are at the Labor Temple.”
“I will go there. Meantime, I fear I shall have to be alone. I need to think about the things I have learned.”
“Where are you going to stay?”
“I don't know.”
Said Mary, hesitatingly: “My car is outside—”
He answered: “In ancient days I saw the young patricians drive through the streets in their chariots; no, I shall not ride with them again.”
Said I: “I have an apartment at the club, with plenty of room—”
“No, no, friend. I have seen enough of the masters of this city. From now on, if you want to see me, you will find me among the poor.”
“If I may meet you in the morning,” I said—“to show you to the Labor Temple—” Yes, I would see him through!
“By all means,” said he. “But you must come early, for I cannot delay.”
“Where shall I come?”
“Come here. I am sure these people will give me shelter.” He looked about him. “I suspect that some of them sleep in this room; but they have a little porch outside, and if they will let me stay there I shall be alone, which is what I want now.” After a moment, he added, “What I wish to do is to pray. Have you ever tried prayer, Mary?”
She answered, simply, “I wouldn't know how.”
“Come to me, and I will teach you,” he said.
I went early next morning, but not early enough. The Mexican woman told me that “the master” had waited, and finally had gone. He had asked the way to the Labor Temple, and left word that I would find him there. So I stepped back into my taxi, and told the driver to take the most direct route.
Meantime I kept watch for my friend, and I did not have to watch very long. There was a crowd ahead, the street was blocked, and a premonition came to me: “Good Lord, I'm too late—he's got into some new mess!” I leaned out of the window, and sure enough, there he was standing on the tail-end of a truck, haranguing a crowd which packed the street from one line of houses to the other. “And before he got half way to the Labor Temple!” I thought to myself.
I got out, and paid the driver of the taxi, and pushed into the crowd. Now and then I caught a few words of what Carpenter was telling them, and it seemed quite harmless—that they were all brothers, that they should love one another, and not do one another injustice. What could there have been that made him think it necessary to deliver this message before breakfast? I looked about, noting that it was the Hebrew quarter of the city, plastered with signs with queer, spattered-up letters. I thought: “Holy smoke! Is he going to convert the Jews?”
I pushed my way farther into the crowd, and saw a policeman, and went up to him. “Officer, what's this all about?” I spoke as one wearing the latest cut of clothes, and he answered accordingly. “Search me! They brought us out on a riot call, but when we got here, it seems to have turned into a revival meeting.”
I got part of the story from this policeman, and part from a couple of bystanders. It appeared that some Jewish lady, getting her shopping done early, had complained of getting short weight, and the butcher had ordered her out of his shop, and she had stopped to express her opinion of profiteers, and he had thrown her out, and she had stood on the sidewalk and shrieked until all the ladies in this crowded quarter had joined her. Their fury against soaring prices and wages that never kept up with them, had burst all bounds, and they had set out to clean up the butcher-shop with the butcher. So there was Carpenter, on his way to the Labor Temple, with another mob to quell!
“You know how it is,” said the policeman. “It really does cost these poor devils a lot to live, and they say prices are going down, but I can't see it anywhere but in the papers.”
“Well,” said I, “I guess you were glad enough to have somebody do this job.”
He grinned. “You bet! I've tackled crowds of women before this, and you don't like to hit them, but they claw into your face if you don't. I guess the captain will let this bird spout for a bit, even if he does block the traffic.”
We listened for a minute. “Bear in mind, my friends, I am come among you; and I shall not desert you. I give you my justice, I give you my freedom. Your cause is my cause, world without end. Amen.”
“Now wouldn't that jar you?” remarked the “copper.” “Holy Christ, if you'd hear some of the nuts we have to listen to on street-corners! What do you suppose that guy thinks he can do, dressed up in Abraham's nightshirt?”
Said Carpenter: “The days of the exploiter are numbered. The thrones of the mighty are tottering, and the earth shall belong to them that labor. He that toils not, neither shall he eat, and they that grow fat upon the blood of the people—they shall grow lean again.”
“Now what do you think o' that?” demanded the guardian of authority. “If that ain't regular Bolsheviki talk, then I'm dopy. I'll bet the captain don't stand much more of that.”
Fortunately the captain's endurance was not put to the test. The orator had reached the climax of his eloquence. “The kingdom of righteousness is at hand. The word will be spoken, the way will be made clear. Meantime, my people, I bid you go your way in peace. Let there be no more disturbance, to bring upon you the contempt of those who do not understand your troubles, nor share the heartbreak of the poor. My people, take my peace with you!” He stretched out his arms in invocation, and there was a murmur of applause, and the crowd began slowly to disperse.
Which seemed to remind my friend the policeman that he had authority to exercise. He began to poke his stick into the humped backs of poor Jewish tailors, and into the ample stomachs of fat Jewish housewives. “Come on now, get along with you, and let somebody else have a bit o' the street.” I pushed my way forward, by virtue of my good clothes, and got through the press about Carpenter, and took him by the arm, saying, “Come on now, let's see if we can't get to the Labor Temple.”