Peter, following his wife’s careful instructions, has already become more dignified in his speech, more grave in his movements. She tells him that the future of society depends on his knowledge and his skill, and he agrees to this also. He has learned what you can do and what you had better not do; he will never again cross the dead-line into crime, or take chances with experiments in blackmail. He will try no more free lance work under the evil influence of low creatures like Nell Doolin, but will stand in with the “machine,” and bear in mind that honesty is the best policy. So he will steadily progress; he will meet the big men of the country, and will go to them, not cringing and twisting his hat in his hands, but with quiet self-possession. He will meet the agents of the Attorney-General aspiring to become President, and will furnish them with material for their weekly Red scares. He will meet legislators who want to unseat elected Socialists, and governors who wish to jail the leaders of “outlaw” strikes. He will meet magazine writers getting up articles, and popular novelists looking for local Red color.
But Peter’s best bid of all will be as a lecturer. He will be able to travel all over the country, making a sensation. Did he know why? No, Peter answered, he was not sure he did. Well, Gladys could tell him; it was because he was romantic. Peter didn’t know just what this word meant, but it sounded flattering, so he smiled sheepishly, showing his crooked teeth, and asked how Gladys found out that he was romantic. The reply was a sudden order for him to stand up and turn around slowly.
Peter didn’t like to get up from his comfortable Morris chair, but he did what his wife asked him. She inspected him on all sides and exclaimed, “Peter, you must go on a diet; you’re getting ombongpoing!” She said this in horrified tones, and Peter was frightened, because it sounded like a disease. But Gladys added: “You can not be a romantic figure on a lecture platform if you’ve got a bay-window!”
Peter found it interesting to be talked about, so he asked again why Gladys thought he was romantic. There were several reasons, she said, but the main one was that he had been a dangerous criminal, and had reformed, which pleased the church people; he had made a happy ending by marriage, which pleased those who read novels.
“Is that so?” said Peter, guilelessly, and she assured him that it was. “And what else?” he asked, and she explained that he had known intimately and at first hand those dreadful and dangerous people, those ogres of the modern world, the Bolsheviks, about whom the average man and woman learned only thru the newspapers. And not merely did he tell a sensational story, but he ended it with a money-making lesson. The lesson was “Contribute to the Improve America League. Make out your checks to the Home and Fireside Association. The existence of your country depends upon your sustaining the Patriot’s Defense Legion.” So the fame of Peter’s lecture would spread, and the Guffeys and Billy Nashes of every city and town in America would clamor for him to come, and when he came, the newspapers would publish his picture, and he and his wife would be welcomed by leaders of the best society. They would become social lions, and would see the homes of the rich, and gradually become one of the rich.
Gladys looked her spouse over again, as they started to their sleeping apartment. Yes, he was undoubtedly putting on “ombongpoing”; he would have to take up golf. He was wearing a little American flag dangling from his watch chain, and she wondered if that wasn’t a trifle crude. Gladys herself now wore a real diamond ring, and had learned to say “vahse” and “baahth.” She yawned prettily as she took off her lovely brown “tailor-made,” and reflected that such things come with ease and security.
Both she and Peter now had these in full measure. They had lost all fear of ever finding themselves out of a job. They had come to understand that the Red menace is not to be so easily exterminated; it is a distemper that lurks in the blood of society, and breaks out every now and then in a new rash. Gladys had come to agree with the Reds to this extent, that so long as there is a class of the rich and prosperous, so long will there be social discontent, so long will there be some that make their living by agitating, denouncing and crying out for change. Society is like a garden; each year when you plant your vegetables there springs up also a crop of weeds, and you have to go down the rows and chop off the heads of these weeds. Gladys’ husband is an expert gardener, he knows how to chop weeds, and he knows that society will never be able to dispense with his services. So long as gardening continues, Peter will be a head weedchopper, and a teacher of classes of young weedchoppers.
Ah, it was fine to have married such a man! It was the reward a good woman received for helping her husband, making him into a good citizen, a patriot and an upholder of law and order: For always, of course, those who own the garden would see that their head weedchopper was taken care of, and had his share of the best that the garden produced. Gladys stood before her looking-glass, braiding her hair for the night, and thinking of the things she would ask from this garden. She and Peter had earned, and they would demand, the sweetest flowers, the most luscious fruits. Suddenly Gladys stretched wide her arms in an ecstasy of realization. “We’re a Success, Peter! We’re a Success! We’ll have money and all the lovely things it will buy! Do you realize, Peter, what a hit you’ve made?”
Peter saw her face of joy, but he was a tiny bit frightened and uncertain, because of this unusual sharing of the honors. So Gladys was impelled to affection, mingled with pity. She held out her arms to him. “Poor, dear Peter! He’s had such a hard life! It was cruel he didn’t have me sooner to help him!”
And then Gladys reflected for a moment, and was moved to another outburst. “Just think, Peter, how wonderful it is to be an American! In America you can always rise if you do your duty! America is the land of the free! Your example of a poor boy’s success ought to convince even the fool Reds that they’re wrong—that any boy can rise if he works hard! Why, I’ve heard it said that in America the poorest boy can rise to be President! How would you like to be President, Peter?”