One of Duggan’s poems had to do with a poor devil named Slim, who was a “snow-eater,” that is to say, a cocaine victim. This Slim wandered about the streets of New York in the winter-time without any shelter, and would get into an office building late in the afternoon, and hide in one of the lavatories to spend the night. If he lay down, he would be seen and thrown out, so his only chance was to sit up; but when he fell asleep, he would fall off the seat—therefore he carried a rope in his pocket, and would tie himself in a sitting position.

Now what was the use of a story like that? Peter didn’t want to hear about such people! He wanted to express his disgust; but he knew, of course, that he must hide it. He laughed as he exclaimed, “Christ Almighty, Duggan, can’t you give us something with a smile? You don’t think it’s the job of Socialists to find a cure for the dope habit, do you? That’s sure one thing that ain’t caused by the profit system.”

Duggan smiled his bitterest smile. “If there’s any misery in the world today that ain’t kept alive by the profit system, I’d like to see it! D’you think dope sells itself? If there wasn’t a profit in it, would it be sold to any one but doctors? Where’d you get your Socialism, anyhow?”

So Peter beat a hasty retreat. “Oh, sure, I know all that. But here you’re shut up in jail because you want to change things. Ain’t you got a right to give yourself a rest while you’re in?”

The poet looked at him, as solemn as an owl. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Just because we’re fixed up nice and comfortable in jail, have we got the right to forget the misery of those outside?”

The others laughed; but Duggan did not mean to be funny at all. He rose slowly to his feet and with his arms outstretched, in the manner of one offering himself as a sacrifice, he proclaimed:

“While there is a lower class, I am in it.

“While there is a criminal element, I am of it.

“While there is a soul in jail, I am not free.”

Then he sat down and buried his face in his hands. The group of rough fellows sat in solemn silence. Presently Gus, the Swedish sailor, feeling perhaps that the rebuke to Peter had been too severe, spoke timidly: “Comrade Gudge, he ban in jail twice already.”

So the poet looked up again. He held out his hand to Peter. “Sure, I know that!” he said, clasping Peter in the grip of comradeship. And then he added: “I’ll tell you a story with a smile!”

Once upon a time, it appeared, Duggan had been working in a moving picture studio, where they needed tramps and outcasts and all sorts of people for crowds. They had been making a “Preparedness” picture, and wanted to show the agitators and trouble-makers, mobbing the palace of a banker. They got two hundred bums and hoboes, and took them in trucks to the palace of a real banker, and on the front lawn the director made a speech to the crowd, explaining his ideas. “Now,” said he, “remember, the guy that owns this house is the guy that’s got all the wealth that you fellows have produced. You are down and out, and you know that he’s robbed you, so you hate him. You gather on his lawn and you’re going to mob his home; if you can get hold of him, you’re going to tear him to bits for what he’s done to you.” So the director went on, until finally Duggan interrupted: “Say, boss, you don’t have to teach us. This is a real palace, and we’re real bums!”

Apparently the others saw the “smile” in this story, for they chuckled for some time over it. But it only added to Peter’s hatred of these Reds; it made him realize more than ever that they were a bunch of “sore heads,” they were green and yellow with jealousy. Everybody that had succeeded in the world they hated—just because they had succeeded! Well, they would never succeed; they could go on forever with their grouching, but the mass of the workers in America had a normal attitude toward the big man, who could do things. They did not want to wreck his palace; they admired him for having it, and they followed his leadership gladly.

It seemed as if Henderson, the lumber-jack, had read Peter’s thought. “My God!” he said. “What a job it is to make the workers class-conscious!” He sat on the edge of his cot, with his broad shoulders bowed and his heavy brows knit in thought over the problem of how to increase the world’s discontent. He told of one camp where he had worked—so hard and dangerous was the toil that seven men had given up their lives in the course of one winter. The man who owned this tract, and was exploiting it, had gotten the land by the rankest kind of public frauds; there were filthy bunk-houses, vermin, rotten food, poor wages and incessant abuse. And yet, in the spring-time, here came the young son of this owner, on a honeymoon trip with his bride. “And Jesus,” said Henderson, “if you could have seen those stiffs turn out and cheer to split their throats! They really meant it, you know; they just loved that pair of idle, good-for-nothing kids!”

Gus, the sailor, spoke up, his broad, good-natured face wearing a grin which showed where three of his front teeth had been knocked out with a belaying pin. It was exactly the same with the seamen, he declared. They never saw the ship-owners, they didn’t know even the names of the people who were getting the profit of their toil, but they had a crazy loyalty to their ship, Some old tanker would be sent out to sea on purpose to be sunk, so that the owners might get the insurance. But the poor A. Bs. would love that old tub so that they would go down to the bottom with her—or perhaps they would save her, to the owners great disgust!

Thus, for hours on end, Peter had to sit listening to this ding donging about the wrongs of the poor and the crimes of the rich. Here he had been sentenced for fifteen days and nights to listen to Socialist wrangles! Every one of these fellows had a different idea of how he wanted the world to be run, and every one had a different idea of how to bring about the change. Life was an endless struggle between the haves and the have-nots, and the question of how the have-nots were to turn out the haves was called “tactics.” When you talked about “tactics” you used long technical terms which made your conversation unintelligible to a plain, ordinary mortal. It seemed to Peter that every time he fell asleep it was to the music of proletariat and surplus value and unearned increment, possibilism and impossibilism, political action, direct action, mass action, and the perpetual circle of Syndicalist-Anarchist, Anarchist-Communist, Communist-Socialist and Socialist-Syndicalist.