“I wish to understand a land which is governed by mobs; I wish to know, who lives upon the madness of others.”
“You have been studying a mob this morning?” inquired the reporter.
“I ask, why do the police of Mobland put down the mobs of the poor, and not the mobs of the rich? I ask, who pays the police, and who pays the mobs.”
“I see! You are some kind of radical!” And with sickness of soul I saw another headline before my mind's eye:
WEALTHY CLUBMAN AIDS BOLSHEVIK PROPHET
I hastened to break in: “Mr. Carpenter is not a radical; he is a lover of man.” But then I realized, that did not sound just right. How the devil was I to describe this man? How came it that all the phrases of brotherhood and love had come to be tainted with “radicalism”? I tried again: “He is a friend of peace.”
“Oh, really!” observed the reporter. “A pacifist, hey?” And I thought: “Damn the hound!” I knew, of course, that he had the rest of the formula in his head: “Pro-German!” Out loud I said: “He teaches brotherhood.”
But the hound was not interested in my generalities and evasions. “Where have you seen mobs of the rich, Mr. Carpenter?”
“I have seen them whirling through the streets in automobiles, killing the children of the poor.”
“You have seen that?”