er running with sootily smoking torch of
individuality in Bakunin, or hissing in Nietzsche, or laughing at
Olympus in Bernard Shaw. My 'radicalism' has been spoken of. Radical!
Do you realize that I am not suggesting that there might possibly some
day be a revolution in America, but rather that now I am stating that
there is, this minute, and for some years has been, an actual state of
warfare between capital and labor? Do you know that daily more people
are saying openly and violently that we starve our poor, we stuff our
own children with useless bookishness, and work the children of others
in mills and let them sell papers on the streets in red-light
districts at night, and thereby prove our state nothing short of
insane? If you tell me that there is no revolution because there are
no barricades, I point to actual battles at Homestead, Pullman, and
the rest. If you say that there has been no declaration of war, open
war, I shall read you editorials from _The Appeal to Reason_.

"Mind you, I shall not say whether I am enlisted for or against the
revolutionary army. But I demand that you look about you and
understand the significance of the industrial disturbances and
religious unrest of the time. Never till then will you understand
anything--certainly not that Shaw is something more than an _enfant
terrible_; Ibsen something more than an ill-natured old man with
dyspepsia and a silly lack of interest in skating. Then you will
realize that in the most extravagant utterances of a red-shirted
strike-leader there may be more fervent faith and honor, oftentimes,
than in the virgin prayers of a girl who devoutly attends Christian
Endeavor, but presumes to call Emma Goldman 'that dreadful woman.'
Follow the labor-leader. Or fight him, good and hard. But do not
overlook him.

"But I must be more systematic. When John Tanner's independent
chauffeur, of whom you have--I hope you have--read in _Man and
Superman_----"

* * * * *

Carl looked about. Many were frowning; a few leaning sidewise to
whisper to neighbors, with a perplexed head-shake that plainly meant,
"I don't quite get that." Wet feet were shifted carefully; breaths
caught quickly; hands nervously played with lower lips. The Greek
professor was writing something. Carl's ex-room-mate, Plain Smith, was
rigid, staring unyieldingly at the platform. Carl hated Smith's
sinister stillness.

* * * * *

Pro