He read it through to the end, carefully, a second time, then sat down and replied.  He outlined the remarks he had uttered at the socialist meeting, pointing out that they were in all ways the converse of what the newspaper had put in his mouth.  Toward the end of the letter he was God’s own lover pleading passionately for love.  “Please answer,” he said, “and in your answer you have to tell me but one thing.  Do you love me?  That is all—­the answer to that one question.”

But no answer came the next day, nor the next.  “Overdue” lay untouched upon the table, and each day the heap of returned manuscripts under the table grew larger.  For the first time Martin’s glorious sleep was interrupted by insomnia, and he tossed through long, restless nights.  Three times he called at the Morse home, but was turned away by the servant who answered the bell.  Brissenden lay sick in his hotel, too feeble to stir out, and, though Martin was with him often, he did not worry him with his troubles.

For Martin’s troubles were many.  The aftermath of the cub reporter’s deed was even wider than Martin had anticipated.  The Portuguese grocer refused him further credit, while the greengrocer, who was an American and proud of it, had called him a traitor to his country and refused further dealings with him—­carrying his patriotism to such a degree that he cancelled Martin’s account and forbade him ever to attempt to pay it.  The talk in the neighborhood reflected the same feeling, and indignation against Martin ran high.  No one would have anything to do with a socialist traitor.  Poor Maria was dubious and frightened, but she remained loyal.  The children of the neighborhood recovered from the awe of the grand carriage which once had visited Martin, and from safe distances they called him “hobo” and “bum.”  The Silva tribe, however, stanchly defended him, fighting more than one pitched battle for his honor, and black eyes and bloody noses became quite the order of the day and added to Maria’s perplexities and troubles.

Once, Martin met Gertrude on the street, down in Oakland, and learned what he knew could not be otherwise—­that Bernard Higginbotham was furious with him for having dragged the family into public disgrace, and that he had forbidden him the house.

“Why don’t you go away, Martin?” Gertrude had begged.  “Go away and get a job somewhere and steady down.  Afterwards, when this all blows over, you can come back.”

Martin shook his head, but gave no explanations.  How could he explain?  He was appalled at the awful intellectual chasm that yawned between him and his people.  He could never cross it and explain to them his position,—­the Nietzschean position, in regard to socialism.  There were not words enough in the English language, nor in any language, to make his attitude and conduct intelligible to them.  Their highest concept of right conduct, in his case, was to get a job.  That was their first word and their last.  It constituted their whole lexicon of ideas.  Get a job!  Go to work!  Poor, stupid slaves, he thought, while his sister talked.  Small wonder the world belonged to the strong.  The slaves were obsessed by their own slavery.  A job was to them a golden fetich before which they fell down and worshipped.