“The brother they ran out last night. They came after him so suddenly that he didn’t have time to pack,” answered Grant.
“Well, he didn’t need it, Grant,” replied Morty. “I just left him. I got him last night after the mob finished with him, and took him home to our garage, and worked with him all night fixing him up. Grant, it’s hell. The things they did to that fellow–unspeakable, and fiendish.” Morty cleared his throat again, paused to gather courage and went on. “And he heard something that made him believe they were coming for you to-night.”
The edge of a smile touched the seamed face, and Grant replied: “Well–maybe so. You never can tell. Besides old John Kollander, who are the leaders of this Law and Order mob, Morty?”
“Well,” replied the little man, “John Kollander is the responsible head, but Kyle Perry is master of ceremonies–the stuttering, old coot; and Ahab gives them the use of the police, and Joe Calvin backs up both of them. However,” sighed Morty, “the whole town is with them. It’s stark mad, Grant–Harvey has gone crazy. These tramps filling the jails and eating up taxes–and the Times throwing scares into the merchants with the report that unless the strike is broken, the smelters and glassworks and cement works will move from the district–it’s awful! My idea of hell, Grant, is a place where every man owns a little property and thinks he is just about to lose it.”
The young-old man was excited, and his eyes glistened, but his speech brought on a fit of coughing. He lifted his face anxiously and began: “Grant,–I’m with you in this fight.” He paused for breath. “It’s a man’s scrap, Grant–a man’s fight as sure as you’re born.” Grant sprang to his feet and threw back his head, as he began pacing the narrow cell. As he threw out his arms, his claw clicked 584on the steel bars of the cell, and Morty Sands felt the sudden contracting of the cell walls about the men as Grant cried–
“That’s what it is, Morty–it’s a man’s fight–a man’s fight for men. The industrial system to-day is rotting out manhood–and womanhood too–rotting out humanity because capitalism makes unfair divisions of the profits of industry, giving the workers a share that keeps them in a man-rotting environment, and we’re going to break up the system–the whole infernal profit system–the blight of capitalism upon the world.” Grant brought down his hand on Morty’s frail shoulder in a kind of frenzy. “Oh, it’s coming–the Democracy of Labor is coming in the earth, bringing peace and hope–hope that is the ‘last gift of the gods to men’–Oh, it’s coming! it’s coming.” His eyes were blazing and his voice high pitched. He caught Morty’s eyes and seemed to shut off all other consciousness from him but that of the idea which obsessed him.
Morty Sands felt gratefully the spell of the strong mind upon him. Twice he started to speak, and twice stopped. Then Grant said: “Out with it, Morty–what’s on your chest?”
“Well,–this thing,” he tapped his throat, “is going to get me, Grant, unless–well, it’s a last hope; but I thought,” he spoke in short, hesitating phrases, then he started again. “Grant, Grant,” he cried, “you have it, this thing they call vitality. You are all vitality, bodily, mentally, spiritually. Why have I been denied always, everything that you have! Millions of good men and bad men and indifferent men are overflowing with power, and I–I–why, why can’t I–what shall I do to get it? How can I feel and speak and live as you? Tell me.” He gazed into the strong, hard visage looking down upon him, and cried weakly: “Grant–for God’s sake, help me. Tell me–what shall I do to–Oh, I want to live–I want to live, Grant, can’t you help me!”
He stopped, exhausted. Grant looked at him keenly, and asked gently,
“Had another hemorrhage this morning–didn’t you?”