Chapter 10

If Peter had stood alone, would he have dared so perilous a dream as this? Or was he a “piker”; a little fellow, the victim of his own fears and vanities? Anyhow, Peter was not alone; he had Nell, and it was necessary that he should pose before Nell as a bold and desperate blade. Just as in the old days in the Temple, it was necessary that Peter should get plenty of money, in order to take Nell away from another man. So he said all right, he would go in on that plan; and proceeded to discuss with Nell the various personalities he might use.

The most likely was Pat McCormick. “Mac,” with his grim, set face and his silent, secretive habits, fitted perfectly to Peter’s conception of a dynamiter. Also “Mac” was Peter’s personal enemy; “Mac” had just returned from his organizing trip in the oil fields, and had been denouncing Peter and gossiping about him in the various radical groups. “Mac” was the most dangerous Red of them all! He must surely be one of the dynamiters!

Another likely one was Joe Angell, whom Peter had met at a recent gathering of Ada Ruth’s “Anti-conscription League.” People made jokes about this chap’s name because he looked the part, with his bright blue eyes that seemed to have come out of heaven, and his bright golden hair, and even the memory of dimples in his cheeks. But when Joe opened his lips, you discovered that he was an angel from the nether regions. He was the boldest and most defiant of all the Reds that Peter had yet come upon. He had laughed at Ada Ruth and her sentimental literary attitude toward the subject of the draft. It wasn’t writing poems and passing resolutions that was wanted; it wasn’t even men who would refuse to put on the uniform, but men who would take the guns that were offered to them, and drill themselves, and at the proper time face about and use the guns in the other direction. Agitating and organizing were all right in their place, but now, when the government dared challenge the workers and force them into the army, it was men of action that were needed in the radical movement.

Joe Angell had been up in the lumber country, and could tell what was the mood of the real workers, the “huskies” of the timberlands. Those fellows weren’t doing any more talking; they had their secret committees that were ready to take charge of things as soon as they had put the capitalists and their governments out of business. Meantime, if there was a sheriff or prosecuting attorney that got too gay, they would “bump him off.” This was a favorite phrase of “Blue-eyed Angell.” He would use it every half hour or so as he told about his adventures. “Yes,” he would say; “he got gay, but we bumped him off all right.”

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So Nell and Peter settled down to work out the details of their “frame-up” on Joe Angell and Pat McCormick. Peter must get a bunch of them together and get them to talking about bombs and killing people; and then he must slip a note into the pockets of all who showed interest, calling them to meet for a real conspiracy. Nell would write the notes, so that no one could fasten the job onto Peter. She pulled out a pencil and a little pad from her handbag, and began: “If you really believe in a bold stroke for the workers’ rights, meet me--” And then she stopped. “Where?”

“In the studios,” put in Peter.

And Nell wrote, “In the studios. Is that enough?”

“Room 17.” Peter knew that this was the room of Nikitin, a Russian painter who called himself an Anarchist.

So Nell wrote “Room 17,” and after further discussion she added: “Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. No names and no talk. Action!” This time was set because Peter recollected that there was to be a gathering of the “wobblies” in their headquarters this very evening. It was to be a business meeting, but of course these fellows never got together very long without starting the subject of “tactics.” There was a considerable element among them who were dissatisfied with what they called the “supine attitude” of the organization, and were always arguing for action. Peter was sure he would be able to get some of them interested in the idea of a dynamite conspiracy.

As it turned out, Peter had no trouble at all; the subject was started without his having to put in a word. Were the workers to be driven like sheep to the slaughter, and the “wobblies” not to make one move? So asked the “Blue-eyed Angell,” vehemently, and added that if they were going to move, American City was as good a place as any. He had talked with enough of the rank and file to realize that they were ready for action; all they needed was a battle-cry and an organization to guide them.

Henderson, the big lumber-jack, spoke up. That was just the trouble; you couldn’t get an organization for such a purpose. The authorities would get spies among you, they would find out what you were doing, and drive you underground.

“Well,” cried Joe, “we’ll go underground!”

“Yes,” agreed the other, “but then your organization goes bust. Nobody knows who to trust, everybody’s accusing the rest of being a spy.”

“Hell!” said Joe Angell. “I’ve been in jail for the movement, I’ll take my chances of anybody’s calling me a spy. What I’m not going to do is to sit down and see the workers driven to hell, because I’m so damn careful about my precious organization.”

When others objected, Angell rushed on still more vehemently. Suppose they did fail in a mass-uprising, suppose they were driven to assassination and terrorism? At least they would teach the exploiters a lesson, and take a little of the joy out of their lives.

Peter thought it would be a good idea for him to pose as a conservative just now. “Do you really think the capitalists would give up from fear?” he asked.

And the other answered: “You bet I do! I tell you if we’d made it understood that every congressman who voted this country into war would be sent to the front trenches, our country would still be at peace.”

“But,” put in Peter, deftly, “it ain’t the congressmen. It’s people higher up than them.”

“You bet,” put in Gus, the Swedish sailor. “You bet you! I name you one dozen big fellows in dis country--you make it clear if we don’t get peace dey all get killed--we get peace all right!”

So Peter had things where he wanted them. “Who are those fellows?” he asked, and got the crowd arguing over names. Of course they didn’t argue very long before somebody mentioned “Nelse” Ackerman, who was venomously hated by the Reds because he had put up a hundred thousand dollars of the Anti-Goober fund. Peter pretended not to know about Nelse; and Jerry Rudd, a “blanket-stiff” whose head was still sore from being cracked open in a recent harvesters’ strike, remarked that by Jesus, if they’d put a few fellows like that in the trenches, there’d be some pacifists in Ameriky sure enough all right.

It seemed almost as if Joe Angell had come there to back up Peter’s purpose. “What we want,” said he, “is a few fellows to fight as hard for themselves as they fight for the capitalists.”

“Yes,” assented Henderson, grimly. “We’re all so good--we wait till our masters tell us we can kill.”

That was the end of the discussion; but it seemed quite enough to Peter. He watched his chance, and one by one he managed to slip his little notes into the coat-pockets of Joe Angell, Jerry Rudd, Henderson, and Gus, the sailor. And then Peter made his escape, trembling with excitement. The great dynamite conspiracy was on! “They must be got rid of!” he was whispering to himself. “They must be got rid of by any means! It’s my duty I’m doing.”

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Peter had an appointment to meet Nell on a street corner at eleven o’clock that same night, and when she stepped off the street-car, Peter saw that she was carrying a suit-case. “Did you get your job done?” she asked quickly, and when Peter answered in the affirmative, she added: “Here’s your bomb!”

Peter’s jaw fell. He looked so frightened that she hastened to reassure him. It wouldn’t go off; it was only the makings of a bomb, three sticks of dynamite and some fuses and part of a clock. The dynamite was wrapped carefully, and there was no chance of its exploding--if he didn’t drop it! But Peter wasn’t much consoled. He had had no idea that Nell would go so far, or that he would actually have to handle dynamite. He wondered where and how she had got it, and wished to God he was out of this thing.

But it was too late now, of course. Said Nell: “You’ve got to get this suit-case into the headquarters, and you’ve got to get it there without anybody seeing you. They’ll be shut up pretty soon, won’t they?”

“We locked up when we left,” said Peter.

“And who has the key?”

“Grady, the secretary.”

“There’s no way you can get it?”

“I can get into the room,” said Peter, quickly. “There’s a fire escape, and the window isn’t tight. Some of us that know about it have got in that way when the place was locked.”

“All right,” said Nell. “We’ll wait a bit; we mustn’t take chances of anyone coming back.”

They started to stroll along the street, Nell still carrying the suit-case, as if distrusting the state of Peter’s nerves, Meantime she explained, “I’ve got two pieces of paper that we’ve got to plant in the room. One’s to be torn up and thrown into the trash-basket. It’s supposed to be part of a letter about some big plan that’s to be pulled off, and it’s signed `Mac.’ That’s for McCormick, of course. I had to type it, not having any sample of his handwriting. The other piece is a drawing; there’s no marks to show what it is, but of course the police’ll soon find out. It’s a plan of old Ackerman’s home, and there’s a cross mark showing his sleeping-porch. Now, what we want to do is to fix this on McCormick. Is there anything in the room that belongs to him?”

Peter thought, and at last remembered that in the bookshelves were some books which had been donated by McCormick, and which had his name written in. That was the trick! exclaimed Nell. They would hide the paper in one of these books, and when the police made a thorough search they would find it. Nell asked what was in these books, and Peter thought, and remembered that one was a book on sabotage. “Put the paper in that,” said Nell. “When the police find it, the newspapers’ll print the whole book.”

Peter’s knees were trembling so that he could hardly walk, but he kept reminding himself that he was a “he-man,” a 100% American, and that in these times of war every patriot must do his part. His part was to help rid the country of these Reds, and he must not flinch. They made their way to the old building in which the I. W. W. headquarters were located, and Peter climbed up on the fence and swung over to the fire-escape, and Nell very carefully handed the suit-case to him, and Peter opened the damaged window and slipped into the room.

He knew just where the cupboard was, and quickly stored the suit-case in the corner, and piled some odds and ends of stuff in front of it, and threw an old piece of canvas over it. He took out of his right-hand pocket a typewritten letter, and tore it into small pieces and threw them into the trash-basket. Then he took out of his left-hand pocket the other paper, with the drawing of Ackerman’s house. He went to the bookcase and with shaking fingers struck a match, picked out the little redbound book entitled “Sabotage,” and stuck the paper inside, and put the book back in place. Then he climbed out on the fire-escape and dropped to the ground, jumped over the fence, and hurried down the alley to where Nell was waiting for him.

“It’s for my country!” he was whispering to himself.

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The job was now complete, except for getting McCormick to the rendezvous next morning. Nell had prepared and would mail in the postoffice a special delivery letter addressed to McCormick’s home. This would be delivered about seven o’clock in the morning, and inside was a typewritten note, as follows:

“Mac: Come to Room 17 of the studios at eight in the morning. Very important. Our plan is all ready, my part is done. Joe.”

Nell figured that McCormick would take this to be a message from Angell. He wouldn’t know what it was about, but he’d be all the more certain to come and find out. The essential thing was that the raid by the detectives must occur the very minute the conspirators got together, for as soon as they compared notes they would become suspicious, and might scatter at once. McGivney must have his men ready; he must be notified and have plenty of time to get them ready.

But there was a serious objection to this--if McGivney had time, he would demand a talk with Peter, and Nell was sure that Peter couldn’t stand a cross-questioning at McGivney’s hands. Peter, needless to say, agreed with her; his heart threatened to collapse at the thought of such an ordeal. What Peter really wanted to do was to quit the whole thing right there and then; but he dared not say so, he dared not face the withering scorn of his confederate. Peter clenched his hands and set his teeth, and when he passed a street light he turned his face away, so that Nell might not read the humiliating terror written there. But Nell read it all the same; Nell believed that she was dealing with a quivering, pasty-faced coward, and proceeded on that basis; she worked out the plans, she gave Peter his orders, and she stuck by him to see that he carried them out.

Peter had McGivney’s home telephone number, which he was only supposed to use in the most desperate emergency. He was to use it now, and tell McGivney that he had just caught some members of the I. W. W., with Pat McCormick as their leader, preparing to blow up some people with dynamite bombs. They had some bombs in a suit-case in their headquarters, and were just starting out with other bombs in their pockets. Peter must follow them, otherwise he would lose them, and some crime might be committed before he could interfere. McGivney must have his agents ready with automobiles to swoop down upon any place that Peter indicated. Peter would follow up the conspirators, and phone McGivney again at the first opportunity he could find.

Nell was especially insistent that when Peter spoke to McGivney he must have only a moment to spare, no time for questions, and he must not stop to answer any. He must be in a state of trembling excitement; and Peter was sure that would be very easy! He rehearsed over to Nell every word he must say, and just how he was to cut short the conversation and hang up the receiver. Then he went into an all night drug-store just around the corner from the headquarters, and from a telephone booth called McGivney’s home.

It was an apartment house, and after some delay Peter heard the voice of his employer, surly with sleep. But Peter waked him up quickly. “Mr. McGivney, there’s a dynamite plot!”

“_What_?”

“I. W. W. They’ve got bombs in a suit-case! They’re starting off to blow somebody up tonight.”

“By God! What do you mean? Who?”

“I dunno yet. I only heard part of it, and I’ve got to go. They’re starting, I’ve got to follow them. I may lose them and it’ll be too late. You hear me, I’ve got to follow them!”

“I hear you. What do you want me to do?”

“I’ll phone you again the first chance I get. You have your men ready, a dozen of them! Have automobiles, so you can come quick. You get me?”

“Yes, but--”

“I can’t talk any more, I may lose them, I haven’t a second! You be at your phone, and have your men ready--everything ready. You get me?”

“Yes, but listen, man! You sure you’re not mistaken?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure!” cried Peter, his voice mounting in excitement. “They’ve got the dynamite, I tell you--everything! It’s a man named Nelse.”

“Nelse what?”

“The man they’re going to kill. I’ve got to go now, you get ready. Good-bye!” And Peter hung up the receiver. He had got so excited over the part he was playing that he sprang up and ran out of the drug-store, as if he really had to catch up with some I. W. W. conspirators carrying a dynamite bomb!

But there was Nell, and they strolled down the street again. They came to a small park, and sat on one of the benches, because Peter’s legs would no longer hold him up. Nell walked about to make sure there was no one on any of the other benches; then she came back and rehearsed the next scene with Peter. They must go over it most carefully, because before long the time was coming when Peter wouldn’t have Nell to coach him, and must be prepared to stand on his own legs. Peter knew that, and his legs failed him. He wanted to back down, and declare that he couldn’t go ahead with it; he wanted to go to McGivney and confess everything. Nell divined what was going on in his soul, and wished to save him the humiliation of having it known. She sat close to him on the bench, and put her hand on his as she talked to him, and presently Peter felt a magic thrill stealing over him. He ventured to put his arm about Nell, to get still more of this delicious sensation; and Nell permitted the embraces, for the first time she even encouraged them. Peter was a hero now, he was undertaking a bold and desperate venture; he was going to put it thru like a man, and win Nell’s real admiration. “Our country’s at war!” she exclaimed. “And these devils are stopping it!”

So pretty soon Peter was ready to face the whole world; Peter was ready to go himself and blow up the king of American City with a dynamite bomb! In that mood he stayed thru the small hours of the morning, sitting on the bench clasping his girl in his arms, and wishing she would give a little more time to heeding his love-making, and less to making him recite his lessons.

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So the day began to break and the birds to sing. The sun rose on Peter’s face gray with exhaustion and the Irish apples in Nell’s cheeks badly faded. But the time for action had come, and Peter went off to watch McCormick’s home until seven o’clock, when the special delivery letter was due to arrive.

It came on time, and Peter saw McCormick come out of the house and set forth in the direction of the studios. It was too early for the meeting, so Peter figured that he would stop to get his breakfast; and sure enough “Mac” turned into, a little dairy lunch, and Peter hastened to the nearest telephone and called his boss.

“Mr. McGivney,” he said, “I lost those fellows last night, but now I got them again. They decided not to do anything till today. They’re having a meeting this morning and we’ve a chance to nab them all.”

“Where?” demanded McGivney.

“Room seventeen in the studios; but don’t let any of your men go near there, till I make sure the right fellows are in.”

“Listen here, Peter Gudge!” cried McGivney. “Is this straight goods?”

“My God!” cried Peter. “What do you take me for? I tell you they’ve got loads of dynamite.”

“What have they done with it?”

“They’ve got some in their headquarters. About the rest I dunno. They carried it off and I lost them last night. But then I found a note in my pocket--they were inviting me to come in.”

“By God!” exclaimed the rat-faced man.

“We’ve got the whole thing, I tell you! Have you got your men ready?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, have them come to the corner of Seventh and Washington Streets, and you come to Eighth and Washington. Meet me there just as quick as you can.”

“I get you,” was the answer, and Peter hung up, and rushed off to the appointed rendezvous. He was so nervous that he had to sit on the steps of a building. As time passed and McGivney didn’t appear, wild imaginings began to torment him. Maybe McGivney hadn’t understood him correctly! Or maybe his automobile might break down! Or his telephone might have got out of order at precisely the critical moment! He and his men would arrive too late, they would find the trap sprung, and the prey escaped.

Ten minutes passed, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes. At last an automobile rushed up the street, and McGivney stepped out, and the automobile sped on. Peter got McGivney’s eye, and then stepped back into the shelter of a doorway. McGivney followed. “Have you got them?” he cried.

“I d-d-dunno!” chattered Peter. “They s-s-said they were c-coming at eight!”

“Let me see that note!” commanded McGivney; so Peter pulled out one of Nell’s notes which he had saved for himself:

“If you really believe in a bold stroke for the workers’ rights, meet me in the studios, Room 17, tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. No names and no talk. Action!”

“You found that in your pocket?” demanded the other.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“And you’ve no idea who put it there.”

“N-no, but I think Joe Angell--”

McGivney looked at his watch. “You’ve got twenty minutes yet,” be said.

“You got the dicks?” asked Peter.

“A dozen of them. What’s your idea now?”

Peter stammered out his suggestions. There was a little grocery store just across the street from the entrance to the studio building. Peter would go in there, and pretend to get something to eat, and would watch thru the window, and the moment he saw the right men come in, he would hurry out and signal to McGivney, who would be in a drugstore at the next corner. McGivney must keep out of sight himself, because the “Reds” knew him as one of Guffey’s agents.

It wasn’t necessary to repeat anything twice. McGivney was keyed up and ready for business, and Peter hurried down the street, and stepped into the little grocery store without being observed by anyone. He ordered some crackers and cheese, and seated himself on a box by the window and pretended to eat. But his hands were trembling so that he could hardly get the food into his mouth; and this was just as well, because his mouth was dry with fright, and crackers and cheese are articles of diet not adapted to such a condition.

He kept his eyes glued on the dingy doorway of the old studio building, and presently--hurrah!--he saw McCormick coming down the street! The Irish boy turned into the building, and a couple of minutes later came Gus the sailor, and before another five minutes had passed here came Joe Angell and Henderson. They were walking quickly, absorbed in conversation, and Peter could imagine he heard them talking about those mysterious notes, and who could be the writer, and what the devil could they mean?

Peter was now wild with nervousness; he was afraid somebody in the grocery store would notice him, and he made desperate efforts to eat the crackers and cheese, and scattered the crumbs all over himself and over the floor. Should he wait for Jerry Rudd, or should he take those he had already? He had got up and started for the door, when he saw the last of his victims coming down the street. Jerry was walking slowly, and Peter couldn’t wait until he got inside. A car was passing, and Peter took the chance to slip out and bolt for the drug store. Before he had got half way there McGivney had seen him, and was on the run to the next corner.

Peter waited only long enough to see a couple of automobiles come whirling down the street, packed solid with husky detectives. Then he turned off and hurried down a side street. He managed to get a couple of blocks away, and then his nerves gave way entirely, and he sat down on the curbstone and began to cry--just the way little Jennie had cried when he told her he couldn’t marry her! People stopped to stare at him, and one benevolent old gentleman came up and tapped him on the shoulder and asked what was the trouble. Peter, between his tear-stained fingers, gasped: “My m-m-mother died!” And so they let him alone, and after a while he got up and hurried off again.

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