I heard a nasal voice from somewhere say:
"I know this pen. They're putting the girls with the prostitutes."
I heard clanging gongs outside and soon the banging of steel doors as more prisoners were put into cells. And little by little, through it all, I made out a low, eager murmur.
"Say," inquired a drunken old voice. "Who are all you damn fools? What is this party, anyhow?"
"It is a revolution!" a sharp little voice replied. And at that, from all sides other voices broke out. Then from his cell our musical friend again started up the singing, his strained tenor voice rising high over all. The song rose in volume, grew more intense.
"Heigh! Quit that noise!" a policeman shouted.
"Aw, let 'em alone," said another. "They'll soon work it off."
But we seemed to be only working it up. Up and up, song followed song, and then short impassioned speeches came out of cells, and there was applause. A voice asked each one of us to name his nationality, and we found we were Americans, Irish, Scotch and Germans, Italians and Norwegians, and three of us were Lascars and one of us was a Coolie. Then there were cheers for the working class all over the world, and after that a call for more singing. And now, as one of the songs died away, we heard from the woman's part of the jail the young girls singing in reply.
And slowly as I listened to those songs that rose and swelled and beat against those walls of steel, I felt once more the presence of that great spirit of the crowd.
"That spirit will go on," I thought. "No jail can stop the thing it feels!"