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They Call Me Carpenter: A Tale of the Second Coming

by Upton Sinclair · English · Gutenberg #5774 · 334,127 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: They Call Me Carpenter: A Tale of the Second Coming

Author: Upton Sinclair


        
Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #5774]
                Most recently updated: March 10, 2018

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THEY CALL ME CARPENTER: A TALE OF THE SECOND COMING ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team









THEY CALL ME CARPENTER

A Tale of the Second Coming


By Upton Sinclair

New York

1922



To

Charles F. Nevens

True and devoted friend



I


The beginning of this strange adventure was my going to see a motion
picture which had been made in Germany. It was three years after the
end of the war, and you'd have thought that the people of Western
City would have got over their war-phobias. But apparently they
hadn't; anyway, there was a mob to keep anyone from getting into the
theatre, and all the other mobs started from that. Before I tell
about it, I must introduce Dr. Karl Henner, the well-known literary
critic from Berlin, who was travelling in this country, and stopped
off in Western City at that time. Dr. Henner was the cause of my
going to see the picture, and if you will have a moment's patience,
you will see how the ideas which he put into my head served to start
me on my extraordinary adventure.

You may not know much about these cultured foreigners. Their manners
are like softest velvet, so that when you talk to them, you feel as
a Persian cat must feel while being stroked. They have read
everything in the world; they speak with quiet certainty; and they
are so old--old with memories of racial griefs stored up in their
souls. I, who know myself for a member of the best clubs in Western
City, and of the best college fraternity in the country--I found
myself suddenly indisposed to mention that I had helped to win the
battle of the Argonne. This foreign visitor asked me how I felt
about the war, and I told him that it was over, and I bore no hard
feelings, but of course I was glad that Prussian militarism was
finished. He answered: “A painful operation, and we all hope that
the patient may survive it; also we hope that the surgeon has not
contracted the disease.” Just as quietly as that.

Of course I asked Dr. Henner what he thought about America. His
answer was that we had succeeded in producing the material means of
civilization by the ton, where other nations had produced them by
the pound. “We intellectuals in Europe have always been poor, by
your standards over here. We have to make a very little food support
a great many ideas. But you have unlimited quantities of food,
and--well, we seek for the ideas, and we judge by analogy they must
exist--”

“But you don't find them?” I laughed.

“Well,” said he, “I have come to seek them.”

This talk occurred while we were strolling down our Broadway, in
Western City, one bright afternoon in the late fall of 1921. We
talked about the picture which Dr. Henner had recommended to me, and
which we were now going to see. It was called “The Cabinet of Dr.
Caligari,” and was a “futurist” production, a strange, weird freak
of the cinema art, supposed to be the nightmare of a madman. “Being
an American,” said Dr. Henner, “you will find yourself asking, 'What
good does such a picture do?' You will have the idea that every work
of art must serve some moral purpose.” After a pause, he added:
“This picture could not possibly have been produced in America. For
one thing, nearly all the characters are thin.” He said it with the
flicker of a smile--“One does not find American screen actors in
that condition. Do your people care enough about the life of art to
take a risk of starving for it?”

Now, as a matter of fact, we had at that time several millions of
people out of work in America, and many of them starving. There must
be some intellectuals among them, I suggested; and the critic
replied: “They must have starved for so long that they have got used
to it, and can enjoy it--or at any rate can enjoy turning it into
art. Is not that the final test of great art, that it has been
smelted in the fires of suffering? All the great spiritual movements
of humanity began in that way; take primitive Christianity, for
example. But you Americans have taken Christ, the carpenter--”

I laughed. It happened that at this moment we were passing St.
Bartholomew's Church, a great brown-stone structure standing at the
corner of the park. I waved my hand towards it. “In there,” I said,
“over the altar, you may see Christ, the carpenter, dressed up in
exquisite robes of white and amethyst, set up as a stained glass
window ornament. But if you'll stop and think, you'll realize it
wasn't we Americans who began that!”

“No,” said the other, returning my laugh, “but I think it was you
who finished him up as a symbol of elegance, a divinity of the
respectable inane.”

Thus chatting, we turned the corner, and came in sight of our goal,
the Excelsior Theatre. And there was the mob!



II


At first, when I saw the mass of people, I thought it was the usual
picture crowd. I said, with a smile, “Can it be that the American
people are not so dead to art after all?” But then I observed that
the crowd seemed to be swaying this way and that; also there seemed
to be a great many men in army uniforms. “Hello!” I exclaimed. “A
row?”

There was a clamor of shouting; the army men seemed to be pulling
and pushing the civilians. When we got nearer, I asked of a
bystander, “What's up?” The answer was: “They don't want 'em to go
in to see the picture.”

“Why not?”

“It's German. Hun propaganda!”

Now you must understand, I had helped to win a war, and no man gets
over such an experience at once. I had a flash of suspicion, and
glanced at my companion, the cultured literary critic from Berlin.
Could it possibly be that this smooth-spoken gentleman was playing a
trick upon me--trying, possibly, to get something into my crude
American mind without my realizing what was happening? But I
remembered his detailed account of the production, the very essence
of “art for art's sake.” I decided that the war was three years
over, and I was competent to do my own thinking.

Dr. Henner spoke first. “I think,” he said, “it might be wiser if I
did not try to go in there.”

“Absurd!” I cried. “I'm not going to be dictated to by a bunch of
imbeciles!”

“No,” said the other, “you are an American, and don't have to be.
But I am a German, and I must learn.”

I noted the flash of bitterness, but did not resent it. “That's all
nonsense, Dr. Henner!” I argued. “You are my guest, and I won't--”

“Listen, my friend,” said the other. “You can doubtless get by
without trouble; but I would surely rouse their anger, and I have no
mind to be beaten for nothing. I have seen the picture several
times, and can talk about it with you just as well.”

“You make me ashamed of myself,” I cried--“and of my country!”

“No, no! It is what you should expect. It is what I had in mind when
I spoke of the surgeon contracting the disease. We German
intellectuals know what war means; we are used to things like this.”
 Suddenly he put out his hand. “Good-bye.”

“I will go with you!” I exclaimed. But he protested--that would
embarrass him greatly. I would please to stay, and see the picture;
he would be interested later on to hear my opinion of it. And
abruptly he turned, and walked off, leaving me hesitating and angry.

At last I started towards the entrance of the theatre. One of the
men in uniform barred my way. “No admittance here!”

“But why not?”

“It's a German show, and we aint a-goin' to allow it.”

“Now see here, buddy,” I countered, none too good-naturedly, “I
haven't got my uniform on, but I've as good a right to it as you; I
was all through the Argonne.”

“Well, what do you want to see Hun propaganda for?”

“Maybe I want to see what it's like.”

“Well, you can't go in; we're here to shut up this show!”

I had stepped to one side as I spoke, and he caught me by the arm. I
thought there had been talk enough, and gave a sudden lurch, and
tore my arm free. “Hold on here!” he shouted, and tried to stop me
again; but I sprang through the crowd towards the box-office. There
were more than a hundred civilians in or about the lobby, and not
more than twenty or thirty ex-service men maintaining the blockade;
so a few got by, and I was one of the lucky ones. I bought my
ticket, and entered the theatre. To the man at the door I said: “Who
started this?”

“I don't know, sir. It's just landed on us, and we haven't had time
to find out.”

“Is the picture German propaganda?”

“Nothing like that at all, sir. They say they won't let us show
German pictures, because they're so much cheaper; they'll put
American-made pictures out of business, and it's unfair
competition.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, and light began to dawn. I recalled Dr. Henner's
remark about producing a great many ideas out of a very little food;
assuredly, the American picture industry had cause to fear
competition of that sort! I thought of old “T-S,” as the screen
people call him for short--the king of the movie world, with his
roll of fat hanging over his collar, and his two or three extra
chins! I though of Mary Magna, million dollar queen of the pictures,
contriving diets and exercises for herself, and weighing with fear
and trembling every day!



III


It was time for the picture to begin, so I smoothed my coat, and
went to a seat, and was one of perhaps two dozen spectators before
whom “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari” received its first public showing
in Western City. The story had to do with a series of murders; we
saw them traced by a young man, and fastened bit by bit upon an old
magician and doctor. As the drama neared its climax, we discovered
this doctor to be the head of an asylum for the insane, and the
young man to be one of the inmates; so in the end the series of
adventures was revealed to us as the imaginings of a madman about
his physician and keepers. The settings and scenery were in the
style of “futurist” art--weird and highly effective. I saw it all in
the light of Dr. Henner's interpretation, the product of an old,
perhaps an overripe culture. Certainly no such picture could have
been produced in America! If I had to choose between this and the
luxurious sex-stuff of Mary Magna--well, I wondered. At least, I had
been interested in every moment of “Dr. Caligari,” and I was only
interested in Mary off the screen. Several times every year I had to
choose between mortally hurting her feelings, and watching her
elaborate “vamping” through eight or ten costly reels.

I had read many stories and seen a great many plays, in which the
hero wakes up in the end, and we realize that we have been watching
a dream. I remembered “Midsummer Night's Dream,” and also “Looking
Backward.” An old, old device of art; and yet always effective, one
of the most effective! But this was the first time I had ever been
taken into the dreams of a lunatic. Yes, it was interesting, there
was no denying it; grisly stuff, but alive, and marvelously well
acted. How Edgar Allen Poe would have revelled in it! So thinking, I
walked towards the exit of the theatre, and a swinging door gave
way--and upon my ear broke a clamor that might have come direct from
the inside of Dr. Caligari's asylum. “Ya, ya. Boo, boo! German
propaganda! Pay your money to the Huns! For shame on you! Leave your
own people to starve, and send your cash to the enemy.”

I stopped still, and whispered to myself, “My God!” During all the
time--an hour or more--that I had been away on the wings of
imagination, these poor boobs had been howling and whooping outside
the theatre, keeping the crowds away, and incidentally working
themselves into a fury! For a moment I thought I would go out and
reason with them; they were mistaken in the idea that there was
anything about the war, anything against America in the picture. But
I realized that they were beyond reason. There was nothing to do but
go my way and let them rave.

But quickly I saw that this was not going to be so easy as I had
fancied. Right in front of the entrance stood the big fellow who had
caught my arm; and as I came toward him I saw that he had me marked.
He pointed a finger into my face, shouting in a fog-horn voice:
“There's a traitor! Says he was in the service, and now he's backing
the Huns!”

I tried to have nothing to do with him, but he got me by the arm,
and others were around me. “Yein, yein, yein!” they shouted into my
ear; and as I tried to make my way through, they began to hustle me.
“I'll shove your face in, you damned Hun!”--a continual string of
such abuse; and I had been in the service, and seen fighting!

I never tried harder to avoid trouble; I wanted to get away, but
that big fellow stuck his feet between mine and tripped me, he
lunged and shoved me into the gutter, and so, of course, I made to
hit him. But they had me helpless; I had no more than clenched my
fist and drawn back my arm, when I received a violent blow on the
side of my jaw. I never knew what hit me, a fist or a weapon. I only
felt the crash, and a sensation of reeling, and a series of blows
and kicks like a storm about me.

I ask you to believe that I did not run away in the Argonne. I did
my job, and got my wound, and my honorable record. But there I had a
fighting chance, and here I had none; and maybe I was dazed, and it
was the instinctive reaction of my tormented body--anyhow, I ran. I
staggered along, with the blows and kicks to keep me moving. And
then I saw half a dozen broad steps, and a big open doorway; I fled
that way, and found myself in a dark, cool place, reeling like a
drunken man, but no longer beaten, and apparently no longer pursued.
I was falling, and there was something nearby, and I caught at it,
and sank down upon a sort of wooden bench.



IV


I had run into St. Bartholomew's Church; and when I came to--I fear
I cut a pitiful figure, but I have to tell the truth--I was crying.
I don't think the pain of my head and face had anything to do with
it, I think it was rage and humiliation; my sense of outrage, that
I, who had helped to win a war, should have been made to run from a
gang of cowardly rowdies. Anyhow, here I was, sunk down in a pew of
the church, sobbing as if my heart was broken.

At last I raised my head, and holding on to the pew in front, looked
about me. The church was apparently deserted. There were dark
vistas; and directly in front of me a gleaming altar, and high over
it a stained glass window, with the afternoon sun shining through.
You know, of course, the sort of figures they have in those windows;
a man in long robes, white, with purple and gold; with a brown
beard, and a gentle, sad face, and a halo of light about the head. I
was staring at the figure, and at the same time choking with rage
and pain, but clenching my hands, and making up my mind to go out
and follow those brutes, and get that big one alone and pound his
face to a jelly. And here begins the strange part of my adventure;
suddenly that shining figure stretched out its two arms to me, as if
imploring me not to think those vengeful thoughts!

I knew, of course, what it meant; I had just seen a play about
delirium, and had got a whack on the head, and now I was delirious
myself. I thought I must be badly hurt; I bowed my reeling head in
my arms, and began to sob like a kid, out loud, and without shame.
But somehow I forgot about the big brute, and his face that I wanted
to pound; instead, I was ashamed and bewildered, a queer hysterical
state with a half dozen emotions mixed up. The Caligari story was in
it, and the lunatic asylum; I've got a cracked skull, I thought, and
my mind will never get right again! I sat, huddled and shuddering;
until suddenly I felt a quiet hand on my shoulder, and heard a
gentle voice saying: “Don't be afraid. It is I.”

Now, I shall waste no time telling you how amazed I was. It was a
long time before I could believe what was happening to me; I thought
I was clean off my head. I lifted my eyes, and there, in the aisle
of the most decorous church of St. Bartholomew, standing with his
hand on my head, was the figure out of the stained glass window! I
looked at him twice, and then I looked at the window. Where the
figure had been was a great big hole with the sun shining through!

We know the power of suggestion, and especially when one taps the
deeps of the unconscious, where our childhood memories are buried. I
had been brought up in a religious family, and so it seemed quite
natural to me that while that hand lay on my head, the throbbing and
whirling should cease, and likewise the fear. I became perfectly
quiet, and content to sit under the friendly spell. “Why were you
crying?” asked the voice, at last.

I answered, hesitatingly, “I think it was humiliation.”

“Is it something you have done?”

“No. Something that was done to me.”

“But how can a man be humiliated by the act of another?”

I saw what he meant; and I was not humiliated any more.

The stranger spoke again. “A mob,” he said, “is a blind thing, worse
than madness. It is the beast in man running away with his master.”

I thought to myself: how can he know what has happened to me? But
then I reflected, perhaps he saw them drive me into the church! I
found myself with a sudden, queer impulse to apologize for those
soldier boys. “We had some terrible fighting,” I cried. “And you
know what wars do--to the minds of the people, I mean.”

“Yes,” said the stranger, “I know, only too well.”

I had meant to explain this mob; but somehow, I decided that I could
not. How could I make him understand moving picture shows, and
German competition, and ex-service men out of jobs? There was a
pause, and he asked, “Can you stand up?”

I tried and found that I could. I felt the side of my jaw, and it
hurt, but somehow the pain seemed apart from myself. I could see
clearly and steadily; there were only two things wrong that I could
find--first, this stranger standing by my side, and second, that
hole in the window, where I had seen him standing so many Sunday
mornings!

“Are you going out now?” he asked. As I hesitated, he added,
tactfully, “Perhaps you would let me go with you?”

Here was indeed a startling proposition! His costume, his long
hair--there were many things about him not adapted to Broadway at
five o'clock in the afternoon! But what could I say? It would be
rude to call attention to his peculiarities. All I could manage was
to stammer: “I thought you belonged in the church.”

“Do I?” he replied, with a puzzled look. “I'm not sure. I have been
wondering--am I really needed here? And am I not more needed in the
world?”

“Well,” said I, “there's one thing certain.” I pointed up to the
window. “That hole is conspicuous.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“And if it should rain, the altar would be ruined. The Reverend Dr.
Lettuce-Spray would be dreadfully distressed. That altar cloth was
left to the church in the will of Mrs. Elvina de Wiggs, and God
knows how many thousands of dollars it cost.”

“I suppose that wouldn't do,” said the stranger. “Let us see if we
can't find something to put there.”

He started up the aisle, and through the chancel. I followed, and we
came into the vestry-room, and there on the wall I noticed a full
length, life-sized portrait of old Algernon de Wiggs, president of
the Empire National Bank, and of the Western City Chamber of
Commerce. “Let us see if he would fill the place,” said the
stranger; and to my amazement he drew up a chair, and took down the
huge picture, and carried it, seemingly without effort, into the
church.

He stepped upon the altar, and lifted the portrait in front of the
window. How he got it to stay there I am not sure--I was too much
taken aback by the procedure to notice such details. There the
picture was; it seemed to fit the window exactly, and the effect was
simply colossal. You'd have to know old de Wiggs to appreciate
it--those round, puffy cheeks, with the afternoon sun behind them,
making them shine like two enormous Jonathan apples! Our leading
banker was clad in decorous black, as always on Sunday mornings, but
in one place the sun penetrated his form--at one side of his chest.
My curiosity got the better of me; I could not restrain the
question, “What is that golden light?”

Said the stranger: “I think that is his heart.”

“But that can't be!” I argued. “The light is on his right side; and
it seems to have an oblong shape--exactly as if it were his
wallet.”

Said the other: “Where the treasure is, there will the heart be
also.”



VI


We passed out through the arched doorway, and Broadway was before
us. I had another thrill of distress--a vision of myself walking
down this crowded street with this extraordinary looking personage.
The crowds would stare at us, the street urchins would swarm about
us, until we blocked the traffic and the police ran us in! So I
thought, as we descended the steps and started; but my fear passed,
for we walked and no one followed us--hardly did anyone even turn
his eyes after us.

I realized in a little while how this could be. The pleasant climate
of Western City brings strange visitors to dwell here; we have
Hindoo swamis in yellow silk, and a Theosophist college on a
hill-top, and people who take up with “nature,” and go about with
sandals and bare legs, and a mane of hair over their shoulders. I
pass them on the street now and then--one of them carries a
shepherd's crook! I remember how, a few years ago, my Aunt Caroline,
rambling around looking for something to satisfy her emotions, took
up with these queer ideas, and there came to her front door, to the
infinite bewilderment of the butler, a mild-eyed prophet in pastoral
robes, and with a little newspaper bundle in his hand. This, spread
out before my aunt, proved to contain three carrots and two onions,
carefully washed, and shining; they were the kindly fruits of the
earth, and of the prophet's own labor, and my old auntie was deeply
touched, because it appeared that this visitor was a seer, the sole
composer of a mighty tome which is to be found in the public
library, and is known as the “Eternal Bible.”

So here I was, strolling along quite as a matter of course with my
strange acquaintance. I saw that he was looking about, and I
prepared for questions, and wondered what they would be. I thought
that he must naturally be struck by such wonders as automobiles and
crowded street-cars. I failed to realize that he would be thinking
about the souls of the people.

Said he, at last: “This is a large city?”

“About half a million.”

“And what quarter are we in?”

“The shopping district.”

“Is it a segregated district?”

“Segregated? In what way?”

“Apparently there are only courtesans.”

I could not help laughing. “You are misled by the peculiarities of
our feminine fashions--details with which you are naturally not
familiar--”

“Oh, quite the contrary,” said he, “I am only too familiar with
them. In childhood I learned the words of the prophet: 'Because the
daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with stretched forth necks
and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go, and making a
tinkling with their feet; therefore the Lord will smite with a scab
the crown of the head of the daughters of Zion, and the Lord will
discover their secret parts. In that day the Lord will take away the
bravery of their tinkling ornaments about their feet, and their
cauls, and their round tires like the moon, the chains, and the
bracelets, and the mufflers, the bonnets, and the ornaments of the
legs, and the headbands, and the tablets, and the earrings, and nose
jewels, the changeable suits of apparel, and the mantles, and the
wimples, and the crisping pins, the glasses, and the fine linen, and
the hoods, and the veils. And it shall come to pass that instead of
sweet smell there shall be stink; and instead of a girdle a rent;
and instead of well set hair, baldness; and instead of a stomacher a
girding of sackcloth; and burning instead of beauty.'”

From the point of view of literature this might be great stuff; but
on the corner of Broadway and Fifth Street at the crowded hours it
was unusual, to say the least. My companion was entering into the
spirit of it in a most alarming way; he was half chanting, his voice
rising, his face lighting up. “'Thy men shall fall by the sword, and
thy mighty in the war. And her gates shall lament and mourn; and she
being desolate shall sit upon the ground.'”

“Be careful!” I whispered. “People will hear you!”

“But why should they not?” He turned on me a look of surprise. “The
people hear me gladly.” And he added: “The common people.”

Here was an aspect of my adventure which had not occurred to me
before. “My God!” I thought. “If he takes to preaching on street
corners!” I realized in a flash--it was exactly what he would be up
to! A panic seized me; I couldn't stand that; I'd have to cut and
run!

I began to speak quickly. “We must get across this street while we
have time; the traffic officer has turned the right way now.” And I
began explaining our remarkable system of traffic handling.

But he stopped me in the middle. “Why do we wish to cross the
street, when we have no place to go?”

“I have a place I wish to take you to,” I said; “a friend I want you
to meet. Let us cross.” And while I was guiding him between the
automobiles, I was desperately trying to think how to back up my
lie. Who was there that would receive this incredible stranger, and
put him up for the night, and get him into proper clothes, and keep
him off the soap-box?

Truly, I was in an extraordinary position! What had I done to get
this stranger wished onto me? And how long was he going to stay with
me? I found myself recalling the plight of Mary who had a little
lamb!

Fate had me in its hands, and did not mean to consult me. We had
gone less than a block further when I heard a voice, “Hello!
Billy!” I turned. Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Of all the thankless
encounters--Edgerton Rosythe, moving picture critic of the Western
City “Times.” Precisely the most cynical, the most profane, the most
boisterous person in a cynical and profane and boisterous business!
And he had me here, in full daylight, with a figure just out of a
stained glass window in St. Bartholomew's Church!



VII


“Hello, Billy! Who's your good-looking friend?” Rosythe was in full
sail before a breeze of his own making.

How could I answer. “Why--er--”

The stranger spoke. “They call me Carpenter.”

“Ah!” said the critic. “Mr. Carpenter, delighted to meet you.” He
gave the stranger a hearty grip of the hand. “Are you on location?”

“Location?” said the other; and Rosythe shot an arrow of laughter
towards me. Perhaps he knew about the vagaries of my Aunt Caroline;
anyhow, he would have a fantastic tale to tell about me, and was
going to exploit it to the limit!

I made a pitiful attempt to protect my dignity. “Mr. Carpenter has
just arrived,” I began&&

“Just arrived, hey?” said the critic. “Oviparous, viviparous, or
oviviparous?” He raised his hand; actually, in the glory of his wit,
he was going to clap the stranger on the shoulder!

But his hand stayed in the air. Such a look as came on Carpenter's
face! “Hush!” he commanded. “Be silent!” And then: “Any man will
join in laughter; but who will join in disease?”

“Hey?” said Rosythe; and it was my turn to grin.

“Mr. Carpenter has just done me a great service,” I explained. “I
got badly mauled in the mob--”

“Oh!” cried the other. “At the Excelsior Theatre!” Here was
something to talk about, to cover his bewilderment. “So you were in
it! I was watching them just now.”

“Are they still at it?”

“Sure thing!”

“A fine set of boobs,” I began--

“Boobs, nothing!” broke in the other. “What do you suppose they're
doing?”

“Saving us from Hun propaganda, so they told me.”

“The hell of a lot they care about Hun propaganda! They are earning
five dollars a head.”

“What?”

“Sure as you're born!”

“You really know that?”

“Know it? Pete Dailey was at a meeting of the Motion Picture
Directors' Association last night, and it was arranged to put up the
money and hire them. They're a lot of studio bums, doing a real mob
scene on a real location!”

“Well, I'll be damned!” I said. “And what about the police?”

“Police?” laughed the critic. “Would you expect the police to work
free when the soldiers are paid? Why, Jesus Christ----”

“I beg pardon?” said Carpenter.

“Why--er--” said Rosythe; and stopped, completely bluffed.

“You ought not swear,” I remarked, gravely; and then, “I must
explain. I got pounded by that mob; I was knocked quite silly, and
this gentleman found me, and healed me in a wonderful way.”

“Oh!” said the critic, with genuine interest. “Mind cure, hey? What
line?”

I was about to reply, but Carpenter, it appeared, was able to take
care of himself. “The line of love,” he answered, gently.

“See here, Rosythe,” I broke in, “I can't stand on the street. I'm
beginning to feel seedy again. I think I'll have a taxi.”

“No,” said the critic. “Come with me. I'm on the way to pick up the
missus. Right around the corner--a fine place to rest.” And without
further ado he took me by the arm and led me along. He was a
good-hearted chap inside; his rowdyisms were just the weapons of his
profession. We went into an office building, and entered an
elevator. I did not know the building, or the offices we came to.
Rosythe pushed open a door, and I saw before me a spacious parlor,
with birds of paradise of the female sex lounging in upholstered
chairs. I was led to a vast plush sofa, and sank into it with a sigh
of relief.

The stranger stood beside me, and put his hand on my head once more.
It was truly a miracle, how the whirling and roaring ceased, and
peace came back to me; it must have shown in my face, for the moving
picture critic of the Western City “Times” stood watching me with a
quizzical smile playing over his face. I could read his thoughts, as
well as if he had uttered them: “Regular Svengali stuff, by God!”



VIII


I was so comfortable there, I did not care what happened. I closed
my eyes for a while; then I opened them and gazed lazily about the
place. I noted that all the birds of paradise were watching
Carpenter. With one accord their heads had turned, and their eyes
were riveted upon him. I found myself thinking. “This man will make
a hit with the ladies!” Like the swamis, with their soft brown
skins, and their large, dark, cow-like eyes!

There had been silence in the place. But suddenly we all heard a
moan; I felt Carpenter start, and his hand left my head. A dozen
doors gave into this big parlor--all of them closed. We perceived
that the sound came through the door nearest to us. “What is it?” I
asked, of Rosythe.

“God knows,” said he; “you never can tell, in this place of
torment.”

I was about to ask, “What sort of place is it?” But the moan came
again, louder, more long drawn out: “O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!” It ended
in a sort of explosion, as if the maker of it had burst.

Carpenter turned, and took two steps towards the door; then he
stopped, hesitating. My eyes followed him, and then turned to the
critic, who was watching Carpenter, with a broad grin on his face.
Evidently Rosythe was going to have some fun, and get his revenge!

The sound came again--louder, more harrowing. It came at regular
intervals, and each time with the explosion at the end. I watched
Carpenter, and he was like a high-spirited horse that hears the
cracking of a whip over his head. The creature becomes more
restless, he starts more quickly and jumps farther at each sound.
But he is puzzled; he does not know what these lashes mean, or which
way he ought to run.

Carpenter looked from one to another of us, searching our faces. He
looked at the birds of paradise in the lounging chairs. Not one of
them moved a muscle--save only those muscles which caused their eyes
to follow him. It was no concern of theirs, this agony, whatever it
was. Yet, plainly, it was the sound of a woman in torment:
“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!”

Carpenter wanted to open that door. His hand would start towards it;
then he would turn away. Between the two impulses he was presently
pacing the room; and since there was no one who appeared to have any
interest in what he might say, he began muttering to himself. I
would catch a phrase: “The fate of woman!” And again: “The price of
life!” I would hear the terrible, explosive wail:

“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!” And it would wring a cry out of the depths of
Carpenter's soul: “Oh, have mercy!”

In the beginning, the moving picture critic of the Western City
“Times” had made some effort to restrain his amusement. But as this
performance went on, his face became one enormous, wide-spreading
grin; and you can understand, that made him seem quite devilish. I
saw that Carpenter was more and more goaded by it. He would look at
Rosythe, and then he would turn away in aversion. But at last he
made an effort to conquer his feelings, and went up to the critic,
and said, gently: “My friend: for every man who lives on earth, some
woman has paid the price of life.”

“The price of life?” repeated the critic, puzzled.

Carpenter waved his hand towards the door. “We confront this
everlasting mystery, this everlasting terror; and it is not becoming
that you should mock.”

The grin faded from the other's face. His brows wrinkled, and he
said: “I don't get you, friend. What can a man do?”

“At least he can bow his heart; he can pay his tribute to
womanhood.”

“You're too much for me,” responded Rosythe. “The imbeciles choose
to go through with it; it's their own choice.”

Said Carpenter: “You have never thought of it as the choice of God?”

“Holy smoke!” exclaimed the critic. “I sure never did!”

At that moment one of the doors was opened. Rosythe turned his eyes.
“Ah, Madame Planchet!” he cried. “Come tell us about it!”



IX


A stoutish woman out of a Paris fashion-plate came trotting across
the room, smiling in welcome: “Meester Rosythe!” She had black
earrings flapping from each ear, and her face was white, with a
streak of scarlet for lips. She took the critic by his two hands,
and the critic, laughing, said: “Respondez, Madame! Does God bring
the ladies to this place?”

“Ah, surely, Meester Rosythe! The god of beautee, he breengs them to
us! And the leetle god with the golden arrow, the rosy cheeks and
the leetle dimple--the dimple that we make heem for two hundred
dollars a piece--eh, Meester Rosythe? He breengs the ladies to us!”

The critic turned. “Madame Planchet, permit me to introduce Mr.
Carpenter. He is a man of wonder, he heals pain, and does it by
means of love.”

“Oh, how eenteresting! But what eef love heemself ees pain--who
shall heal that, eh, Meester Carpentair?”

“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-h!” came the moan.

Said Rosythe: “Mr. Carpenter thinks you make the ladies suffer too
much. It worries him.”

“Ah, but the ladies do not mind! Pain? What ees eet? The lady who
makes the groans, she cannot move, and so she ees unhappy. Also, she
likes to have her own way, she ees a leetle--what you say?--spoilt.
But her troubles weel pass; she weel be beautiful, and her husband
weel love her more, and she weel be happy.”

“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!” from the other room; and Madame Planchet
prattled away: “I say to them, Make plenty of noises! Eet helps! No
one weel be afraid, for all here are worshippers of the god of
beautee--all weel bear the pains that he requires. Eh, Meester
Carpentair?”

Carpenter was staring at her. I had not before seen such intensity
of concentration on his face. He was trying to understand this
situation, so beyond all believing.

“I weel tell you something,” said Madame Planchet, lowering her
voice confidentially. “The lady what you hear--that ees Meeses T-S.
You know Meester T-S, the magnate of the peectures?”

Carpenter did not say whether he knew or not.

“They come to me always, the peecture people; to me. The magician,
the deputee of the god of beautee. Polly Pretty, she comes, and
Dolly Dimple, she comes, and Lucy Love, she comes, and Betty Belle
Bird. They come to me for the hair, and for the eyes, and for the
complexion. You are a workair of miracles yourself--but can you do
what I do? Can you make the skeen all new? Can you make the old
young?”

“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!”

“Mary Magna, she comes to me, and she breengs me her old
grandmother, and she says, 'Madame,' she says, 'make her new from
the waist up, for you can nevair tell how the fashions weel change,
and what she weel need to show.' Ha, ha, ha, she ees wittee, ees the
lovely Mary! And I take the old lady, and her wrinkles weel be gone,
and her skeen weel be soft like a leetle baby's, and in her cheeks
weel be two lovely dimples, and she weel dance with the young boys,
and they weel not know her from her grandchild--ha, ha, ha!--ees eet
not the wondair?”

I knew by now where I was. I had heard many times of Madame
Planchet's beauty-parlors. I sat, wondering; should I take Carpenter
by the arm, and lead him gently out? Or should I leave him to fight
his own fight with modern civilization?

“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!”

Madame turned suddenly upon me. “I know you, Meester Billee,” she
said. “I have seen you with Mees Magna! Ah, naughtee boy! You have
the soft, fine hair--you should let it grow--eight inches we have to
have, and then you can come to me for the permanent wave. So many
young men come to me for the permanent wave! You know eet? Meester
Carpentair, you see, he has let hees hair grow, and he has the
permanent wave--eet could not be bettair eef I had done eet myself.
I say always, 'My work ees bettair than nature, I tell nature by the
eemperfections.' Eh, voila?”

I am not sure whether it was for the benefit of me or of Carpenter.
The deputee of the god of beautee was moved to volunteer a great
revelation. “Would you like to see how we make eet--the permanent
wave? I weel show you Messes T-S. But you must not speak--she would
not like eet if I showed her to gentlemen. But her back ees turned
and she cannot move. We do not let them see the apparatus, because
eet ees rather frightful, eet would make them seek. You will be very
steel, eh?”

“Mum's the word, Madame,” said Rosythe, speaking for the three of
us.

“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!” moaned the voice.

“First, I weel tell you,” said Madame. “For the complete wave we wind
the hair in tight leetle coils on many rods. Eet ees very delicate
operations--every hair must be just so, not one crooked, not one
must we skeep. Eet takes a long time--two hours for the long hair;
and eet hurts, because we must pull eet so tight. We wrap each coil
een damp cloths, and we put them een the contacts, and we turn on
the eelectreeceetee--and then eet ees many hours that the hair ees
baked, ees cooked een the proper curves, eh? Now, very steel, eef
you please!”

And softly she opened the door.



X


Before us loomed what I can only describe as a mountain of red
female flesh. This flesh-mountain had once apparently been slightly
covered by embroidered silk lingerie, but this was now soaked in
moisture and reduced to the texture of wet tissue paper. The top of
the flesh-mountain ended in an amazing spectacle. It appeared as if
the head had no hair whatever; but starting from the bare scalp was
an extraordinary number of thin rods, six inches or so in length.
These rods stood out in every direction, and being of gleaming
metal, they gave to the head the aspect of some bright Phoebus
Apollo, known as the “far-darter;” or shall I say some fierce Maenad
with electric snakes having nickel-plated skins; or shall I say some
terrific modern war-god, pouring poison gases from a forest of
chemical tubes? Over the top of the flesh-mountain was a big metal
object, a shining concave dome with which all the tubes connected;
so that a stranger to the procedure could not have felt sure whether
the mountain was holding up the dome, or was dangling from it. A
piece of symbolism done by a maniac artist, whose meaning no one
could fathom!

From the dome there was given heat; so from the pores of the
flesh-mountain came perspiration. I could not say that I actually
saw perspiration flowing from any particular pore; it is my
understanding that pores are small, and do not squirt visible jets.
What I could say is that I saw little trickles uniting to form
brooks, and brooks to form rivers, which ran down the sides of the
flesh-mountain, and mingled in an ocean on the floor.

Also I observed that flesh-mountains when exposed to heat do not
stand up of their own consistency, but have a tendency to melt and
flatten; it was necessary that this bulk should be supported, so
there were three attendants, one securely braced under each armpit,
and the third with a more precarious grip under the mountain's chin.
Every thirty seconds or so the heaving, sliding mass would emit one
of those explosive groans: “O-o-o-o-o-oh!” Then it would collapse,
an avalanche would threaten to slide, and the living caryatids would
shove and struggle.

Said Madame Planchet, in her stage-whisper: “The serveece of the
young god of beautee!” And my fancy took flight. I saw proud vestals
tending sacred flames on temple-clad islands in blue Grecian seas; I
saw acolytes waving censers, and grave, bearded priests walking in
processions crowned with myrtle-wreaths. I wondered if ever since
the world began, the young god of beautee looking down from his
crystal throne had beheld a stranger ritual of adoration!

Silently we drew back from the door-way, and Madame closed the door,
reducing the promethean groans and the strong ammoniacal odors. I
did not see the face of Carpenter, because he had turned it from us.
Rosythe favored me with a smile, and whispered, “Your friend doesn't
care for beautee!” Then he added, “What do you suppose he meant by
that stuff about 'the price of life' and 'the choice of God?'”

“Didn't you really get it?” I asked.

“I'm damned if I did.”

“My dear fellow,” I said, “you didn't tell us what sort of place
this was; and Carpenter thought it must be a maternity-ward.”

The moving picture critic of the Western City “Times” gave me one
wild look; then from his throat there came a sound like the sudden
bleat of a young sheep in pain. It caused Carpenter to start, and
Madame Planchet to start, and for the first time since we entered
the place, the birds of paradise gave signs of life elsewhere than
in the eye-muscles. The sheep gave a second bleat, and then a third,
and Rosythe, red in the face and apparently choking, turned and fled
to the corridor.

Madame Planchet drew me apart and said: “Meester Billee, tell me
something. Ees eet true that thees gentleman ees a healer? He takes
away the pains?”

“He did it for me,” I answered.

“He ees vairy handsome, eh, Meester Billee?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“I have an idea; eet ees a wondair.” She turned to my friend.
“Meester Carpentair, they tell me that you heal the pains. I think
eet would be a vairy fine thing eef you would come to my parlor and
attend the ladies while I give them the permanent wave, and while I
skeen them, and make them the dimples and the sweet smiles. They
suffer so, the poor dears, and eef you would seet and hold their
hands, they would love eet, they would come every day for eet, and
you would be famous, and you would be reech. You would meet--oh,
such lovely ladies! The best people in the ceety come to my beauty
parlors, and they would adore you, Meester Carpentair--what do you
say to eet?”

It struck me as curious, as I looked back upon it; Madame Planchet
so far had not heard the sound of Carpenter's voice. Now she forced
him to speak, but she did not force him to look at her. His gaze
went over her head, as if he were seeing a vision; he recited:

“Because the daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with stretched
forth necks and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go, and
making a tinkling with their feet; therefore the Lord will smite
with a scab the crown of the head of the daughters of Zion, and the
Lord will discover their secret parts.”

“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Madame Planchet.

“In that day the Lord will take away the bravery of their twinkling
ornaments about their feet, and their cauls, and their round tires
like the moon, the chains, and the bracelets, and the mufflers, the
bonnets, and the ornaments of the legs, and the headbands, and the
tablets, and the earrings, the rings and nose jewels, the changeable
suits of apparel, and the mantles, and the wimples, and the crisping
pins, the glasses, and the fine linen, and the hoods, and the veils.
And it shall come to pass that instead of sweet smell there shall be
stink; and instead of a girdle a rent; and instead of well set hair,
baldness; and instead of a stomacher a girding of sackcloth: and
burning instead of beauty.”

And at that moment the door from the corridor was flung open, and
Mary Magna came in.



XI


“My God, will you look who's here! Billy, wretched creature, I
haven't laid eyes on you for two months! Do you have to desert me
entirely, just because you've fallen in love with a society girl
with the face of a Japanese doll-baby? What's the matter with me,
that I lose my lovers faster than I get them? Edgerton Rosythe, come
in here--you've got a good excuse, I admit--I'm almost as much
scared of your wife as you are yourself. But still, I'd like a
chance to get tired of some man first. Hello, Planchet, how's my old
grannie making out in your scalping-shop? Say, would you think it
would take three days labor for half a dozen Sioux squaws to pull
the skin off one old lady's back? And a week to tie up the corners
of her mouth and give her a permanent smile! 'Why, grannie,' I said,
'good God, it would be cheaper to hire Charlie Chaplin to walk round
in front of you all the rest of your life!' And--why, what's this?
For the love of Peter, somebody introduce me to this gentleman. Is
he a friend of yours, Billy? Carpenter? Excuse me, Mr. Carpenter,
but we picture people learn to talk about our faces and our styles,
and it isn't every day I come on a million dollars walking round on
two legs. Who does the gentleman work for?”

The storm of Mary Magna stopped long enough for her to stare from
one to another of us. “What? You mean nobody's got him? And you all
standing round here, not signing any contracts? You, Edgerton--you
haven't run to the telephone to call up Eternal City? Well, as it
happens, T-S is going to be here in five minutes--his wife is being
made beautiful once again somewhere in this scalping-shop. Take my
advice, Mr. Carpenter, and don't sign today--the price will go up
several hundred per week as long as you hold off.”

Mary stopped again; and this was most unusual, for as a general rule
she never stopped until somebody or something stopped her. But she
was fascinated by the spectacle of Carpenter. “My good God! Where
did he come from? Why, it seems like--I'm trying to think--yes,
it's the very man! Listen, Billy; you may not believe it, but I was
in a church a couple of weeks ago. I went to see Roxanna Riddle
marry that grand duke fellow. It was in a big church over by the
park--St. Bartholomew's, they call it. I sat looking at a stained
glass window over the altar, and Billy, I swear I believe this Mr.
Carpenter came down from that window!”

“Maybe he did, Mary,” I put in.

“But I'm not joking! I tell you he's the living, speaking image of
that figure. Come to think of it, he isn't speaking, he hasn't said
a word! Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, have you got a voice, or are you
only a close up from 'The Servant in the House' or 'Ben Hur'? Say
something, so I can get a line on you!”

Again I stood wondering; how would Carpenter take this? Would he bow
his head and run before a hail-storm of feminine impertinence? Would
she “vamp” him, as she did every man who came near her? Or would
this man do what no man alive had yet been able to do--reduce her to
silence?

He smiled gently; and I saw that she had vamped him this much, at
least--he was going to be polite! “Mary,” he said, “I think you are
carrying everything but the nose jewels.”

“Nose jewels? What a horrid idea! Where did you get that?”

“When you came in, I was quoting the prophet Isaiah. Some eighty
generations of ladies have lived on earth since his day, Mary; they
have won the ballot, but apparently they haven't discovered anything
new in the way of ornaments. Some of the prophet's words may be
strange to you, but if you study them you will see that you've got
everything he lists: 'their tinkling ornaments about their feet, and
their cauls, and their round tires like the moon, the chains, and
the bracelets, and the mufflers, the bonnets, and the ornaments of
the legs, and the headbands, and the tablets, and the earrings, the
rings, and nose jewels, the changeable suits of apparel, and the
mantles, and the wimples, and the crisping pins, the glasses, and
the fine linen, and the hoods, and the veils.'”

As Carpenter recited this list, his eyes roamed from one part to
another of the wondrous “get up” of Mary Magna. You can imagine her
facing him--that bold and vivid figure which you have seen as
“Cleopatra” and “Salome,” as “Dubarry” and “Anne Boleyn,” and I know
not how many other of the famous courtesans and queens of history.
In daily life her style and manner is every bit as staggering; she
is a gorgeous brunette, and wears all the colors there are--when she
goes down the street it is like a whole procession with flags. I'll
wager that, apart from her jewels, which may or may not have been
real, she was carrying not less than five thousand dollars worth of
stuff that fall afternoon. A big black picture hat, with a flower
garden and parts of an aviary on top--but what's the use of going
over Isaiah's list?

“Everything but the nose jewels,” said Carpenter, “and they may be
in fashion next week.”

“How about the glasses?” put in Rosythe, entering into the fun.

“Oh, shucks!” said I, protecting my friend. “Turn out the contents
of your vanity-bag, Mary.”

“And the crisping-pins?” laughed the critic.

“Hasn't Madame Planchet just shown us those?”

All this while Mary had not taken her eyes off Carpenter. “So you
are really one of those religious fellows!” she exclaimed. “You'll
know exactly what to do without any directing! How perfectly
incredible!” And at that appropriate moment T-S pushed open the door
and waddled in!



XII


You know the screen stars, of course; but maybe you do not know
those larger celestial bodies, the dark and silent and invisible
stars from which the shining ones derive their energies. So, permit
me to introduce you to T-S, the trade abbreviation for a name which
nobody can remember, which even his secretaries have to keep typed
on a slip of paper just above their machine--Tszchniczklefritszch.
He came a few years ago from Ruthenia, or Rumelia, or Roumania--one
of those countries where the consonants are so greatly in excess of
the vowels. If you are as rich as he, you call him Abey, which is
easy; otherwise, you call him Mr. T-S, which he accepts as a part of
his Americanization.

He is shorter than you or I, and has found that he can't grow
upward, but can grow without limit in all lateral directions. There
is always a little more of him than his clothing can hold, and it
spreads out in rolls about his collar. He has a yellowish face,
which turns red easily. He has small, shiny eyes, he speaks
atrocious English, he is as devoid of culture as a hairy Ainu, and
he smells money and goes after it like a hog into a swill-trough.

“Hello, everybody! Madame, vere's de old voman?

“She ees being dressed--”

“Vell, speed her up! I got no time. I got--Jesus Christ!”

“Yes, exactly,” said Mary Magna.

The great man of the pictures stood rooted to the spot. “Vot's dis?
Some joke you people playin' on me?” He shot a suspicious glance
from one to another of us.

“No,” said Mary, “he's real. Honest to God!”

“Oh! You bring him for an engagement. Vell, I don't do no business
outside my office. Send him to see Lipsky in de mornin'.”

“He hasn't asked for an engagement,” said Mary.

“Oh, he ain't. Vell, vot's he hangin' about for? Been gittin' a
permanent vave? Ha, ha, ha!”

“Cut it out, Abey,” said Mary Magna. “This is a gentleman, and you
must be decent. Mr. Carpenter, meet Mr. T-S.”

“Carpenter, eh? Vell, Mr. Carpenter, if I vas to make a picture vit
you I gotta spend a million dollars on it--you know you can't make
no cheap skate picture fer a ting like dat, if you do you got a
piece o' cheese. It'd gotta be a costume picture, and you got shoost
as much show to market vun o' dem today as you got vit a pauper's
funeral. I spend all dat money, and no show to git it back, and den
you actors tink I'm makin' ten million a veek off you--”

“Cut it out, Abey!” broke in Mary. “Mr. Carpenter hasn't asked
anything of you.”

“Oh, he ain't, hey? So dat's his game. Vell, he'll find maybe I can
vait as long as de next feller. Ven he gits ready to talk business,
he knows vere Eternal City is, I guess. Vot's de matter, Madame, you
got dat old voman o' mine melted to de chair?”

“I'll see, I'll see, Meester T-S,” said Madame, hustling out of the
room.

Mary came up to the great man. “See here, Abey,” she said, in a low
voice, “you're making the worst mistake of your life. Apparently
this man hasn't been discovered. When he is, you know what'll
happen.”

“Vere doss he come from?”

“I don't know. Billy here brought him. I said he must have come out
of a stained glass window in St. Bartholomew's Church.”

“Oho, ho!” said T-S.

“Anyhow, he's new, and he's too good to keep. The paper's 'll get
hold of him sure. Just look at him!”

“But, Mary, can he act?”

“Act? My God, he don't have to act! He only has to look at you, and
you want to fall at his feet. Go be decent to him, and find out what
he wants.”

The great man surveyed the figure of the stranger appraisingly. Then
he went up to him. “See here, Mr. Carpenter, maybe I could make you
famous. Vould you like dat?”

“I have never thought of being famous,” was the reply.

“Vell, you tink of it now. If I hire you, I make you de greatest
actor in de vorld. I make it a propaganda picture fer de churches,
dey vould show it to de headens in China and in Zululand. I make you
a contract fer ten years, and I pay you five hunded dollars a veek,
vedder you vork or not, and you vouldn't have to vork so much,
because I don't catch myself makin' a million dollar feature picture
vit gawd amighty and de angels in it for no regular veekly releases.
Maybe you find some cheap skate feller vit some vild cat company vot
promise you more; but he sells de picture and makes over de money to
his vife's brudders, and den he goes bust, and vere you at den, hey?
Mary Magna, here, she tell you, if you git a contract vit old Abey,
it's shoost like you got libbidy bonds. I make dat lovely lady a
check every veek fer tirty-five hunded dollars, an' I gotta sign it
vit my own hand, and I tell you it gives me de cramps to sign so
much money all de time, but I do it, and you see all dem rings and
ribbons and veils and tings vot she buys vit de money, she looks
like a jeweler's shop and a toy-store all rolled into vun goin'
valkin' down de street.”

“Mr. Carpenter was just scolding me for that,” said Mary. “I've an
idea if you pay him a salary, he'll feed it to the poor.”

“If I pay it,” said T-S, “it's his, and he can feed it to de
dicky-birds if he vants to. Vot you say, Mr. Carpenter?”

I was waiting with curiosity to hear what he would say; but at that
moment the door from the “maternity-room” was opened, and the voice
of Madame Planchet broke in: “Here she ees!” And the flesh-mountain
appeared, with the two caryatids supporting her.



XIII


“My Gawd!” gasped Mrs. T-S. “I'm dyin'!”

Her husband responded, beaming, “So you gone and done it again!”

Said Mrs. T-S: “I'll never do it no more!”

Said the husband: “Y'allus say dat. Fergit it, Maw, you're all right
now, you don't have to have your hair frizzed fer six mont's!”

Said Mrs. T-S: “I gotta lie down. I'm dyin', Abey, I tell you. Lemme
git on de sofa.”

Said the husband: “Now, Maw, we gotta git to dinner--”

“I can't eat no dinner.”

“Vot?” There was genuine alarm in the husband's voice. “You can't
eat no dinner? Sure you gotta eat your dinner. You can't live if you
don't eat. Come along now, Maw.”

“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!”

T-S went and stood before her, and a grin came over his face. “Sure,
now, ain't it fine? Say, Mary, look at dem lovely curves. Billy,
shoost look here! Vy, she looks like a kid again, don't she! Madame,
you're a daisy--you sure deliver de goods.”

Madame Planchet beamed, and the flesh-mountain was feebly cheered.
“You like it, Abey?”

“Sure, I like it! Maw, it's grand! It's like I got a new girl! Come
on now, git up, we go git our dinner, and den we gotta see dem night
scenes took. Don't forgit, we're payin' two tousand men five dollars
apiece tonight, and we gotta git our money out of 'em.” Then, taking
for granted that this settled it, he turned to the rest. “You come
vit us, Mary?”

“I must wait for my grannie.”

“Sure, you leave your car fer grannie, and you come vit us, and we
git some dinner, and den we see dem mob scenes took. You come along,
Mr. Carpenter, I gotta have some talk vit you. And you, Billy? And
Rosythe--come, pile in.”

“I have to wait for the missus,” said the critic. “We have a date.”

“Vell,” said T-S, and he went up close. “You do me a favor, Rosythe;
don't say nuttin' about dis fellow Carpenter tonight. I feed him and
git him feelin' good, and den I make a contract vit him, and I give
you a front page telegraph story, see?”

“All right,” said the critic.

“Mum's de vord now,” said the magnate; and he waddled out, and the
two caryatids lifted the flesh-mountain, and half carried it to the
elevator, and Mary walked with Carpenter, and I brought up the rear.

The car of T-S was waiting at the door, and this car is something
special. It is long, like a freight-car, made all of shining
gun-metal, or some such material; the huge wheels are of solid
metal, and the fenders are so big and solid, it looks like an
armored military car. There is an extra wheel on each side, and two
more locked on to the rear. There is a chauffeur in uniform, and a
footman in uniform, just to open the doors and close them and salute
you as you enter. Inside, it is all like the sofas in Madame's
scalping shop; you fall into them, and soft furs enfold you, and you
give a sigh of Contentment, “O-o-o-o-o-o-oh!”

“Prince's,” said T-S to the chauffeur, and the palace on wheels
began to glide along. It occurred to me to wonder that T-S was not
embarrassed to take Carpenter to a fashionable eating-place. But I
could read his thoughts; everybody would assume that he had been “on
location” with one of his stars; and anyhow, what the hell? Wasn't
he Abey Tszchniczklefritszch?

“Wor-r-r-r-r! Wor-r-r-r-r-r!” snarled the horn of the car; and I
could understand the meaning of this also. It said: “I am the car of
Abey Tszchniczklefritszch, king of the movies, future king of the
world. Get the hell out o' my way!” So we sped through the crowded
streets, and pedestrians scattered like autumn leaves before a
storm. “My Gawd, but I'm hungry!” said T-S. “I ain't had nuttin' to
eat since lunch-time. How goes it, Maw? Feelin' better? Vell, you be
all right ven you git your grub.”

So we came to Prince's, and drew up before the porte-cochere, and
found ourselves confronting an adventure. There was a crowd before
the place, a surging throng half-way down the block, with a whole
line of policemen to hold them back. Over the heads of the crowd
were transparencies, frame boxes with canvas on, and lights inside,
and words painted on them. “Hello!” cried T-S. “Vot's dis?”

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.



XIV


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.



XV


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.



XVI


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.



XVII


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!”



XVIII


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.



XIX


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!”

“You _bet_ we 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?”

“Bertie _dear_!” 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.”

“Bertie _dear_!” cried the mother, again; and you knew that for
eighteen or nineteen years she had been crying “Bertie _dear_!”--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: “Bertie _dear_, 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, Bertie _dear_, 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?”



XX


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 could _he_ help 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.



XXI


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.



XXII


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.



XXIII


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.



XXIV


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.”



XXV


There was a crowd following us, of course; and I sought to keep
Carpenter busy in conversation, to indicate that the crowd was not
wanted. But before we had gone half a block I felt some one touch me
on the arm, and heard a voice, saying, “I beg pardon, I'm a reporter
for the 'Evening Blare'.”

Now, of course, I had known this must come; I had realized that I
would be getting myself in for it, if I went to join Carpenter that
morning. I had planned to warn him, to explain to him what our
newspapers are; but how could I have foreseen that he was going to
get into a riot before breakfast, and bring out the police reserves
and the police reporters?

“Excuse us,” I said, coldly. “We have something urgent--”

“I just want to get something of this gentleman's speech--”

“We are on our way to the Labor Temple. If you will come there in a
couple of hours, we will give you an interview.”

“But I must have a story for our first edition, that goes to press
before that.”

I had Carpenter by the arm, and kept him firmly walking. I could not
get rid of the reporter, but I was resolved to get my warning
spoken, regardless of anything. Said I: “This is a matter extremely
urgent for you to understand, Mr. Carpenter. This young man
represents a newspaper, and anything you say to him will be read in
the course of a few hours by perhaps a hundred thousand people. If
it is found especially senational, the Continental Press may put it
on its wires, and it will go to several hundred papers all over the
country--”

“Twelve hundred and thirty-seven papers,” corrected the young man.

“So you see, it is necessary that you should be careful what you
say--far more so than if you were speaking to a handful of Mexican
laborers or Jewish housewives.”

Said Carpenter: “I don't understand what you mean. When I speak, I
speak the truth.”

“Yes, of course,” I replied--and meantime I was racking my poor wits
figuring out how to present this strange acquaintance of mine most
tactfully to the world. I knew the reporter would not tarry long; he
would grab a few sentences, and rush away to telephone them in.

“I'll tell you what I'm free to tell,” I began. “This gentleman is a
healer, a man of very remarkable gifts. Mental healing, you
understand.”

“I get you,” said the reporter. “Some religion?”

“Mr. Carpenter teaches a new religion.”

“I see. A sort of prophet! And where does he come from?”

I tried to evade. “He has just arrived--”

But the blood-hound of the press was not going to be evaded. “Where
do you come from, sir?” he demanded, of Carpenter.

To which Carpenter answered, promptly: “From God.”

“From God? Er--oh, I see. From God! Most interesting! How long ago,
may I ask?”

“Yesterday.”

“Oh! That is indeed extraordinary! And this mob that you've just
been addressing--did you use some kind of mind cure on them?”

I could see the story taking shape; the headlines flamed before my
mind's eye--streamer heads, all the way across the sheet, after the
fashion of our evening papers:

PROPHET FRESH FROM GOD QUELLS MOB



XXVI


I came to a sudden decision in this crisis. The sensible thing to do
was to meet the issue boldly, and take the job of launching
Carpenter under proper auspices. He really was a wonderful man, and
deserved to be treated decently.

I addressed the reporter again. “Listen. This gentleman is a man of
remarkable gifts, and does not take money for them; so, if you are
going to tell about him at all, do it in a dignified way.”

“Of course! I had no other idea--”

“Your city editor might have another idea,” I remarked, drily.
“Permit me to introduce myself.” I gave him my name, and saw him
start.

“You mean _the_ Mr.--” Then, giving me a swift glance, he decided it
was not necessary to complete the question.

Said I: “Here is my card,” and handed it to him.

He glanced at it, and said, “I'll be very glad to explain matters to
the desk, and see that the story is handled exactly as you wish.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “Now, yesterday I was caught in that mob at
the picture theatre, and knocked nearly insensible. This gentleman
found me, and healed me almost instantly. Naturally, I am grateful,
and as I find that he is a teacher, who aids the poor, and will not
take money from anyone, I want to thank him publicly, and help to
make him known.”

“Of course, of course!” said the reporter; and before my mind's eye
flashed a new set of headlines:

WEALTHY CLUBMAN MIRACULOUSLY HEALED

Or perhaps it would be a double head:

CLUBMAN, SLUGGED BY MOB, HEALED BY PROPHET

WEALTHY SCION, VICTIM OF PICTURE RIOT, RESTORED BY MAN FRESH FROM
GOD

I thought that was sensation enough, and that the interview would
end; but alas for my hopes! Said that blood-hound of the press:
“Will you give public healings to the people, Mr. Carpenter?”

To which Carpenter answered: “I am not interested in giving
healings.”

“What? Why not?”

“Worldly and corrupt people ask me to do miracles, to prove my power
to them. But the proof I bring to the world is a new vision and a
new hope.”

“Oh, I see! Your religion! May I ask about it?”

“You are the first; the world will follow you. Say to the people
that I have come to understand the nature and causes of their mobs.”

“Mobs?” said the puzzled young blood-hound.

“I wish to understand a land which is governed by mobs; I wish to
know, who lives upon the madness of others.”

“You have been studying a mob this morning?” inquired the reporter.

“I ask, why do the police of Mobland put down the mobs of the poor,
and not the mobs of the rich? I ask, who pays the police, and who
pays the mobs.”

“I see! You are some kind of radical!” And with sickness of soul I
saw another headline before my mind's eye:

WEALTHY CLUBMAN AIDS BOLSHEVIK PROPHET

I hastened to break in: “Mr. Carpenter is not a radical; he is a
lover of man.” But then I realized, that did not sound just right.
How the devil was I to describe this man? How came it that all the
phrases of brotherhood and love had come to be tainted with
“radicalism”? I tried again: “He is a friend of peace.”

“Oh, really!” observed the reporter. “A pacifist, hey?” And I
thought: “Damn the hound!” I knew, of course, that he had the rest
of the formula in his head: “Pro-German!” Out loud I said: “He
teaches brotherhood.”

But the hound was not interested in my generalities and evasions.
“Where have you seen mobs of the rich, Mr. Carpenter?”

“I have seen them whirling through the streets in automobiles,
killing the children of the poor.”

“You have seen that?”

“I saw it last night.”

Now, I had inspected our “Times” and our “Examiner” that morning,
and noted that both, in their accounts of the accident, had given
only the name of the chauffeur, and suppressed that of the owner. I
understood what an amount of social and financial pressure that feat
had taken; and here was Carpenter about to spoil it! I laid my hand
on his arm, saying: “My friend, you were a guest in that car. You
are not at liberty to talk about it.”

I expected to be argued with; but Carpenter apparently conceded my
point, for he fell silent. It was the young reporter who spoke. “You
were in an auto accident, I judge? We had only one report of a
death, and that was caused by Mrs. Stebbins' car. Were you in that?”
 Then, as neither Carpenter nor I replied, he laughed. “It doesn't
matter, because I couldn't use the story. Mr. Stebbins is one of our
'sacred cows.' Good-day, and thank you.”

He started away; and suddenly all my terror of newspaper publicity
overwhelmed me. I simply could not face the public as guardian of a
Bolshevik! I shouted: “Young man!” And the reporter turned,
respectfully, to listen. “I tell you, Mr. Carpenter is _not_ a
radical! Get that clear!” And to the young man's skeptical
half-smile I exclaimed: “He's a Christian!” At which the reporter
laughed out loud.



XXVII


We got to the Labor Temple, and found the place in a buzz of
excitement, over what had occurred in front of Prince's last night.
I had suspected rough work on the part of the police, and here was
the living evidence--men with bandages over cracked heads, men
pulling open their shirts or pulling up their sleeves to show black
and blue bruises. In the headquarters of the Restaurant Workers we
found a crowd, jabbering in a dozen languages about their troubles;
we learned that there were eight in jail, and several in the
hospital, one not expected to live. All that had been going on,
while we sat at table gluttonizing--and while tears were running
down Carpenter's cheeks!

It seemed to me that every third man in the crowd had one of the
morning's newspapers in his hand--the newspapers which told how a
furious mob of armed ruffians had sought to break its way into
Prince's, and had with difficulty been driven off by the gallant
protectors of the law. A man would read some passage which struck
him as especially false; he would tell what he had seen or done, and
he would crumple the paper in his hand and cry. “The liars! The
dirty liars!”--adding adjectives not suitable for print.

I realized more than ever that I had made a mistake in letting
Carpenter get into this place. It was no resort for anybody who
wanted to be patriotic, or happy about the world. All sorts of
wonderful promises had been made to labor, to persuade it to win the
war; and now labor came with the blank check, duly filled out
according to its fancy--and was in process of being kicked
downstairs. Wages were being “liquidated,” as the phrase had it; and
there was an endless succession of futile strikes, all pitiful
failures. You must understand that Western City is the home of the
“open shop;” the poor devils who went on strike were locked out of
the factories, and slugged off the streets; their organizations were
betrayed by spies, and their policies dedeviled by provocateurs. And
all the mass of misery resulting seemed to have crowded into one
building this bright November morning; pitiful figures, men and
women and even a few children--for some had been turned out of their
homes, and had no place to go; ragged, haggard, and underfed;
weeping, some of them, with pain, or lifting their clenched hands in
a passion of impotent fury. My friend T-S, the king of the movies,
with all his resources, could not have made a more complete picture
of human misery--nor one more fitted to work on the sensitive soul
of a prophet, and persuade him that capitalist America was worse
than imperial Rome.

The arrival of Carpenter attracted no particular attention. The
troubles of these people were too recent for them to be aware of
anything else. All they wanted was some one to tell their troubles
to, and they quickly found that this stranger was available for the
purpose. He asked many questions, and before long had a crowd about
him--as if he were some sort of government commissioner, conducting
an investigation. It was an all day job, apparently; I hung round,
trying to keep myself inconspicuous.

Towards noon came a boy with newspapers, and I bought the early
edition of the “Evening Blare.” Yes, there it was--all the way
across the front page; not even a big fire at the harbor and an
earthquake in Japan had been able to displace it. As I had foreseen,
the reporter had played up the most sensational aspects of the
matter: Carpenter announced himself as a prophet only twenty-four
hours out of God's presence, and proved it by healing the lame and
the halt and the blind--and also by hypnotising everyone he spoke
to, from a wealthy young clubman to a mob of Jewish housewives.
Incidentally he denounced America as “Mobland,” and called it a
country governed by madmen.

I took the paper to him, thinking to teach him a little worldly
prudence. Said I: “You remember, I tried to keep out that stuff
about mobs--”

He took the sheet from my hands and looked at the headlines. I saw
his nostrils dilate, and his eyes flash. “Mobs? This paper is a mob!
It is the worst of your mobs!” And it fell to the floor, and he put
his foot on the flaring print.

Said he: “You talk about mobs--listen to this.” Then, to one of the
group about him: “Tell how they mobbed you!” The man thus addressed,
a little Russian tailor named Korwsky, narrated in his halting
English that he was the secretary of the tailors' union, and they
had a strike, and a few days ago their offices had been raided at
night, the door “jimmed” open and the desk rifled of all the papers
and records. Evidently it had been done by the bosses or their
agents, for nothing had been taken but papers which would be of use
against the strike. “Dey got our members' list,” said Korwsky. “Dey
send people to frighten 'em back to verk! Dey call loans, dey git
girls fired from stores if dey got jobs--dey hound 'em every way!”

The speaker went on to declare that no such job could have been
pulled off without the police knowing; yet they made no move to
arrest the criminals. His voice trembled with indignation; and
Carpenter turned to me.

“You have mobs that come at night, with dark lanterns and burglars'
tools!”

I had noticed among the men talking to Carpenter one who bore a
striking resemblance to him. He was tall and not too well nourished;
but instead of the prophet's robes of white and amethyst, he wore
the clothes of a working-man, a little too short in the sleeves; and
where Carpenter had a soft and silky brown beard, this man had a
skinny Adam's apple that worked up and down. He was something of an
agitator, I judged, and he appeared to have a religious streak. “I
am a Christian,” I heard him say; “but one of the kind that speak
out against injustice. And I can show you Bible texts for it,” he
insisted. “I can prove it by the word of God.”

This man's name was James, and I learned that he was one of the
striking carpenters. The prophet turned to him, and said: “Tell him
your story.” So the other took from his pocket a greasy note-book,
and produced a newspaper clipping, quoting an injunction which Judge
Wollcott had issued against his union. “Read that,” said he; but I
answered that I knew about it. I remember hearing my uncle laughing
over the matter at the dinner-table, saying that “Bobbie” Wollcott
had forbidden the strikers to do everything but sit on air and walk
on water. And now I got another view of “Bobbie,” this time from a
prophet fresh from God. Said the prophet: “Your judges are mobs!”



XXVIII


Soon after the noon-hour, there pushed his way into the crowd a
young man, whom I recognized as one of the secretaries of T-S. He
was looking for me, and told me in a whisper that his employer was
downstairs in his car, and wanted to see Mr. Carpenter and myself
about something important. He did not want to come up, because it
was too conspicuous. Would we come down and take a little drive? I
answered that I should be willing, but I knew Carpenter would
not--he had been in an automobile accident the night before, and had
refused to ride again.

Then, said the secretary, was there some room where we could meet? I
went to one of the officials, and asked for a vacant room where I
could talk about a private matter with a friend. I managed to
separate Carpenter from his crowd and took him to the room, and
presently Everett, the secretary, came with T-S.

The great man shook hands cordially with both of us; then, looking
round to make sure that no one heard us, he began: “Mr. Carpenter, I
told you I vould give a tousand dollars to dese strikers.”

The other's face, which had looked so grey and haggard, was suddenly
illumined as if by his magical halo. “I had forgotten it! There are
so many hungry in there; I have been watching them, wondering when
they would be fed.”

“All right,” said T-S. “Here you are.” And reaching into his pocket,
he produced a wad of new shiny hundred dollar notes, folded
together. “Count 'em.”

Carpenter took the money in his hand. “So this is it!” he said. He
looked at it, as if he were inspecting some strange creature from
the wilds of Patagonia.

“It's de real stuff,” said T-S, with a grin.

“The stuff for which men sell their souls, and women their virtue!
For which you starve and beat and torture one another--”

“Ain't it pretty?” said the magnate, not a bit embarrassed.

The other began reading the writing on the notes--as you may
remember having done in some far-off time of childhood. “Whose
picture is this?” he asked.

“I dunno,” said the magnate. “De Secretary of de Treasury, I
reckon.”

“But,” said the other, “why not your picture, Mr. T-S?”

“Mine?”

“Of course.”

“My picture on de money?”

“Why not? You are the one who makes it, and enables everyone else to
make it.”

It was one of those brand new ideas that come only to geniuses and
children. I could see that T-S had never thought of it before; also,
that he found it interesting to think of. Carpenter went on: “If
your picture was on it, then every one would know what it meant.
People would say: 'Render unto T-S the things that are T-S's.' When
you were paying off your mobs, you would pay them with your own
money, and whenever they spent it, the people would bow to Caesar--I
mean to T-S.”

He said it without the trace of a smile; and T-S had no idea there
was a smile anywhere in the neighborhood. In a business-like tone he
said: “I'll tink about it.” Then he went on: “You give it to de
strikers--”

But Carpenter interrupted: “It was you who were going to give it. I
cannot give nor take money.”

“You mean you von't take it to dem?”

“I couldn't possibly do it, Mr. T-S.”

“But, man--”

“Your promise was that _you_ would come and give it. Now do so.”

“But, Mr. Carpenter, if I vas to do such a ting, it vould cost me a
million dollars. I vould git into a row vit de Merchants' and
Manufacturers' Association, dey vould boycott my business, dey vould
give me a black eye all over de country. You dunno vot you're
askin', Mr. Carpenter.”

“I understand then--you are in business alliance with men who are
starving these people into submission, and you are afraid to help
them? Afraid to feed the poor!” The far-off, wondering look came
again to his face. “The world is organized!” he said, to himself.
“There is a mob of masters! What can I do to save the people?”

T-S was unchanged in his cheerful good-nature. “You give dem a
tousand dollars and you help a lot. Nobody can do it all.”

But Carpenter was not satisfied; he shook his head, sadly. “Please
take this,” he said, and pressed the roll of bills back into the
hands of the astounded magnate!



XXIX


However, T-S had come there to get something that day, and I thought
I knew what it was. He swallowed his consternation, and all the rest
of his emotions. “Now, now, Mr. Carpenter! Ve ain't a-goin' to
quarrel about a ting like dat. Dem fellers is hungry, and de money
vill give dem vun good feed. Ve git somebody to bring it to dem, and
we be friends shoost de same. Billy, maybe you could give it, hey?”

I drew back with a laugh. “You don't get me into your quarrels!”

“Vell,” said T-S--and suddenly he had an inspiration. “I know. I git
Mary Magna to give it! She's a voman!”

Carpenter turned with sudden wonder. “Then women are permitted to
have hearts?”

“Shoost so, Mr. Carpenter! Ha, ha, ha! Ve business fellers--my Gawd,
if you knew vot business is, you'd vunder we got hearts enough to
keep our blood movin'.”

“Business,” said Carpenter, still pondering. “Then it's business--”

“Yes, business--” put in T-S. “Dat's it!” And he lowered his voice,
and looked round once more. “It's time we vas talkin' business now!
Mr. Carpenter, I be frank vit you, I put all my cards on de table. I
seen de papers shoost now, vot vunderful tings you do--healin' de
sick and quellin' de mobs and all dat--and I tink I gotta raise my
offer, Mr. Carpenter. If you sign a contract I got here in my
pocket, I pay you a tousand dollars a veek. Vot you say, my friend?”

Carpenter did not say anything, and so the magnate began to
expatiate upon the artistic triumphs he would achieve. “I make such
a picture fer you as de vorld never seen before. You can do shoost
vot you vant in dat story--all de tings you like to do, and nuttin'
you didn't like. I never said dat to no man before, but I know you
now, Mr. Carpenter, and all I ask you is to heal de sick and quell
de mobs, shoost like today. I pledge you my vord--I put it in de
contract if you say so--I make nuttin' but Bible pictures.”

“That is very kind of you, Mr. T-S, and I thank you for the
compliment; but I fear you will have to get some one else to play my
part.”

Said T-S: “I vant you to tink, Mr. Carpenter, vot it vould mean if
you had a tousand dollars every week. You could feed all de babies
of de strikers. I vouldn't care vot you did--you could feed my own
strikers, ven I git some at Eternal City. A tousand dollars a veek
is an awful pile o' money to have!”

“I know that, my friend.”

“And vot's more, I pay you five tousand cash on de signin' of de
contract. You can go right in now vit dese strikers--maybe you could
beat Prince's vit all dat money!” Then, as Carpenter still shook his
head: “I give you vun more raise, my friend--but dat's de last, you
gotta believe me. I pay you fifteen hunded a veek. I aint ever paid
so much money to a green actor in my life before, and I don't tink
anybody else in de business ever did.”

But still Carpenter shook his head!

“Vould you mind tellin' me vy, Mr. Carpenter?”

“Not at all. You tell me that I may quell mobs for you. But there
are mobs in your business that I could not quell.”

“Vot mobs?”

“Among others, yourself.”

“Me?”

“Yes--you are a mob; a mob of money! You storm the souls of men, and
of women too. It will take a stronger force than I to quell you.”

“I don't git you,” said T-S, helplessly; but then, thinking it over
a bit, he went on: “I guess I'm a vulgar feller, Mr. Carpenter, and
maybe all my pictures ain't vot you call high-brow. But if I had a
man like you to vork vit, I could make vot you call real educational
pictures. You're vot dey call a prophet, you got a message fer de
vorld; vell, vy don't you let me spread it fer you? If you use my
machinery, you can talk to a billion people. Dat's no joke--if dey
is dat many alive, I bring 'em to you; I bring de Japs and de Chinks
and de niggers--de vooly-headed savages vot vould eat your
missionaries if you sent 'em. I offer you de whole vorld, Mr.
Carpenter; and you vould be de boss!”

Carpenter became suddenly grave. “My friend,” said he, “a long time
ago there was a prophet, and he was offered the world. The story is
told us--'Again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high
mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the
glory of them; and saith unto him, All these things will I give
thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.' You recall that story,
Mr. T-S?”

“No,” said T-S, “I ain't vun o' dese litry fellers.” But he realized
that the story was not complimentary to him, and he showed his
chagrin. “I tell you vun ting, Mr. Carpenter, if you vas to know me
better, you vouldn't call me a devil.”

And suddenly the other put his hand on the great man's shoulder. “I
believe that, my friend; I hate the sin but love the sinner--And so,
suppose you come to lunch with me?”

“Lunch?” said T-S, taken aback.

“I went to dinner with you last night. Now you come to lunch with
me.”

“Vere at, Mr. Carpenter?”

Said Carpenter: “When I went with you, I did not ask where.”

Carpenter signed to me and to Everett, the secretary, and the four
of us went out of the room. I was as much mystified as the picture
magnate, but I held my peace, and Carpenter led us to the elevator,
and down to the street. “No,” said he, to T-S, “there is no need to
get into your car. The place is just around the corner.” And he
put his arm in that of the magnate, and led him down the
street--somewhat to the embarrassment of his victim, for there was a
crowd following us. People had read the afternoon papers by now, and
it was no longer possible to walk along unheeded, with a prophet
only twenty-four hours from God, who healed the sick and quelled
mobs before breakfast. But T-S set his teeth and bore it--hoping
this might be the way to land his contract.



XXX


We turned the corner, and soon I saw what was before us, and almost
cried out with glee. It was really too good to be true! Carpenter,
in the course of his talks with strikers, had learned where their
soup-kitchen was located, the relief-headquarters where their
families were being fed; and he now had the sublime audacity to take
the picture magnate to lunch among them!

The place was an empty warehouse, fitted with long tables, and
benches made of planks that were old and full of splinters. Here in
rows of twenty or thirty were seated men and women and children,
mixed together; before each one a bowl of not very thick soup, and a
hunk of bread, and a tin cup full of hot brown liquid, politely
taken for coffee. It was a meal which would have been spurned by any
of the “studio bums” of T-S's mob-scenes; but now T-S was going to
be a good sport, and sit on a splintery plank and eat it!

Nor was that all. As we pushed our way into the place, Carpenter
turned to the magnate, and without a trace of embarrassment, said:
“You understand, Mr. T-S, I have no money. But we must pay--”

“Oh, sure!” said T-S, quickly. “I'll pay!”

“Thank you,” said the other; and he turned to an official of the
union with whom he had got acquainted in the course of the morning.
He introduced us all, not forgetting the secretary, and then said:
“Mr. T-S is the moving picture producer, and wants to have lunch
with you, if you will consent.”

“Oh, sure!” said the official, cordially.

“He will pay for it,” added Carpenter. “He has brought along a
thousand dollars for that purpose.”

T-S started as if some one had struck him; and the official started
too. “WHAT?”

“He will pay a thousand dollars,” declared Carpenter. “It is a fact,
and you may tell the people, if you wish.”

“My Gawd, no!” cried T-S wildly.

But the official did not heed him. He faced the crowd and stretched
out his arms. “Boys! Boys! This is Mr. T-S, the picture producer,
and he's come to lunch with us, and he's going to pay a thousand
dollars for it!”

There was a moment of amazed silence, then a roar from the company.
Men leaped to their feet and yelled. And there stood poor T-S-not
enjoying the ovation!

“Give it to them,” whispered Carpenter; and the magnate, thus held
up, took out the roll of bills, and turned it over to the trembling
official, who leaped onto a chair and waved the miracle before the
crowd. “A thousand dollars! A thousand dollars!” He counted it over
before their eyes and called, louder than ever, “A thousand
dollars!”

Carpenter, followed by T-S and the secretary and myself, went down
the line of tables, shaking hands with many on the way, and being
patted on the back by others. Also T-S shook hands, and was patted.
Seats were found for us, and food was brought--double portions of
it, as if to make the plight of the poor magnate even more absurd! I
watched him out of the corner of my eye; he enjoyed that costly meal
just about as much as Carpenter had enjoyed the one at Prince's last
night!

However, he was game, and spilled no tears into his soup; and
Carpenter ate with honest appetite, having had no breakfast. The
strikers about us ate as if they had missed both breakfast and
supper; they laughed and chatted and made jokes with us--you would
have thought they were celebrating the winning of the strike and the
end of all their troubles. In the midst of the meal I noted two
well-dressed young men by the door, asking questions; I chuckled to
myself, seeing more head-lines--double ones, and extra size:

PROPHET OF GOD VAMPS MOVIE KING MAGNATE OF SCREEN PAYS THOUSAND FOR
LUNCH

But I knew that T-S had never yet paid a thousand dollars without
getting something for it, and I was not surprised when, after he had
gulped down his meal, he turned to his host and, disregarding the
company and the excitement, demanded, “Now, Mr. Carpenter, tell me,
do I git de contract?”

Carpenter had had his jest, and was through with it. He answered,
gravely: “You must understand me, Mr. T-S. You don't want a contract
with me.”

“I don't?”

“If I were to sign it, it would not be a week before you would be
sorry, and would be asking me to release you.”

“Vy is dat, Mr. Carpenter?”

“Because I am going to do things which will make me quite useless to
you in a business way.”

“Dat can't be true, Mr. Carpenter!”

“It is true, and you will realize it soon. I assure you, it won't be
a day before you will be ashamed of having known me.”

T-S was gazing at the speaker, not certain whether this was
something very terrible, or only a polite evasion. “Mr. Carpenter,”
 he answered, “if all de vorld vas to give you up, I vouldn't!”

Said Carpenter: “I tell you, before the cock crows again, you will
deny three times that you know me.” And then, without awaiting
response from the amazed T-S, he turned to speak to the man on the
other side of him.

The magnate of the pictures sat silent, evidently frightened. At
last he turned to me and asked, “Vot you tink he meant by dat,
Billy?”

I answered: “I think he meant that you are to play the part of
Peter.”

“Peter? Peter Pan?”

“No; St. Peter, who denied his master.”

“Vell,” said T-S, patiently, “you know, I ain't vun o' dese litry
fellers.”

“I'll tell it to you some time,” I continued. “It's kind of funny.
If he's right, you are going to be the first pope, and sit at the
golden gate, holding the keys of heaven.”

“My Gawd!” said T-S.

“And you've made a record in the movies.” I added. “You've played
Satan and St. Peter, both on the same day! That is 'doubling' with a
vengeance!”



XXXI


When I got back to the Labor Temple, I learned that there was to be
a mass-meeting of the strikers this Saturday evening. It had been
planned some days ago, and now was to be turned into a protest
against police violence and “government by injunction.” There was a
cheap afternoon paper which professed sympathy with the workers, and
this published a manifesto, signed by a number of labor leaders,
summoning their followers to make clear that they would no longer
submit to “Cossack rule.”

It appeared now that these leaders were considering inviting
Carpenter to become one of the speakers at their meeting. Two of
them came up to me. I had heard this stranger speak, and did I think
he could hold an audience? I gave assurance; he was a man of
dignity, and would do them credit. They were afraid the newspapers
would represent him as a freak, but of course their meeting would
hardly fare very well in the papers anyhow. One of them asked,
cautiously, how much of an extremist was he? Labor leaders were
having a hard time these days to hold down the “reds,” and the
employers were not giving them any help. Did I think Carpenter would
support the “reds”? I answered that I didn't know the labor movement
well enough to judge, but one thing they could be sure of, he was a
man of peace, and would not preach any sort of violence.

The matter was settled a little later, when Mary Magna drove up to
the Labor Temple in her big limousine. Mary, for the first time in
the memory of anyone who knew her, was without her war-paint;
dressed like a Quakeress--a most uncanny phenomenon! She had not a
single jewel on; and before long I learned why--she had taken all
she owned to a jeweler that morning, and sold them for something
over six thousand dollars. She brought the money to the fund for the
babies of the strikers; nor did she ask anyone else to hand it in
for her. It was Mary's fashion to look the world in the eye and say
what she was doing.

T-S was still hanging about, and at first he tried to check this
insane extravagance, but then he thought it over and grinned,
saying, “I git my tousand dollars back in advertising!” When I
pointed out to him what would be the interpretation placed by
newspaper gossip on Mary's intervention in the affairs of Carpenter,
he grinned still more widely. “Ain't he got a right to be in love
vit Mary? All de vorld's in love vit Mary!” And of course, there was
a newspaper reporter standing by his side, so that this remark went
out to the world as semi-official comment!

You understand that by this time the second edition of the papers
was on the streets, and it was known that the new prophet was at the
Labor Temple. Curiosity seekers came filtering in, among them half a
dozen more reporters, and as many camera men. After that, poor
Carpenter could get no peace at all. Would he please say if he was
going to do any more healing? Would he turn a little more to the
light--just one second, thank you. Would he mind making a group with
Miss Magna and Mr. T-S and the “wealthy young scion”? Would he
consent to step outside for some moving pictures, before the light
got too dim? It was a new kind of mob--a ravening one, making all
dignity and thought impossible. In the end I had to mount guard and
fight the publicity-hounds away. Was it likely this man would go out
and pose for cameras, when he had just refused fifteen hundred
dollars a week from Mr. T-S to do that very thing? And then more
excitement! Had he really refused such an offer? The king of the
movies admitted that he had!

We live in an age of communication; we can send a bit of news half
way round the world in a few seconds, we can make it known to a
whole city in a few hours. And so it was with this “prophet fresh
from God”; in spite of himself, he was seized by the scruff of the
neck and flung up to the pinnacle of fame! He had all the marvels of
a lifetime crowded into one day--enough to fill a whole newspaper
with headlines!

And the end was not yet. Suddenly there was a commotion in the
crowd, and a man pushed his way through--Korwsky, the secretary of
the tailor's union, who, learning of Carpenter's miracles, had
rushed all the way home, and got a friend with a delivery wagon, and
brought his half-grown son post-haste. He bore him now in his arms,
and poured out to Carpenter the pitiful tale of his paralyzed limbs.
Such a gentle, good child he was; no one ever heard a complaint; but
he had not been able to stand up for five years.

So, of course, Carpenter put his hands upon the child, and closed
his eyes in prayer; and suddenly he put him down to the ground and
cried: “Walk!” The lad stared at him, for one wild moment, while
people caught their breath; then, with a little choking cry, he took
a step. There came a shout from the spectators, and then--Bang!--a
puff as if a gun had gone off, and a flash of light, and clouds of
white smoke rolling to the ceiling.

Women screamed, and one or two threatened to faint; but it was
nothing more dangerous than the cameraman of the Independent Press
Service, who had hired a step-ladder, and got it set up in a corner
of the room, ready for any climax! A fine piece of stage management,
said his jealous rivals; others in the crowd were sure it was a put
up job between Carpenter and Korwsky. But the labor leaders knew the
little tailor, and they believed. After that there was no doubt
about Carpenter's being a speaker at the mass-meeting!



XXXII


It came time when the rest of us were ready for dinner, but
Carpenter said that he wanted to pray. Apparently, whenever he was
tired, and had work to do he prayed. He told me that he would find
his own way to Grant Hall, the place of the mass-meeting; but
somehow, I didn't like the idea of his walking through the streets
alone. I said I would call for him at seven-thirty and made him
promise not to leave the Labor Temple until that hour.

I cast about in my mind for a body-guard, and bethought me of old
Joe. His name is Joseph Camper, and he played centre-rush with my
elder brother in the days before they opened up the game, and when
beef was what counted. Old Joe has shoulders like the biggest hams
in a butcher shop, and you can trust him like a Newfoundland dog. I
knew that if I asked him not to let anybody hurt my friend, he
wouldn't--and this regardless of the circumstance of my friend's
not wearing pants. Old Joe knows nothing about religion or
sociology--only wrestling and motor-cars, and the price of wholesale
stationery.

So I phoned him to meet me, and we had dinner, and at seven-thirty
sharp our taxi crew drew up at the Labor Temple. Half a minute
later, who should come walking down the street but Everett, T-S's
secretary! “I thought I'd take the liberty,” he said,
apologetically. “I thought Mr. Carpenter might say something worth
while, and you'd be glad to have a transcript of his speech.”

“Why, that's very kind of you,” I answered, “I didn't know you were
interested in him.”

“Well, I didn't know it myself, but I seem to be; and besides, he
told me to follow him.”

I went upstairs, and found the stranger waiting in the room where I
had left him. I put myself on one side of him, and the
ex-centre-rush on the other, with Everett respectfully bringing up
the rear, and so we walked to Grant Hall. Many people stared at us,
and a few followed, but no one said anything--and thank God, there
was nothing resembling a mob! I took my prophet to the stage
entrance of the hall, and got him into the wings; and there was a
pathetically earnest lady waiting to give him a tract on the horrors
of vivisection, and an old gentleman with a white beard and palsied
hands, inviting him to a spiritualistic seance. Funniest of all,
there was Aunt Caroline's prophet, the author of the “Eternal
Bible,” with his white robes and his permanent wave, and his little
tribute of carrots and onions wrapped in a newspaper. I decided that
these were Carpenter's own kind of troubles, and I left him to
attend to them, and strolled out to have a look at the audience.

The hall was packed, both the floor and the galleries; there must
have been three thousand people. I noted a big squad of police, and
wondered what was coming; for in these days you can never tell
whether any public meeting is to be allowed to start, and still less
if it is to be allowed to finish. However, the crowd was orderly,
the only disturber being some kind of a Socialist trying to sell
literature.

I saw Mary Magna come in, with Laura Lee, another picture actress,
and Mrs. T-S. They found seats; and I looked for the magnate, and
saw him talking to some one near the door. I strolled back to speak
to him, and recognized the other man as Westerly, secretary of the
Merchants' and Manufacturers' Association. I knew what he was there
for--to size up this new disturber Of the city's peace, and perhaps
to give the police their orders.

It was not my wish to overhear the conversation, but it worked out
that way, partly because it is hard not to overhear T-S, and partly
because I stopped in surprise at the first words: “Good Gawd, Mr.
Vesterly, vy should I vant to give money to strikers? Dat's nuttin'
but fool newspaper talk. I vent to see de man, because Mary Magna
told me he vas a vunderful type, and I said I'd pay him a tousand
dollars on de contract. You know vot de newspapers do vit such
tings!”

“Then the man isn't a friend of yours?” said the other.

“My Gawd, do I make friends vit every feller vot I hire because he
looks like a character part?”

At this point there came up Rankin, one of T-S's directors. “Hello!”
 said he. “I thought I'd come to hear your friend the prophet.”

“Friend?” said T-S. “Who told you he's a friend o' mine?”

“Why, the papers said--”

“Vell, de papers 're nutty!”

And then came one of the strikers who had been in the
soup-kitchen--a fresh young fellow, proud to know a great man. “How
dy'do, Mr. T-S? I hear our friend, Mr. Carpenter, is going--”

“Cut out dis friend stuff!” cried T-S, irritably. “He may be
yours--he ain't mine!”

I strolled up. “Hello, T-S!” I said.

“Oh, Billy! Hello!”

“So you've denied him three times!”

“Vot you mean?”

“Three times--and the cock hasn't crowed yet! That man's a prophet
for sure, T-S!”

The magnate pretended not to understand, but the deep flush on his
features gave him away.

“How dy'do, Mr. Westerly,” I said. “What do you think of Mr. T-S in
the role of the first pope?”

“You mean he's going to act?” inquired the other, puzzled.

“Come off!” exclaimed Rankin, who knew better, of course.

“He's going to be St. Peter,” I insisted, “and hold the keys to the
golden gate. He's planning a religious play, you know, for this
fellow Carpenter. Maybe he might cast Mr. Westerly for a part--say
Pontius Pilate.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” said the secretary of our “M. and M.” “Pretty good!
Ha, ha, ha! Gimme a chance at these bunk-shooters--I'll shut 'em up,
you bet!”



XXXIII


The chairman of the meeting was a man named Brown, the president of
the city's labor council. He was certainly respectable enough, prosy
and solemn. But he was deeply moved on this question of clubbing
strikers' heads; and you could see that the crowd was only waiting
for a chance to shout its indignation. The chairman introduced the
president of the Restaurant Workers, a solid citizen whom you would
have taken for a successful grocer. He told about what had happened
last night at Prince's; and then he told about the causes of the
strike, and the things that go on behind the scenes in big
restaurants. I had been to Prince's many times in my life, but I had
never been behind the scenes, nor had I ever before been to a
labor-meeting. I must admit that I was startled. The things they put
into the hashes! And the distressing habit of unorganized waiters,
when robbed of their tips or otherwise ill-treated, to take it out
by spitting into the soup!

A couple of other labor men spoke, and then came James, the
carpenter with a religious streak. He had a harsh, rasping voice,
and a way of poking a long bony finger at the people he was
impressing. He was desperately in earnest, and it caused him to
swallow a great deal, and each time his Adam's apple would jump up.
“I'm going to read you a newspaper clipping,” he began; and I
thought it was Judge Wollcott's injunction again, but it was a story
about one of our social leaders, Mrs. Alinson Pakenham, who has four
famous Pekinese spaniels, worth six thousand dollars each, and
weighing only eight ounces--or is it eighty ounces?--I'm not sure,
for I never was trusted to lift one of the wretched little brutes.
Anyhow, their names are Fe, Fi, Fo, and Fum, and they have each
their own attendant, and the four have a private limousine in which
to travel, and they dine off a service of gold plate. And here were
hundreds of starving strikers, with their wives, also starving; and
a couple of thousand other workers in factories and on ranches who
were in process of having their wages “deflated.” The orator quoted
a speech of Algernon de Wiggs before the Chamber of Commerce,
declaring that the restoration of prosperity, especially in
agriculture, depended upon “deflation,” and this alone; and suddenly
James, the carpenter with a religious streak, launched forth:

“Go to now, you rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that are
coming upon you! Your riches are corrupted, and your garments are
moth-eaten! Your gold and silver is cankered; and the rust on it
shall be a witness against you, and shall eat your flesh as if it
were fire. You have heaped treasure together for the last days.
Behold the hire of the laborers, who have reaped your fields; you
have kept it back by fraud, and the cries of the reapers have
entered into the ears of the Lord! You have lived in pleasure on the
earth, and been wanton; you have nourished your hearts, as in a day
of slaughter. You have condemned and killed the just--”

At this point in the tirade, my old friend the ex-centre-rush, who
was standing in the wings with me, turned and whispered: “For God's
sake, Billy, what kind of a Goddamn Bolshevik stunt is this,
anyhow?”

I answered: “Hush, you dub! He's quoting from the Bible!”



XXXIV


President Brown of the Western City Labor Council arose to perform
his next duty as chairman. Said he:

“The next speaker is a stranger to most of you, and he is also a
stranger to me. I do not know what his doctrine is, and I assume no
responsibility for it. But he is a man who has proven his friendship
for labor, not by words, but by very unusual deeds. He is a man of
remarkable personality, and we have asked him to make what
suggestions he can as to our problems. I have pleasure in
introducing Mr. Carpenter.”

Whereupon the prophet fresh from God arose from his chair, and come
slowly to the front of the platform. There was no applause, but a
silence made part of curiosity and part of amazement. His figure,
standing thus apart, was majestic; and I noted a curious thing--a
shining as of light about his head. It was so clear and so beautiful
that I whispered to Old Joe: “Do you see that halo?”

“Go on, Billy!” said the ex-centre-rush. “You're getting nutty!”

“But it's plain as day, man!”

I felt some one touch my arm, and saw the little lady of the
anti-vivisection tracts peering past me. “Do you see his aura?” she
whispered, excitedly.

“Is that what it is?”

“Yes. It's purple. That denotes spirituality.”

I thought to myself, “Good Lord, am I getting to be that sort?”

Carpenter began to speak, quietly, in his grave, measured voice. “My
brothers!” He waited for some time, as if that were enough; as if
all the problems of life would be solved, if only men would
understand those two words. “My brothers: I am, as your chairman
says, a stranger to this world of yours. I do not understand your
vast machines and your complex arts. But I know the souls of men and
women; when I meet greed, and pride, and cruelty, the enslavements
of the flesh, they cannot lie to me. And I have walked about the
streets of your city, and I know myself in the presence of a people
wandering in a wilderness. My children!--broken-hearted, desolate,
and betrayed--poorest when you are rich, loneliest when you throng
together, proudest when you are most ignorant--my people, I call you
into the way of salvation!”

He stretched out his arms to them, and on his face and in his whole
look was such anguish, that I think there was no man in that whole
great throng so rooted in self-esteem that he was not shaken with
sudden awe. The prophet raised his hands in invocation: “Let us
pray!” He bowed his head, and many in the audience did the same.
Others stared at him in bewilderment, having long ago forgotten how
to pray. Here and there some one snickered.

“Oh, God, Our Father, we, Thy lost children, return to Thee, the
Giver of Life. We bring our follies and our greeds, and cast them at
Thy feet. We do not like the life we have lived. We wish to be those
things which for long ages we have dreamed in vain. Wilt Thou show
the way?”

His hands sank to his sides, and he raised his head. “Such is the
prayer. What is the answer? It has been made known: Ask, and it
shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be
opened unto you. For everyone that asketh receiveth; and he that
seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.--These
are ancient words, by many forgotten. What do they mean? They mean
that we are children of our Father, and not slaves of earthly
masters. Would a man make a slave of his own child? And shall man be
more righteous than his Creator?

“My brothers: You are hungry, and in need, and your children cry for
bread; do I bid you feed them upon words? Not so; but the life of
men is made by the will of men, and that which exists in steel and
stone existed first in thought. If your thought is mean and base,
your world is a place of torment; if your thought is true and
generous, your world is free.

“There was once a man who owned much land, and upon it he built
great factories, and many thousand men toiled for him, and he grew
fat upon the product of their labor, and his heart was high. And it
came to pass that his workers rebelled; and he hired others, and
they shot down the workers, so that the rest returned to their
labor. And the master said: The world is mine, and none can oppose
me. But one day there arose among the workers a man who laughed. And
his laughter spread, until all the thousands were laughing; they
said, We are laughing at the thought that we should work and you
take the fruit of our labor. He ordered his troops to shoot them,
but his troops were also laughing, and he could not withstand the
laughter of so many men; he laughed also, and said, let us end this
foolish thing.

“Is there a man among you who can say, I am worthy of freedom? That
man shall save the world. And I say to you: Make ready your hearts
for brotherhood; for the hour draws near, and it is a shameful thing
when man is not worthy of his destiny. A man may serve with his
body, and yet be free, but he that is a slave in his soul admires
the symbols of mastery, and lusts after its fruits.

“What are the fruits of mastery? They are pride and pomp, they are
luxury and wantoness and the shows of power. And who is there among
you that can say to himself, these things have no roots in my heart?
That man is great, and the deliverance of the world is the act of
his will.”



XXXV


The speaker paused, and turned; his gaze swept the platform, and
those seated on it. Said he: “You are the representatives of
organized labor. I do not know your organization, therefore I ask:
For what are you united? Is it to follow in the footsteps of your
masters, and bind others as they have bound you?”

He waited for an answer, and the chairman, upon whom his gaze was
fixed, cried, “No!” Others also cried, “No!” and the audience took
it up with fervor. Carpenter turned to them. “Then I say to you:
Break down in your hearts and in the hearts of your fellows the
worship of those base things which mastership has brought into the
world. If a man pile up food while others starve, is not this evil?
If a woman deck herself with clothing to her own discomfort, is not
this folly? And if it be folly, how shall it be admired by you, to
whom it brings starvation and despair?

“Before me sit young women of the working class. Say to yourselves:
I tear from my fingers the jewels which are the blood and tears of
my fellow-men; I wash the paint from my face, and from my head and
my bosom I take the silly feathers and ribbons. I dare to be what I
am. I dare to speak truth in a world of lies. I dare to deal
honestly with men and women.

“Before me sit young men of the working-class. I say to you: Love
honest women. Do not love harlots, nor imitations of harlots. Do not
admire the idle women of the ruling class, nor those who ape them,
and thereby glorify them. Do not admire languid limbs and pouting
lips and the signs of haughtiness and vanity, your own enslavements.

“A tree is known by the fruit it gives; and the masters are known by
the lives they give to their servants. They are known by misery and
unemployment, by plague and famine, by wars, and the slaughter of
the people. Let judgment be pronounced upon them!

“You have heard it said: Each for himself, and the devil take the
hindmost. But I say to you: Each for all, and the hindmost is your
charge. I say to you: If a man will not work, let him be the one
that hungers; if he will not serve, let him be your criminal. For if
one man be idle, another man has been robbed; and if any man make
display of wealth, that man has the flesh of his brothers in his
stomach. Verily, he that lives at ease while others starve has
blood-guilt upon him; and he that despises his fellows has committed
the sin for which there is no pardon. He that lives for his own
glory is a wolf, and vengeance will hunt him down; but he that loves
justice and mercy, and labors for these things, dwells in the bosom
of my Father.

“Do not think that I am come to bring you ease and comfort; I am
come to bring strife and discontent to this world. For the time of
martyrdom draws near, and from your Father alone can you draw the
strength to endure your trials. You are hungry, but you will be
starved; you are prisoned in mills and mines, but you will be walled
up in dungeons; you are beaten with whips, but you will be beaten
with clubs, your flesh will be torn by bullets, your skin will be
burned with fire and your lungs poisoned with deadly gases--such is
the dominion of this world. But I say to you, resist in your hearts,
and none can conquer you, for in the hearts of men lies the past and
the future, and there is no power but love.

“You say: The world is evil, and men are base; why should I die for
them? Oh, ye of little faith, how many have died for you, and would
you cheat mankind? If there is to be goodness in the world, some one
must begin; who will begin with me?

“My brothers: I am come to lead you into the way of justice. I bid
you follow; not in passion and blind excitement, but as men firm in
heart and bent upon service. For the way of self-love is easy, while
the way of justice is hard. But some will follow, and their numbers
will grow; for the lives of men have grown ill beyond enduring, and
there must be a new birth of the spirit. Think upon my message; I
shall speak to you again, and the compulsion of my law will rest
upon you. The powers of this world come to an end, but the power of
good will is everlasting, and the body can sooner escape from its
own shadow than mankind can escape from brotherhood.”

He ceased, and a strange thing happened. Half the crowd rose to its
feet; and they cried, “Go, on!” Twice he tried to retire to his
seat, but they cried, “Go on, go on!” Said he, “My brothers, this is
not my meeting, there are other speakers--” But they cried, “We want
to hear you!” He answered, “You have your policies to decide, and
your leaders must have their say. But I will speak to you again
to-morrow. I am told that your city permits street speaking on
Western City Street on Sundays. In the morning I am going to church,
to see how they worship my Father in this city of many mobs; but at
noon I will hold a meeting on the corner of Fifth and Western City
Streets, and if you wish, you may hear me. Now I ask you to excuse
me, for I am weary.” He stood for a moment, and I saw that, although
he had never raised his voice nor made a violent gesture, his eyes
were dark and hollow with fatigue, and drops of sweat stood upon his
forehead.

He turned and left the platform, and Old Joe and I hurried around to
join him. We found him with Korwsky the little Russian tailor whose
son he had healed. Korwsky claimed him to spend the night at his
home; the friend with the delivery wagon was on hand, and they were
ready to start. I asked Carpenter to what church he was going in the
morning, and he startled me by the reply, “St. Bartholomew's.” I
promised that I would surely be on hand, and then Old Joe and I set
out to walk home.

“Well?” said I. “What do you think of him?”

The ex-centre-rush walked for a bit before he answered. “You know,
Billy boy,” said he, “we do lead rotten useless lives.”

“Good Lord!” I thought; it was the first sign of a soul I had ever
noted in Old Joe! “Why,” I argued, “you sell paper, and that's
useful, isn't it?”

“I don't know whether it is or not. Look at what's printed on
it--mostly advertisements and bunk.” And again we walked for a bit.
“By the way,” said the ex-centre-rush, “before he got through, I saw
that aura, or whatever you call it. I guess I'm getting nutty, too!”



XXXVI


The first thing I did on Sunday morning was to pick up the “Western
City Times,” to see what it had done to Carpenter. I found that he
had achieved the front page, triple column, with streamer head all
the way across the page:

PROPHET IN TOWN, HEALS SICK, RAVES AT RICH AMERICA IS MOBLAND,
ALLEGED IN RED RIOT OF TALK

There followed a half page story about Carpenter's strenuous day in
Western City, beginning with a “Bolshevik stump speech” to a mob of
striking tailors. It appears that the prophet had gone to the Hebrew
quarter of the city, and finding a woman railing at a butcher
because of “alleged extortion,” had begun a speech, inciting a mob,
so that the police reserves had to be called out, and a riot was
narrowly averted. From there the prophet had gone to the Labor
Temple, announcing himself to the reporters as “fresh from God,”
 with a message to “Mobland,” his name for what he prophesied America
would be under his rule. He had then healed a sick boy, the
performance being carefully staged in front of moving picture
cameras. The account of the “Times” did not directly charge that the
performance was a “movie stunt,” but it described it in a mocking
way which made it obviously that. The paper mentioned T-S in such a
way as to indicate him as the originator of the scheme, and it had
fun with Mary Magna, pawning her paste jewels. It published the
flash-light picture, and also a picture of Carpenter walking down
the street, trailed by his mob.

In another column was the climax, the “red riot of talk” at Grant
Hall. James, the striking carpenter, had indulged in virulent and
semi-insane abuse of the rich; after which the new prophet had
stirred the mob to worse frenzies. The “Times” quoted sample
sentences, such as: “Do not think that I am come to bring you ease
and comfort; I am come to bring strife and disorder to this world.”

I turned to the editorial page, and there was a double-column
leader, made extra impressive by leads. “AN INFAMOUS BLASPHEMY,” was
the heading. Perhaps you have a “Times” in your own city; if so, you
will no doubt recognize the standard style:

“For many years this newspaper has been pointing out to the people
of Western City the accumulating evidence that the men who
manipulate the forces of organized labor are Anarchists at heart,
plotting to let loose the torch of red revolution over this fair
land. We have clearly showed their nefarious purpose to overthrow
the Statue of Liberty and set up in its place the Dictatorship of
the Walking Delegate. But, evil as we thought them, we were naive
enough to give them credit for an elemental sense of decency. Even
though they had no respect for the works of man, we thought at least
they would spare the works of God, the most sacred symbols of divine
revelation to suffering humanity. But yesterday there occurred in
this city a performance which for shameless insolence and
blasphemous perversion exceeds anything but the wildest flight of a
devil's imagination, and reveals the bosses of the Labor Trust as
wanton defilers of everything that decent people hold precious and
holy.

“What was the spectacle? A moving picture producer, moved by blind,
and we trust unthinking lust for gain, produces in our midst an
alleged 'prophet,' dressed in a costume elaborately contrived to
imitate and suggest a Sacred Presence which our respect for religion
forbids us to name; he brings this vile, perverted creature forward,
announcing himself to the newspapers as 'fresh from God,' and
mouthing phrases of social greed and jealousy with which for the
past few years the Hun-agents and Hun-lovers in our midst have made
us only too sickenly familiar. This monstrous parody of divine
compassion is escorted to that headquarters of Pro-Germanism and red
revolution, the Labor Temple, and there performs, in the presence of
moving picture cameras, a grotesque parody upon the laying on of
hands and the healing of the sick. The 'Times' presents a photograph
of this incredible infamy. We apologize to our readers for thus
aiding the designs of cunning publicity-seekers, but there is no
other way to make clear to the public the gross affront to decency
which has been perpetrated, and the further affronts which are being
planned. This appears to be a scheme for making a moving picture
'star'; this 'Carpenter'--note the silly pun--is to become the
latest sensation in million dollar movie dolls, and the American
public is to be invited to pay money to witness a story of sacred
things played by a real 'prophet' and worker of 'miracles'!”

“But the worst has yet to be told. The masters of the Labor Trust,
not to be outdone in bidding for unholy notoriety, had the insolence
to invite this blasphemous charlatan to their riot of revolutionary
ranting called a 'protest meeting.' He and other creatures of his
ilk, summoning the forces which are organizing red ruin in our city,
proceed to rave at the police and the courts for denying to mobs of
strikers the right to throw brickbats at honest workers looking for
jobs, and to hold the pistol of the boycott at the heads of
employers who dare to stand for American liberty and democracy! We
have heard much mouthing of class venom and hate in this community,
but never have our ears been affronted by anything so unpardonable
as this disguising of the doctrine of Lenin and Trotsky in the robes
of Christian revelation. This 'prophet fresh from God,' as he styles
himself, is a man of peace and brotherly love--oh, yes, of course!
We know these wolves in sheeps' clothing, these pacifists and lovers
of man with the gold of the Red International in their pockets, and
slavering from their tongues the fine phrases of idealism which
conveniently protect them from the strong hand of the law! We have
seen their bloody work for four years in Russia, and we tell them
that if they expect to prepare the confiscation of property and the
nationalization of women in this country while disguising themselves
in moving picture imitations of religion, they are grossly
underestimating the intelligence of the red-blooded citizens of this
great republic. We shall be much mistaken if the order-loving and
patriotic people of our Christian community do not find a way to
stamp their heel upon this vile viper before its venom shall have
poisoned the air we breathe.”



XXXVII


Then I picked up the “Examiner.” Our “Examiner” does not go in so
much for moral causes; it is more interested in getting circulation,
for which it relies upon sensation, and especially what it calls
“heart interest,” meaning sex. It had found what it wanted in this
story, as you may judge by the headlines:

MOVIE QUEEN PAWNS JEWELS FOR PROPHET OF GOD

Then followed a story of which Mary Magna was the centre, with T-S
and myself for background. The reporter had hunted out the Mexican
family with which Carpenter had spent the night, and he drew a
touching picture of Carpenter praying over Mary in this humble home,
and converting her to a better life. Would the “million dollar
vamp,” as the “Examiner” called her, now take to playing only
religious parts? Mary was noncommittal on the point; and pending her
decision, the “Examiner” published her portraits in half a dozen of
her most luxurious roles--for example, as Salome after taking off
the seventh veil. Side by side with Carpenter, that had a real
“punch,” you may believe!

The telephone rang, and there was the voice of T-S, fairly raving.
He didn't mind the “Examiner” stuff; that was good business, but
that in the “Times”--he was going to sue the “Times” for a million
dollars, by God, and would I back him in his claim that he had not
put Carpenter up to the healing business?

After a bit, the magnate began apologizing for his repudiation of
the prophet. He was in a position, just now with these hard times,
where the Wall Street crowd could ruin him if he got in bad with
them. And then he told me a curious story. Last night, after the
meeting, young Everett, his secretary, had come to him and asked if
he could have a couple of months' leave of absence without pay. He
was so much interested in Carpenter that he wanted to follow him and
help him!

“Y' know, Billy,” said the voice over the phone, “y' could a'
knocked me over vit a fedder! Dat young feller, he vas alvays so
quiet, and such a fine business feller, I put him in charge of all
my collections. I said to him, 'Vot you gonna do?' And he said, 'I
gonna learn from Mr. Carpenter.' Says I, 'Vot you gonna learn?' and
he says, 'I gonna learn to be a better man.' Den he vaits a minute,
and he says, 'Mr. T-S, he _told_ me to foller him!' J' ever hear de
like o' dat?”

“What did you say?”

“Vot could I say? I vanted to say, 'Who's givin' you de orders?' But
I couldn't, somehow! I hadda tell him to go ahead, and come back
before he forgot all my business.”

I dressed, and had my breakfast, and drove to St. Bartholomew's. It
was a November morning, bright and sunny, as warm as summer; and it
is always such a pleasure to see that goodly company of ladies and
gentlemen, so perfectly groomed, so perfectly mannered, breathing a
sense of peace and well being. Ah, that wonderful sense of well
being! “God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world!” And what a
curious contrast with the Labor Temple! For a moment I doubted
Carpenter; surely these ladies with their decorative bonnets, their
sweet perfumes, their gowns of rose and lilac and other pastel
shades--surely they were more important life-products than women in
frowsy and dowdy imitation clothes! Surely it was better to be
serene and clean and pleasant, than to be terrible and bewildered,
sick and quarrelsome! I was seized by a frenzy, a sort of
instinctive animal lust for this life of ease and prettiness. No
matter if those dirty, raucous-voiced hordes of strikers, and others
of their “ilk”--as the “Times” phrased it--did have to wash my
clothes and scrub my floors, just so that _I_ stayed clean and
decent!

I bowed to a score or two of the elegant ladies, and to their
escorts in shiny top hats and uncreased kid gloves, and went into
the exquisite church with its glowing stained glass window, and
looked up over the altar--and there stood Carpenter! I tell you, it
gave me a queer shock. There he was, up in the window, exactly where
he had always been; I thought I had suddenly wakened from a dream.
There had been no “prophet fresh from God,” no mass-meeting at Grant
Hall, no editorial in the “Times”! But suddenly I heard a voice at
my elbow: “Billy, what is this awful thing you've been doing?” It
was my Aunt Caroline, and I asked what she meant, and she answered,
“That terrible prophet creature, and getting your name into the
papers!”

So I knew it was true, and I walked with my dear, sweet old auntie
down the aisle, and there sat Aunt Jennie, with her two lanky girls
who have grown inches every time I run into them; and also Uncle
Timothy. Uncle Timothy was my guardian until I came of age, so I am
a little in awe of him, and now I had to listen to his whispered
reproaches--it being the first principle of our family never to “get
into the papers.” I told him that it wasn't my fault I had been
knocked down by a mob, and surely I couldn't help it if this man
Carpenter found me while I was unconscious, and made me well. Nor
could I fail to be polite to my benefactor, and try to help him
about. My Uncle Timothy was amazed, because he had accepted the
“Times” story that it was all a “movie” hoax. Everybody will tell
you in Western City that they “never believe a word they read in the
'Times'”; but of course they do--they have to believe something, and
what else have they?

I was trying to think about that picture over the altar. Of course,
they would naturally have replaced it! I wondered who had found old
de Wiggs up there; I wondered if he knew about it, and if he had any
idea who had played that prank. I looked to his pew; yes, there he
sat, rosy and beaming, bland as ever! I looked for old Peter Dexter,
president of the Dexter Trust company--yes, he was in his pew,
wizened and hunched up, prematurely bald. And Stuyvesant Gunning, of
the Fidelity National--they were all here, the masters of the city's
finance and the pillars of “law and order.” Some wag had remarked if
you wanted to call directors' meeting after the service, you could
settle all the business of Western City in St. Bartholomew's!

The organ pealed and the white-robed choir marched in, bearing the
golden crosses, and followed by the Reverend Dr. Lettuce-Spray,
smooth-shaven, plump and beautiful, his eyes bent reverently on the
floor. They were singing with fervor that most orthodox of hymns:

The church's one foundation Is Jesus Christ, her Lord.

It is a beautiful old service, as you may know, and I had been
taught to love it and thrill to it as a little child, and we never
forget those things. Peace and propriety are its keynotes; order and
dignity, combined with sensuous charm. Everyone knows his part, and
it moves along like a beautiful machine. I knelt and prayed, and
then sat and listened, and then stood and sang--over and over for
perhaps three-quarters of an hour. We came to the hymn which
precedes the sermon, and turning to the number, we obediently
proclaimed:

The Son of God goes forth to war A kingly crown to gain: His
blood-red banner streams afar: Who follows in His train?

During the singing of the last verse, the Reverend Lettuce-Spray had
moved silently into the pulpit. After the choir had sung “Amen,” he
raised his hands in invocation--and at that awesome moment I saw
Carpenter come striding up the aisle!



XXXVIII


He knew just where he was going, and walked so fast that before
anyone had time to realize what was happening, he was on the altar
steps, and facing the congregation. You could hear the gasp of
amazement; he was so absolutely identical with the painted figure
over his head, that if he had remained still, you could not have
told which was painting and which was flesh and blood. The rector in
the pulpit stood with his mouth open, staring as if seeing a ghost.

The prophet stretched out both his hands, and pointed two accusing
fingers at the congregation. His voice rang out, stern and
commanding: “Let this mockery cease!” Again he cried: “What do ye
with my Name?” And pointing over his head: “Ye crucify me in stained
glass!”

There came murmurs from the congregation, the first mutterings of a
storm. “Oh! Outrageous! Blasphemy!”

“Blasphemy?” cried Carpenter. “Is it not written that God dwelleth
not in temples made with hands? Ye have built a temple to Mammon,
and defile the name of my Father therein!”

The storm grew louder. “This is preposterous!” exclaimed my uncle
Timothy at my side. And the Reverend Lettuce-Spray managed to find
his voice. “Sir, whoever you are, leave this church!”

Carpenter turned upon him. “You give orders to me--you who have
brought back the moneychangers into my Father's temple?” And
suddenly he faced the congregation, crying in a voice of wrath:
“Algernon de Wiggs! Stand up!”

Strange as it may seem, the banker rose in his pew; whether under
the spell of Carpenter's majestic presence, or preparing to rush at
him and throw him out, I could not be sure. The great banker's face
was vivid scarlet.

And Carpenter pointed to another part of the congregation. “Peter
Dexter! Stand up!” The president of the Dexter Trust Company also
arose, trembling as if with palsy, mumbling something, one could not
tell whether protest or apology.

“Stuyvesant Gunning! Stand up!” And the president of the Fidelity
National obeyed. Apparently Carpenter proposed to call the whole
roll of financial directors; but the procedure was halted suddenly,
as a tall, white-robed figure strode from its seat near the choir.
Young Sidney Simpkinson, assistant to the rector, went up to
Carpenter and took him by the arm.

“Leave this house of God,” he commanded.

The other faced him. “It is written, Thou shalt not take the name of
the Lord thy God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless
that taketh His name in vain.”

Young Simpkinson wasted no further words in parley. He was an
advocate of what is known as “muscular Christianity,” and kept
himself in trim playing on the parish basket-ball team. He flung his
strong arms about Carpenter, and half carrying him, half walking
him, took him down the steps and down the aisle. As he went,
Carpenter was proclaiming: “It is written, My house shall be called
a house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of thieves. He that
steals little is called a pickpocket, but he that steals much is
called a pillar of the church. Verily, he that deprives the laborer
of the fruit of his toil is more dangerous than he that robs upon
the highway; and he that steals the state and the powers of
government is the father of all thieves.”

By that time, the prophet had been hustled two-thirds down the
aisle; and then came a new development. Unobserved by anyone, a
number of Carpenter's followers had come with him into the church;
and these, seeing the way he was being handled, set up a cry: “For
shame! For shame!” I saw Everett, secretary to T-S, and Korwsky,
secretary of the tailor's union; I saw some one leap at Everett and
strike him a ferocious blow in the teeth, and two other men leap
upon the little Russian and hurl him to the ground.

I started up, involuntarily. “Oh, shame! Shame!” I cried, and would
have rushed out into the aisle. But I had to pass my uncle, and he
had no intention of letting me make myself a spectacle. He threw his
arms about me, and pinned me against the pew in front; and as he is
one of the ten ranking golfers at the Western City Country Club, his
embrace carried authority. I struggled, but there I stayed,
shouting, “For shame! For shame!” and my uncle exclaiming, in a
stern whisper, “Shut up! Sit down, you fool!” and my Aunt Caroline
holding onto my coat-tails, crying, and my aunt Jennie threatening
to faint.

The melee came quickly to an end, for the men of the congregation
seized the half dozen disturbers and flung them outside, and mounted
guard to make sure they did not return. I sank back into my seat, my
worthy uncle holding my arm tightly with both hands, lest I should
try to make my escape over the laps of Aunt Caroline and Aunt
Jennie.

All this time the Reverend Lettuce-Spray had been standing in the
pulpit, making no sound. Now, as the congregation settled back into
order, he said, with the splendid, conscious self-possession of one
who can remain “equal to the occasion”: “We will resume the
service.” And he opened his portfolio, and spread out his manuscript
before him, and announced:

“Our text for the morning is the fifth chapter of the gospel
according to St. Matthew, the thirty-ninth and fortieth verses: 'But
I say unto you, that ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite
thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if any man
shall sue thee at law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy
cloak also.”



XXXIX


I sat through the sermon, and the offertory, and the recessional.
After that my uncle tried to detain me, to warn and scold me; but he
no longer used physical force, and nothing but that would have held
me. At the door I asked one of the ushers what had become of the
prophet, thinking he might be in jail. But the answer was that the
gang had gone off, carrying their wounded; so I ran round the corner
to where my car was parked, and within ten minutes I was on Western
City Street, where Carpenter had announced that he would speak.

There had been nothing said about the proposed meeting in the
papers, and no one knew about it save those who had been present at
Grant Hall. But it looked as if they had told everyone they knew,
and everyone they had told had come. The wide street was packed
solid for a block, and in the midst of this throng stood Carpenter,
upon a wagon, making a speech.

There was no chance to get near, so I bethought me of an alley which
ran parallel to the street. There was an obscure hotel on the
street, and I entered it through the rear entrance, and had no
trouble in persuading the clerk to let me join some of the guests of
the hotel who were watching the scene from the second story windows.

The first thing which caught my attention was the figure of Everett,
seated on the floor of the wagon from which the speech was being
made. I saw that his face was covered with blood; I learned later
that he had three teeth knocked out, and his nose broken.
Nevertheless, there he was with his stenographer's notebook, taking
down the prophet's words. He told me afterwards that he had taken
even what Carpenter said in the church. “I've an idea he won't last
very long,” was the way he put it; “and if they should get rid of
him, every word he's said will be precious. Anyhow, I'm going to get
what I can.”

Also I saw Korwsky, lying on the floor of the wagon, evidently
knocked out; and two other men whom I did not know, nursing battered
and bloody faces. Having taken all that in at a glance, I gave my
attention to what Carpenter was saying.

He was discussing churches and those who attend them. Later on, my
attention was called to the curious fact that his discourse was
merely a translation into modern American of portions of the
twenty-third chapter of St. Matthew; a free adaptation of those
ancient words to present day practices and conditions. But I had no
idea of this while I listened; I was shocked by what seemed to me a
furious tirade, and the guests of the hotel were even more
shocked--I think they would have taken to throwing things out of the
windows at the orator, had it not been for their fear of the crowd.
Said Carpenter:

“The theologians and scholars and the pious laymen fill the leisure
class churches, and it would be all right if you were to listen to
what they preach, and do that; but don't follow their actions, for
they never practice what they preach. They load the backs of the
working-classes with crushing burdens, but they themselves never
move a finger to carry a burden, and everything they do is for show.
They wear frock-coats and silk hats on Sundays, and they sit at the
speakers' tables at the banquets of the Civic Federation, and they
occupy the best pews in the churches, and their doings are reported
in all the papers; they are called leading citizens and pillars of
the church. But don't you be called leading citizens, for the only
useful man is the man who produces. (Applause.) And whoever exalts
himself shall be abased, and whoever humbles himself shall be
exalted.

“Woe unto you, doctors of divinity and Catholics, hypocrites! for
you shut up the kingdom of heaven against men; you don't go in
yourself and you don't let others go in. Woe unto you, doctors of
divinity and Presbyterians, hypocrites! for you foreclose mortgages
on widows' houses, and for a pretense you make long prayers. For
this you will receive the greater damnation! Woe unto you, doctors
of divinity and Methodists, hypocrites! for you send missionaries to
Africa to make one convert, and when you have made him, is twice as
much a child of hell as yourselves. (Applause.) Woe unto you, blind
guides, with your subtleties of doctrine, your transubstantiation
and consubstantiation and all the rest of it; you fools and blind!
Woe unto you, doctors of divity and Episcopalians, hypocrites! for
you drop your checks into the collection-plate and you pay no heed
to the really important things in the Bible, which are justice and
mercy and faith in goodness. You blind guides, who choke over a fly
and swallow a flivver! (Laughter.) Woe unto you, doctors of divinity
and Anglicans, hypocrites! for you dress in immaculate clothing kept
clean by the toil of frail women, but within you are full of
extortion and excess. You blind high churchmen, clean first your
hearts, so that the clothes you wear may represent you. Woe unto
you, doctors of divinity and Baptists, hypocrites! for you are like
marble tombs which appear beautiful on the outside, but inside are
full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness. Even so you appear
righteous to men, but inside you are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.
(Applause.) Woe unto you doctors of divinity and Unitarians,
hypocrites! because you erect statues to dead reformers, and put
wreaths upon the tombs of old-time martyrs. You say, if we had been
alive in those days, we would not have helped to kill those good
men. That ought to show you how to treat us at present. (Laughter.)
But you are the children of those who killed the good men; so go
ahead and kill us too! You serpents, you generation of vipers, how
can you escape the damnation of hell?”



XL


When Carpenter stopped speaking, his face was dripping with sweat,
and he was pale. But the eager crowd would not let him go. They
began to ask him questions. There were some who wanted to know what
he meant by saying that he came from God, and some who wanted to
know whether he believed in the Christian religion. There were
others who wanted to know what he thought about political action,
and if he really believed that the capitalists would give up without
using force. There was a man who had been at the relief kitchen, and
noted that he ate soup with meat in it, and asked if this was not
using force against one's fellow creatures. The old gentleman who
represented spiritualism was on hand, asking if the dead are still
alive, and if so, where are they?

Then, before the meeting was over, there came a sick man to be
healed; and o

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