The young professor sat down, wiping the perspiration from his pale forehead; and then the Liederkranz sang again—­only it was not called the Liederkranz now, it had become known as the “Workers’ Singing Society”, out of deference to local prejudice.  Then arose Comrade Smith, editor of the Worker, and announced that after the collection the orator would answer questions; then Comrade Smith launched into a speech of his own, to the effect that something definite ought to be done by the workers of Leesville to make clear their opposition to being dragged into war.  For his part he wished to say that he would not yield one inch to the war-clamour—­he was on record as refusing to be drafted in any capitalist war, and he was ready to join with others to agree that they would not be drafted.  The time was short—­if anything were to be done, they must act at once—­

And then suddenly came an interruption—­this time not from an old soldier, but from a sergeant of police, who had been standing at one side of the stage, and who now stepped forward, announcing, “This meeting is closed.”

“What?” shouted the orator.

“This meeting is closed,” repeated the other.  “And you, young man, are under arrest.”

There was a howl from the audience, and suddenly from the pit in front of the stage, whence ordinarily the orchestra dispensed sweet music, there leaped a line of blue-uniformed men, distributing themselves between the public and the speaker.  At the same time down the centre aisle came a dozen soldiers marching, with guns in their hands and bayonets fixed.

“This is an outrage!” shouted Comrade Smith.

“Not another word!” commanded the police official; and two policemen who had followed him grabbed the orator by each arm and started to lead him off the stage.

Comrade Gerrity leaped to the front of the platform.  “I denounce this proceeding!” he shouted.  “We are holding an orderly meeting here—­”

A policeman laid hold of him.  “You are under arrest.”

Then came Comrade Mabel Smith, sister of the editor of the Worker.  “For shame!  For shame!” she cried.  And then, to a policeman, “No, I will not be silent!  I protest in the name of free speech!  I declare—­” And when the policeman seized her by the arm, she continued to shout at the top of her lungs, driving the crowd to frenzy.

There were disturbances all over the audience.  Mrs. Gerrity, wife of the organizer, sprang up in her seat and began to protest.  It happened that Jimmie Higgins was in the aisle not far from her, and his heart leaped with strange, half-forgotten emotions as he saw this trim little figure, with the jaunty hat and the turkey feather stuck on one side.  Comrade Evelyn Baskerville, of Greenwich Village, she of the fluffy brown hair and the pert little dimples and the bold terrifying ideas, she who had so ploughed up the soul of Jimmie Higgins and almost broken up the Higgins’ home—­here she was, employing a new variety of coquetry, by which she compelled three soldiers with rifles and bayonets to devote their exclusive attention to her!