So Nell and Peter settled down to work out the details of their “frame-up” on Joe Angell and Pat McCormick. Peter must get a bunch of them together and get them to talking about bombs and killing people; and then he must slip a note into the pockets of all who showed interest, calling them to meet for a real conspiracy. Nell would write the notes, so that no one could fasten the job onto Peter. She pulled out a pencil and a little pad from her handbag, and began: “If you really believe in a bold stroke for the workers’ rights, meet me—” And then she stopped. “Where?”

“In the studios,” put in Peter.

And Nell wrote, “In the studios. Is that enough?”

“Room 17.” Peter knew that this was the room of Nikitin, a Russian painter who called himself an Anarchist.

So Nell wrote “Room 17,” and after further discussion she added: “Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. No names and no talk. Action!” This time was set because Peter recollected that there was to be a gathering of the “wobblies” in their headquarters this very evening. It was to be a business meeting, but of course these fellows never got together very long without starting the subject of “tactics.” There was a considerable element among them who were dissatisfied with what they called the “supine attitude” of the organization, and were always arguing for action. Peter was sure he would be able to get some of them interested in the idea of a dynamite conspiracy.

As it turned out, Peter had no trouble at all; the subject was started without his having to put in a word. Were the workers to be driven like sheep to the slaughter, and the “wobblies” not to make one move? So asked the “Blue-eyed Angell,” vehemently, and added that if they were going to move, American City was as good a place as any. He had talked with enough of the rank and file to realize that they were ready for action; all they needed was a battle-cry and an organization to guide them.

Henderson, the big lumber-jack, spoke up. That was just the trouble; you couldn’t get an organization for such a purpose. The authorities would get spies among you, they would find out what you were doing, and drive you underground.

“Well,” cried Joe, “we’ll go underground!”

“Yes,” agreed the other, “but then your organization goes bust. Nobody knows who to trust, everybody’s accusing the rest of being a spy.”

“Hell!” said Joe Angell. “I’ve been in jail for the movement, I’ll take my chances of anybody’s calling me a spy. What I’m not going to do is to sit down and see the workers driven to hell, because I’m so damn careful about my precious organization.”

When others objected, Angell rushed on still more vehemently. Suppose they did fail in a mass-uprising, suppose they were driven to assassination and terrorism? At least they would teach the exploiters a lesson, and take a little of the joy out of their lives.

Peter thought it would be a good idea for him to pose as a conservative just now. “Do you really think the capitalists would give up from fear?” he asked.

And the other answered: “You bet I do! I tell you if we’d made it understood that every congressman who voted this country into war would be sent to the front trenches, our country would still be at peace.”

“But,” put in Peter, deftly, “it ain’t the congressmen. It’s people higher up than them.”

“You bet,” put in Gus, the Swedish sailor. “You bet you! I name you one dozen big fellows in dis country—you make it clear if we don’t get peace dey all get killed—we get peace all right!”

So Peter had things where he wanted them. “Who are those fellows?” he asked, and got the crowd arguing over names. Of course they didn’t argue very long before somebody mentioned “Nelse” Ackerman, who was venomously hated by the Reds because he had put up a hundred thousand dollars of the Anti-Goober fund. Peter pretended not to know about Nelse; and Jerry Rudd, a “blanket-stiff” whose head was still sore from being cracked open in a recent harvesters’ strike, remarked that by Jesus, if they’d put a few fellows like that in the trenches, there’d be some pacifists in Ameriky sure enough all right.

It seemed almost as if Joe Angell had come there to back up Peter’s purpose. “What we want,” said he, “is a few fellows to fight as hard for themselves as they fight for the capitalists.”

“Yes,” assented Henderson, grimly. “We’re all so good—we wait till our masters tell us we can kill.”

That was the end of the discussion; but it seemed quite enough to Peter. He watched his chance, and one by one he managed to slip his little notes into the coat-pockets of Joe Angell, Jerry Rudd, Henderson, and Gus, the sailor. And then Peter made his escape, trembling with excitement. The great dynamite conspiracy was on! “They must be got rid of!” he was whispering to himself. “They must be got rid of by any means! It’s my duty I’m doing.”