He stopped in the road and faced me. Throwing back his overcoat he pointed to a small red button on his coat lapel.
“They don't want me in Kilburn,” said he, “the mill men are strikin' there, and the bosses have got armed men on every corner. Oh, the capitalists are watchin' for me, all right.”
I cannot convey the strange excitement I felt. It seemed as though these words suddenly opened a whole new world around me—a world I had heard about for years, but never entered. And the tone in which he had used the word “capitalist!” I had almost to glance around to make sure that there were no ravening capitalists hiding behind the trees.
“So you are a Socialist,” I said.
“Yes,” he answered. “I'm one of those dangerous persons.”
First and last I have read much of Socialism, and thought about it, too, from the quiet angle of my farm among the hills, but this was the first time I had ever had a live Socialist on my arm. I could not have been more surprised if the stranger had said, “Yes, I am Theodore Roosevelt.”
One of the discoveries we keep making all our life long (provided we remain humble) is the humorous discovery of the ordinariness of the extraordinary. Here was this disrupter of society, this man of the red flag—here he was with his mild spectacled eyes and his furry ears wagging as he walked. It was unbelievable!—and the sun shining on him quite as impartially as it shone on me.
Coming at last to a pleasant bit of woodland, where a stream ran under the roadway, I said:
“Stranger, let's sit down and have a bite of luncheon.”
He began to expostulate, said he was expected in Kilburn.