It is almost laughable now, when I look back on it, the way father was beaten.  He met Wickson accidentally on the street in San Francisco, and he told Wickson that he was a damned scoundrel.  And then father was arrested for attempted assault, fined in the police court, and bound over to keep the peace.  It was all so ridiculous that when he got home he had to laugh himself.  But what a furor was raised in the local papers!  There was grave talk about the bacillus of violence that infected all men who embraced socialism; and father, with his long and peaceful life, was instanced as a shining example of how the bacillus of violence worked.  Also, it was asserted by more than one paper that father’s mind had weakened under the strain of scientific study, and confinement in a state asylum for the insane was suggested.  Nor was this merely talk.  It was an imminent peril.  But father was wise enough to see it.  He had the Bishop’s experience to lesson from, and he lessoned well.  He kept quiet no matter what injustice was perpetrated on him, and really, I think, surprised his enemies.

There was the matter of the house—­our home.  A mortgage was foreclosed on it, and we had to give up possession.  Of course there wasn’t any mortgage, and never had been any mortgage.  The ground had been bought outright, and the house had been paid for when it was built.  And house and lot had always been free and unencumbered.  Nevertheless there was the mortgage, properly and legally drawn up and signed, with a record of the payments of interest through a number of years.  Father made no outcry.  As he had been robbed of his money, so was he now robbed of his home.  And he had no recourse.  The machinery of society was in the hands of those who were bent on breaking him.  He was a philosopher at heart, and he was no longer even angry.

“I am doomed to be broken,” he said to me; “but that is no reason that I should not try to be shattered as little as possible.  These old bones of mine are fragile, and I’ve learned my lesson.  God knows I don’t want to spend my last days in an insane asylum.”

Which reminds me of Bishop Morehouse, whom I have neglected for many pages.  But first let me tell of my marriage.  In the play of events, my marriage sinks into insignificance, I know, so I shall barely mention it.

“Now we shall become real proletarians,” father said, when we were driven from our home.  “I have often envied that young man of yours for his actual knowledge of the proletariat.  Now I shall see and learn for myself.”

Father must have had strong in him the blood of adventure.  He looked upon our catastrophe in the light of an adventure.  No anger nor bitterness possessed him.  He was too philosophic and simple to be vindictive, and he lived too much in the world of mind to miss the creature comforts we were giving up.  So it was, when we moved to San Francisco into four wretched rooms in the slum south of Market Street,