“My people,” said Carpenter, “what good would it do you to kill these wretches?  The blood-suckers who drain the life of the poor are not to be killed by blows.  There are too many of them, and more of them grow in place of those who die.  And what is worse, if you kill them, you destroy in yourselves that which makes you better than they, which gives you the right to life.  You destroy those virtues of patience and charity, which are the jewels of the poor, and make them princes in the kingdom of love.  Let us guard our crown of pity, and not acquire the vices of our oppressors.  Let us grow in wisdom, and find ways to put an end to the world’s enslavement, without the degradation of our own hearts.  For so many ages we have been patient, let us wait but a little longer, and find the true way!  Oh, my people, my beloved poor, not in violence, but in solidarity, in brotherhood, lies the way!  Let us bid the rich go on, to the sure damnation which awaits them.  Let us not soil our hands with their blood!”

He spread out his arms again, majestically.  “Stand back!  Make way for them!”

Not all the crowd understood the words, but enough of them did, and set the example.  In dead silence they withdrew from the sides and front of the car.  The body of the dead child had been dragged out of the way and laid on the sidewalk, covered by a coat; and so Carpenter said to the Stebbins family:  “The road is clear before you.  Step in.”  Half dazed, the four people obeyed, and again Carpenter raised his voice.  “Drinkers of human blood, devourers of human bodies, go your way!  Go forward to that doom which history prepares for parasites!”

The engine began to purr, and the car began to move.  There was a low mutter from the crowd, a moan of fury and baffled desire; but not a hand was lifted, and the car shot away, and disappeared down the street, leaving Carpenter standing on the curb, making a Socialist speech to a mob of greasers and dagoes.

XXI

When he stopped speaking, it was because a woman pressed her way through the crowd, and caught one of his hands.  “Master, my baby!” she sobbed.  “The little one that was hurt!” So Carpenter said to the crowd, “The sick child needs me.  I must go in.”  They started to press after him, and he added, “You must not come into the room.  The child will need air.”  He went inside, and knelt once more by the couch, and put his hand on the little one’s forehead.  The mother, a frail, dark Mexican woman, crouched at the foot, not daring to touch either the man or the child, but staring from one to the other, pressing her hands together in an agony of dread.