Chapter 6

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!