"But since you will join the labor movement, then you must find out for yourself. I won't hold you back. Go, then, and look for your Mahatma!"
"But how am I to begin? You have so many friends—do you know some one who can help me?"
Van Lieverlee thought about it while looking steadily at Johannes. Then he said, deliberately:
"Very well. I know of one who is in the middle of it. Would you like to go to him?"
"Yes, at once, if you please."
"Good," said Van Lieverlee. Together they set out. The friend referred to was the editor of a journal—a Doctor of Laws. Felbeck was his name.
His office was far from luxurious in appearance. The steps were worn, and the door-mat was trodden to shreds. It was a dreary and sombre place. Large posters and caricatures were pasted on the walls, and on the table, lay many pamphlets and papers. Also there were writing-desks, letter-boxes, and rush-bottomed chairs. Two clerks sat there writing, and a few men, with hats on and cigars in their mouths, were talking. There was a continual running to and fro of people—printers' devils, and men in slouch hats.
Dr. Felbeck himself had a pale, thin face, square jaws, bristling hair, and a black goatee and moustache. His eyes were deep-set, and they looked at Johannes keenly, in a manner not fitted to put him into a restful and confiding state of mind.
"This young person," said Van Lieverlee, "wishes, as you express it, to turn his back upon his bourgeois status, and to swell the ranks of the struggling proletariat. Is that what you call it?"
"Well!" said Dr. Felbeck. "He need not be ashamed of it, and you might follow his example, Van Lieverlee."