“Now, sergeant,” said I, “this is preposterous.  All this prisoner did was to try to stop a mob from destroying property.”

“You can tell all that to the magistrate in the morning,” said the sergeant.

“What is the bail?” I demanded.

“You are prepared to put up bail?”

I answered that I was; and then for the first time Carpenter spoke.  “You mean you wish to pay money to secure my release?  Let there be no money paid for me.”

“Let me explain, Mr. Carpenter,” I pleaded.  “You will accomplish nothing by spending the night in a police cell.  You will have no opportunity to talk with the prisoners.  They will keep you by yourself.”

He answered, “My Father will be with me.”  And gazing into the face of the sergeant, he demanded, “Do you think you can build a cell to which my Father cannot come?”

The officer was an old hand, with a fringe of grey hair around his bald head, and no doubt he had been asked many queer questions in his day.  His response was to inquire the prisoner’s name; and when the prisoner kept haughty silence, he wrote down “John Doe Carpenter,” and proceeded:  “Where do you live?”

Said Carpenter:  “The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but he that espouses the cause of justice has no home in a world of greed.”

So the sergeant wrote:  “No address,” and nodded to a jailer, who took the prophet by the arm and led him away through a steel-barred door.

Abell and I went outside and joined the rest of the group.  None of us knew just what to do—­with the exception of Everett, who sat on the steps with his notebook, and made me repeat to him word for word what Carpenter had said!

XLIX

Comrade Abell told us where the police-court was located, and we agreed to be there at nine o’clock next morning.  Then I parted from the rest, and walked until I met a taxi and drove to my rooms.

I felt desolate and forlorn.  Nothing in my old life had any interest for me.  This was the afternoon when I usually went to the Athletic Club to box; but now I found myself wondering, what would Carpenter say to such imitation fighting?  I decided I would stay by myself for a while, and take a walk and think things over.  I had been dissatisfied with my life for a long time; the glamor had begun to wear off the excitement of youth, and I had begun to suspect that my life was idle and vain.  Now I knew that it was:  and also I knew that the world was a place of torment and woe.

I returned late in the afternoon, and a few minutes afterwards my telephone rang, and I discovered that somebody else was dissatisfied with life.

“Hello, Billy,” said the voice of T-S.  “I see dat feller Carpenter is in jail.  Vy don’t you bail him out?”

“He won’t let me,” I said.

“Vell, maybe it might be a good ting to leave him in jail a veek, till dis Brigade convention gits over.”