“There are poor traitors, thousands of them. You may be one. If you have paid some one in your ward ten or twenty or forty dollars to have your taxes reduced, you, too, are a traitor.
“If taxes are unjust, fight them. Fight them in the courts. If the courts fail you, rise up and fight with rifles and machine guns. But never, never stoop to corruption to betray the city you should love.”
These were hard words. They were spoken in a tone that told of an earnest desire to serve. There were those listening who found themselves repeating those words of a great Master:
“Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killeth the prophets and stoneth them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not.” These said, “This city is no different from Jerusalem. This young prophet, too, will be killed.”
Many there were who became very angry. Rich men and poor men, politicians and crooks, were together in this one thing: they had been called traitors. And traitor is a hard word.
The telephone of that radio station rang again and again that night. Angry voices, sympathetic voices, voices filled with a consuming curiosity, were at the other end of the lines. One and all, they asked the same question:
“Who is this Voice?”
To them all came the same answer:
“We do not know. We know no more about the Voice than you do,” the announcer patiently explained. “He comes to us by remote control. We throw in a switch, and his voice is here.”
“Is he in this city?”