Somehow word had been got to all the little group of agitators of various shades.  There was Korwsky, the secretary of the tailors’ union—­whose first name I learned was Luka; also his fellow Russian, the express-driver,—­Simon Karlin, and Tom Moneta, the young Mexican cigar-maker.  There was Matthew Everett, free to be a guest on this occasion, because T-S had brought along another stenographer.  There was Mark Abell, and another Socialist, a young Irishman named Andy Lynch, a veteran of the late war who had come home completely cured of militarism, and was now spending his time distributing Socialist leaflets, and preaching to the workers wherever he could get two or three to listen.  Also there was Hamby, the pacifist whom I did not like, and a second I. W. W., brought by Colver—­a lad named Philip, who had recently been indicted by the grand jury, and was at this moment a fugitive from justice with a price upon his head.

The door of the room was opened, and another man came in; a striking figure, tall and gaunt, with old and pitifully untidy clothing, and a half month’s growth of beard upon his chin.  He wore an old black hat, frayed at the edges; but under this hat was a face of such gentleness and sadness that it made you think of Carpenter’s own.  Withal, it was a Yankee face—­of that lean, stringy kind that we know so well.  The newcomer’s eyes fell upon Carpenter, and his face lighted; he set down an old carpet-bag that he was carrying, and stretched out his two hands, and went to him.  “Carpenter!  I’ve been looking for you!”

And Carpenter answered, “My brother!” And the two clasped hands, and I thought to myself with astonishment, “How does Carpenter know this man?”

Presently I whispered to Abell, “Who is he?” I learned that he was one I had heard of in the papers—­Bartholomew Howard, the “millionaire hobo;” he was grandson and heir of one of our great captains of industry, and had taken literally the advice of the prophet, to sell all that he had and give it to the unemployed.  He traveled over the country, living among the hobos and organizing them into his Brotherhood.  Now you would have thought that he and Carpenter had known each other all their lives; as I watched them, I found myself thinking:  “Where are the clergy and the pillars of St. Bartholomew’s Church?” There were none of them at this supper-party!

LI

T-S had stopped at a caterer’s on his way to the gathering, and had done his humble best in the form of a strawberry short-cake almost half as large around as himself; also several bottles of purple color, with the label of grape juice.  When the company gathered at the table and these bottles were opened, they made a suspicious noise, and so we all made jokes, as people have the habit of doing in these days of getting used to prohibition.  I noticed that Carpenter laughed at the jokes, and seemed to enjoy the whole festivity.