After supper that evening came Everley with Friederich Bremer, to take Samuel to the meeting of the local, where he was to tell his story.

The “local” met in an obscure hall, over a grocery shop. There were present those whom Samuel had met the night before, and about a score of others. Most of them were working-men, but there were several who appeared to be well-to-do shopkeepers and clerks. Samuel noticed that they all called one another “comrade”; and several of them addressed him thus, which gave him a queer feeling. Also he noted that there were women present, and that one of them presided at the meeting.

Everley made a speech, reading Samuel's manifesto, and telling how it had been given out. Then he called upon Samuel. The boy stood upon his feet—and suddenly a deadly terror seized hold upon him. Suppose he should not be able to make a speech after all! Suppose he should be nervous! What would they think of him? But he clenched his hands—what did it matter what they thought of him? The poor were suffering, and the truth was crying out for vindication! He would tell these men what had happened to him.

So he began. He told how he had been robbed, and how he had sought in vain for work, and how he had been arrested. And because he saw that these were people who understood, he found himself a case, and thinking no longer about himself. He talked for nearly half an hour, and there was quite a sensation when he finished.

Then Everley rose to his feet again. “Comrades,” he said, “for the past year I have been urging that the local must make a fight for free speech in this town. And it seems to me that the occasion has now come. If we do not take up this fight, we might just as well give up.”

“That's right,” cried Beggs, the old carpenter.

“I took the liberty of ordering circulars,” continued Everley. “There was no time to be lost, and I felt sure that the comrades would back me. I now move that the local take charge of the meeting to-morrow evening, and that the two thousand circulars I have here be given out secretly to-night.”

“I second that motion,” said Mrs. Barton.

“It must be understood,” added Everley, “that we can't expect help from the papers. And our people ought to hear this story, as well as the members of the church.”

And then he read the circulars, and the motion was put, and carried unanimously.

“Now,” said Everley, “I suggest that the local make this the occasion of a contest for the right to hold street meetings in Lockmanville. As you know, the police have refused permits ever since the strike. And I move that beginning with Thursday evening, we hold a meeting on the corner of Market and Main streets, and tell this story to the public. And that we continue to hold a meeting every night thereafter until we have made good our right.”

Samuel could see from the faces of the men what a serious proposition this was to them. Everley launched into an impassioned speech. The workingmen of the town had lost their last hope in the unions; they were suffering from the hard times; and now, if ever, was the time to open their eyes to the remedy. And the Socialists were powerless, because they had permitted the police to frighten them. Now they must make a stand.

“You realize that it will mean going to jail?” asked Dr. Barton.

“I realize it,” said Everley. “We shall probably have to go several times. But if we make up our minds from the beginning, we can win; we shall have the sympathy of the people—and also we can break the conspiracy of silence of the newspapers.”

“That is the thing we must think of,” said the woman in the chair.

“I am ready to do what I can,” added the lawyer. “I will give my services free to defend the speakers, or I will be the first man to be arrested—whichever the comrades prefer.”

“We will lose our jobs,” said some one in the rear of the room.

“Yes,” said Everley, “that is something you will have to consider. You know well enough how much I have lost already.”

Samuel listened in breathless excitement to this discussion. Here were poor people, people with no more resources than he, and at the mercy of the same forces which had been crushing him. Here was one man who had lost an eye in the glass works, and another, a railroad brakeman, who was just out of the hospital after losing a leg. Here were men pale and haggard from hunger, men with wives and children dependent upon them; yet they were giving their time and their money—risking their very existence—in the cause of human freedom! Had he ever met a group of men like this before? Had he ever dreamed that such men were living?

He had thought that he was alone, that he had all the burdens of humanity upon his own shoulders! And now here were people who were ready to hold up his hands; and from the discussion he gathered that they were part of a vast organization, that there existed such “locals” in every city and town in the country. They made their own nominations and voted for their own candidates at every election; they published many newspapers and magazines and books. And they were part of an army of men who were banded together in every civilized nation. Wherever Capitalism had come, there men were uniting against it; and every day their power grew—there was nothing that could stop them.

These men had seen the vision of the new time that was coming, and there burned in them a fire of conviction. Suddenly Samuel realized the import of that word “comrade” which they gave one another; they were men bound together by the memory of persecutions, and by the presence of ruthless enemies. They knew what they were facing at this moment; not only Chief McCullagh with his policemen and their clubs; not only the subsidized “Express” with its falsehoods and ridicule: but all the political and business power of the Hickmans and Wygants. They were facing arrest and imprisonment, humiliation and disgrace—perhaps ruin and starvation. Only in this way could they reach the ears of the people.

“Comrades,” the young lawyer was saying, “every step that has been taken in the progress of humanity has been taken because men have been willing to give their lives. Everywhere that our movement has grown, it has been in the face of persecution. And sooner or later we must make up our minds to it—we may wait for years, but nothing can be accomplished until we have faced this issue. And so I ask you to join with me in taking this pledge—that we will speak on the streets of Lockmanville next Saturday night, and that we will continue to speak there as often as need be until we have vindicated our rights as American citizens.”

There was a solemn hush when he finished; one by one the men and women arose and offered themselves.

“I have been out of work for four months,” said one, “and I have been promised a job next week. If I am arrested, I know that I will not get it. But still I will speak.”

“And I am in Wygant's cotton mill,” said another. “And I'm not young, and when I'm turned out, it will not be easy for me. But I will help.”

“And I, too,” put in Lippman, the cigar store keeper; “my wife can tend the shop!” There was a general laugh at this.

And then Friedrich Bremer sprang up. “My father has been warned!” he cried. “But I will speak also!”

“And I!” exclaimed Samuel. “I think I am going to be a Socialist. Will you let me help?”

“No one's help will be refused in a crisis like this,” said Everley. “We must stand by our guns, for if they can crush us this time, it may be years before we can be heard.”

And then, somewhere in the hall, a voice began to sing. Others took it up, until the walls of the building shook with a mighty chant. “What is it?” whispered Samuel to Friedrich.

“It is called 'The Red Flag,'” replied Friedrich.

And Samuel sat spellbound, listening while they sang:

Hark to the thunder, hark to the tramp—a myriad army comes!

An army sprung from a hundred lands, speaking a hundred tongues!

And overhead a portent new, a blood-red banner see!

The nations gather in affright to ask what the sign may be.

Banner of crimson, banner bright, banner flaunting the sky!

What is the word that ye bring to men, the hope that ye hold on high?

We come from the fields, we come from the forge, we come from the land and sea—

We come in the right of our new-born might to set the people free!

Masters, we left you a world to make, the planning was yours to do—

We were the toilers, humble and sad, we gave our faith to you.

And now with a dread in our hearts we stand and gaze at the work of the years—

We have builded a temple with pillars white, ye have stained it with blood and tears!

For our little ones with their teeming hopes ye have roofed the sweatshop den,

And our daughters fair ye have prisoned in the reeking brothel's pen!

And so for the sign of our murdered hopes our blood-red banner see—

We come in the right of our new-born might to set the people free!

Tremble, oh masters—tremble all who live by others' toil—

We come your dungeon walls to raze, your citadel to spoil!

Yours is the power of club and jail, yours is the axe and fire—

But ours is the hope of human hearts and the strength of the soul's desire!

Ours is the blazing banner, sweeping the sky along!

Ours the host, the marching host—hark to our battle song!

Chanting of brotherhood, chanting of freedom, dreaming the world to be—

We come in the right of our new-born might to set the people free!