When Bunny Ross realized that this was happening, there was another explosion. Being a rich man’s son, he was accustomed to having his rights, and more. So of the first of his questioners he demanded, “Who are you, and what brings you into this?”
“Now, Ross,” said Dean Squirge, “if there are evil men threatening our country’s welfare, you certainly do not wish to protect them.”
“It depends on what you mean by evil,” retorted Bunny. “If you mean men who are trying to tell the truth, I wish to protect them all I can.”
“All we want to know is, what you know about a man called Paul Watkins.”
So there it was; either Bunny must submit to being cross-questioned by detectives, or else he must have everybody decide that he was hiding some dark secrets about Paul. Said he: “Paul Watkins is my best friend. I have known him for seven or eight years. He is the straightest man I have ever known, bar none. He has come home sick, after a year and a half in the army in Siberia. He could claim an allowance from the government if he wasn’t too proud. What he did to me was to tell me what he saw with his own eyes, and I believe every word of it. And I am going to tell it to other people, inside the university or out, and no one is going to stop me.”
So that was that, and Bunny was excused for the present. They would tackle the less wealthy conspirators—beginning with Peter Nagle, most guilty of all, because his name had appeared on the paper as editor. Peter was commanded forthwith to recant his impoliteness to God, and he swore by God that he wouldn’t; so the “Evening Howler” carried a two-column head:
Student Red Let Out
And Peter grinned and said for the rest of the bunch not to worry, he was going into the plumbing business and get his revenge on society; and when he had made some money he would publish a paper of his own and kid the life out of God every week.
And then came the turn of Rachel Menzies. She had been warned by Bunny as to the secret agents, and had promised to give them a piece of her mind; but they had a way to break her nerve. Just what had been her father’s share in this conspiracy? They had ascertained that Papa Menzies had been born in Poland, and under the new deportation laws it didn’t matter what you believed or what you had done, they would cancel your naturalization papers, and grab you and ship you away, leaving your family behind to starve, if it so happened. You had no trial, and no recourse of any sort. And furthermore, if a man was dumped into Poland with the red tag on him these days, no trial was held and no questions were asked—he was stood against a wall and shot.
So there was Rachel, bursting into tears before these strangers and declaring that her father was a Socialist and not a Communist—as if that meant anything to any patriot! Hadn’t the Socialists been opposing the war right along? And wasn’t it a fact that the country had an attorney-general who was intriguing to get the nomination for president at the next Democratic convention, and was basing his claim to that distinction upon his valiant campaign to put down the red menace?