The group had sung a couple of verses, when the iron-barred doors were opened, and a policeman stepped out.  He addressed Carpenter, who was not singing.  “Tell that bunch of nuts of yours to can the yowling.”

To which Carpenter replied:  “I tell you that if these men should hold their peace, the stones of your jail would immediately cry out!” And he turned, and looked up and down the streets of the city, and suddenly I saw that he was weeping.  “Oh, Mobland, Mobland!  If you had known even at this time the way of justice!  But the way is hid from your eyes, and you will not see it, and now the hour is coming, the horrors of the class war are upon you, ruin and destruction are at hand!  Your towers of pride shall fall, your own children shall destroy you; they shall not leave you one stone upon another, because you knew not the time for justice when it came.”

The doors of the jail opened again, and three or four more policemen came out, with clubs in their hands.  “Get along, now!” they said roughly, and began poking the prophet and his disciples in the back; they poked them down the stairs and along the street for a block or so—­until they were sure the ears of the jail inmates would no longer be troubled by offensive sounds.  But still they did not arrest them, and I marveled, wondering how long it could go on.  I had an uneasy feeling that the longer the climax was postponed, the more severe it would be.

There was quite a crowd following us now, hoping that something sensational would happen.  And presently a woman saw us, and rushed into the house, and came out leading a blind man, and appealing to Carpenter to restore his sight; and when he stopped to do this, there were a couple of newspaper men, and an operator with a camera, and more excitement and more crowds!  So we started to walk again, and came to Main Street, which in our city is given up to ten cent picture-shows, and pawn-brokers, and old clothes shops, and eating-stands for workingmen.  A block or so distant we saw a mass of people, and something warned me—­my heart sank into my boots.  Another mob!

XLVII

There was shouting, and people running from every direction.  The throng would surge back, and a few run from it.  “What’s the matter?” I cried to one of these, and the answer was, “They’re cleaning out the reds!” Comrade Abell, who knew the neighborhood, exclaimed in dismay, “It’s Erman’s Book Store!”

“Who’s doing this?” I asked of another bystander, and the answer was, “The Brigade!  They’re cleaning up the city before the convention!” And Comrade Abell clasped his hands to his forehead, and wailed in despair, “It’s because they’ve been selling the ‘Liberator’!  Erman told me last week he’d been warned to stop selling it!”