“I am the secretary of a social organisation which aims at the amelioration of the conditions under which the workers of the world slave,” returned the other with dignity.
“You don’t say,” remarked the American, unmoved. “Do the workers of the world know about it?”
“And I again demand to know,” said the other, turning on Drummond, “the reason for this monstrous indignity.”
“What do you know about Peterson, little man?” said Hugh, paying not the slightest attention to his protests.
“Nothing, save that he is the man whom we have been looking for, for years,” cried the other. “The man of stupendous organising power, who has brought together and welded into one the hundreds of societies similar to mine, who before this have each, on their own, been feebly struggling towards the light. Now we are combined, and our strength is due to him.”
Hugh exchanged glances with the American.
“Things become clearer,” he murmured. “Tell me, little man,” he continued, “now that you’re all welded together, what do you propose to do?”
“That you shall see in good time,” cried the other triumphantly. “Constitutional methods have failed—and, besides, we’ve got no time to wait for them. Millions are groaning under the intolerable bonds of the capitalist: those millions we shall free, to a life that is worthy of a man. And it will all be due to our leader—Carl Peterson.”
A look of rapt adoration came into his face, and the American laughed in genuine delight.
“Didn’t I tell you, Captain, that that guy was the goods?” But there was no answering smile on Hugh’s face.