“Come down off that box, young feller!” commanded the officer; and the crowd hooted and booed.

“Fellow-citizens!” began Gerrity again; but that was as far as he got, for the policeman seized him by the arm and pulled; and Gerrity knew the ways of American policemen too well to resist.  He came down—­but still talking.  “Fellow-citizens—­”

“Are you goin’ to shut up?” demanded the other, and as Gerrity still went on orating, he announced:  “You are under arrest.”

There were half a dozen Socialists with the party, and this was a challenge to the self-respect of everyone of them.  In an instant Comrade Mabel Smith had leaped on to the stand.  “Fellow workers!” she cried.  “Is this America, or is it Russia?”

“That’ll do, lady,” said the policeman, as considerately as he dared; for Comrade Mabel wore a big picture-hat and many other signs of youth and beauty.

“I have a right to speak here, and I mean to speak,” she declared.

“We don’t want to have to arrest you, lady—­”

“You either have to arrest me, or else allow me to speak.”

“I’m sorry, lady, but it’s orders.  You are arrested.”

Then came the turn of Comrade Stankewitz.  “Vorking men, it is for the rights of the vorkers ve are here.”  And so they jerked him off.

And then “Wild Bill”.  This hundred per cent, middle-of-the-road proletarian had been hanging on the outskirts of the meeting, having been forbidden by the local to take part in the speaking, because of the intemperate nature of his utterances; but now, of course, all rules went down, and Bill leaped on to the shaking platform.  “Are we slaves?” he yelled.  “Are we dogs?” And it would seem that the police thought so, for they yanked him off the platform, and one of them seized him by the wrist and twisted so that his oration ended in a shriek of pain.

Then came Johnny Edge, a shy youth with an armful of literature, which he hung on to in spite of police violence; and then—­then there was one more!

Poor Jimmie!  He did not in the least want to get arrested, and he was terrified at the idea of making even so short a speech as was here the order of the night.  But, of course, his honour was at stake, there was no way out.  He handed his torch to a bystander, and mounted the scaffold.  “Is this a free country?” he cried.  “Do we have free speech?” And Jimmie’s first effort at oratory ended in a jerk at his coat-tail, which all but upset the frail platform upon which he stood.

There were four policemen, with six prisoners, and a throng about them howling with indignation, perhaps ready to become violent—­who could say?  The guardians of order had been prepared however.  One of them stepped to the corner and blew his whistle, and a minute later came the shriek of a siren, and round the corner came swinging the city’s big patrol-wagon, the “Black Maria”.  The crowd gave way, and one by one the prisoners were