So now he was no trouble to the three jailers—­except that he was an ugly-looking object, with his face purple and convulsed, and his bloody tongue being chewed up.  They turned him about, with his face against the stones, and then they had nothing but the sounds of him, which had become feebler, but were none the less disagreeable, a babbling and gabbling, continuous and yet unrhythmic, as if made by a whole menagerie of tormented animals.

Still the minutes passed, and Perkins’s irritation grew.  He wouldn’t have minded for himself, for his nerves were strong, he had handled a good many of the I.W.W. in the old days back home; but he had promised to get the information, and so his reputation was at stake.  He would prod Jimmie and say:  “Will you tell?” And when Jimmie still refused, finally he said:  “We’ll have to try the water-cure.  Connor, get me a couple of pitchers of water and a good-sized funnel.”

“Yes, sir,” said the ex-burglar, and went out; and meantime Perkins addressed his victim again.  “Listen, you little hell-pup,” said he.  “I’m going to do something new, something that’ll break you sure.  I been with the army in the Philippines, and seen it worked there many’s the time, and I never yet seen anybody that could stand it.  We’re going to fill you up with water; and we’ll leave you to soak for a couple of hours, and then we’ll put in some more, and we’ll keep that up day and night till you come through.  Now, you better think it over and speak quick, before we get the water in, because it ain’t so easy to get out.”

Jimmie lay with his face against the wall, and the agony of his tortured thumbs was like knives twisted into him; he listened to these threats and heard again the cry in his soul for respite at any hazard.

Jimmie was fighting a battle, the sternest ever fought by man—­the battle of conscience against the weakness of the flesh.  To tell or not to tell?  The poor tormented body shrieked, Tell!  But conscience, in a feeble voice, gasped over and over and over, No!  No!  No!  It had to keep on insisting, because the battle was never over, never won.  Each moment was a new agony, and therefore a fresh temptation; each argument had to be repeated without end.  Why should he not tell?  Because Kalenkin had trusted him, and Kalenkin was a comrade.  But maybe Kalenkin was gone now, maybe he had died of one of his coughing spells, maybe he had heard of Jimmie’s arrest and made his escape.  Maybe they would not torture Kalenkin as they had Jimmie, because he was not a soldier; they might just put him in jail and keep him there, and others would do the work.  Maybe—­

And so on.  But the feeble voice whispered in the soul of Jimmie Higgins:  You are the revolution.  You are social justice, struggling for life in this world.  You are humanity, setting its face to the light, striving to reach a new goal, to put behind it an old horror.  You are Jesus on the Cross; and if you fail, the world goes back, perhaps for ever.  You must hold out!  You must bear this!  And this!  And this!  You must bear everything—­for ever—­as long as needs be!  You must not “come through!”