Jimmie Higgins

CHAPTER I.-3

“Well,” said the Candidate, still smiling, “what do you say?”

“I say sure!” replied Jimmie.

He was almost beside himself with awe, at this unbelieveable strange fortune, this real comradeship with the hero of his dreams. To Jimmie this man had been a disembodied intelligence, a dispenser of proletarian inspiration, a supernatural being who went about the country standing upon platforms and swaying the souls of multitudes. It had never occurred to Jimmie that he might have a bare body, and might enjoy splashing about in cool water like a boy playing “hookey” from school. The saying is that familiarity breeds contempt, but for Jimmie it bred rapture.

VI.

They walked home again, more slowly. The Candidate asked Jimmie about his life, and Jimmie told the story of a Socialist—not one of the leaders, the “intellectuals”, but of the “rank and file”. Jimmie’s father was a working man out of a job, who had left his family before Jimmie had joined it; Jimmie’s mother had died three years later, so he did not remember her, nor could he recall a word of the foreign language he had spoken at home, nor did he even know what the language was. He had been taken in charge by the city, and farmed out to a n***o woman who had eight miserable starvelings under her care, feeding them on gruel and water, and not even giving them a blanket in winter. You might not think that possible—

“I know America,” put in the Candidate.

Jimmie went on. At nine he had been boarded with a woodsaw man, who worked him sixteen hours a day and beat him in addition; so Jimmie had skipped out, and for ten years had lived the life of a street waif in the cities and a hobo on the road. He had learned a bit about machinery, helping in a garage, and then, in a rush-time, he had got a job in the Empire Machine Shops. He had stayed in Leesville, because he had got married; he had met his wife in a brothel, and she had wanted to quit the life, and they had taken a chance together.

“I don’t tell that to everybody,” said Jimmie. “You know—they mightn’t understand. But I don’t mind you knowin’.”

“Thank you,” replied the Candidate, and put his hand on Jimmie’s shoulder. “Tell me how you became a Socialist.”

There was nothing special about that, was the answer. There had been a fellow in the shop who was always “chewing the rag”; Jimmie had laughed at him—for his life had made him suspicious of everybody, and if there was any sort of politician, it was just another scheme of somebody to wear a white collar and live off the workers. But the fellow had kept pegging away; and once Jimmie had been laid off for a couple of months, and the family had near starved, and that had given him time to think, and also the inclination. The fellow had come along with some papers, and Jimmie had read them, and it dawned upon him that here was a movement of his fellow-workers to put an end to their torments.

“How long ago was that?” asked the Candidate, and Jimmie answered three years. “And you haven’t lost your enthusiasm?” This with an intensity that surprised Jimmie. No, he answered, he was not that kind. Whatever happened, he would keep pegging away at the task of freeing labour. He would not see the New Day, perhaps, but his children would see it; and a fellow would work like the devil to save his children.

So they came to the city; and the Candidate pressed Jimmie’s arm. “Comrade,” he said, “I want to tell you how much good this little trip has done me. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“Me?” exclaimed Jimmie.

“You have given me fresh hope and courage, and at a time when I felt beaten. I got into town this morning, and I’d had no sleep, and I tried to get some in the hotel and couldn’t, because of the horror that’s happening. I wrote a dozen telegrams and sent them off, and then I was afraid to go back to the hotel-room, because I knew I’d only lie awake all afternoon. But now—I remember that our movement is rooted in the hearts of the people!”

Jimmie was trembling. But all he could say was: “I wish I could do it every Sunday.”

“So do I,” said the Candidate.

VII.

They walked down Main Street, and some way ahead they saw a crowd gathered, filling the pavement beyond the kerb. “What is that?” asked the Candidate, and Jimmie answered that it was the office of the Herald. There must be some news.

The other hastened his steps; and Jimmie, striding alongside, fell silent again, knowing that the gigantic burden and woe of the world was falling upon his hero’s shoulders once more. They came to the edge of the crowd, and saw a bulletin in front of the newspaper office. But it was too far away for them to read. “What is it?” they asked.

“It says the Germans are going to march into Belgium. And they’ve shot a lot of Socialists in Germany.”

“WHAT?” And the Candidate’s hand clutched Jimmie’s arm.

“That’s what it says.”

“My God!” exclaimed the man. And he began pushing his way into the crowd, with Jimmie in his wake. They got to the bulletin, and stood reading the typewritten words—a bare announcement that more than a hundred leading German Socialists had been executed for efforts to prevent mobilization. They continued staring, until people pushing behind them caused them to draw back. Outside the throng they stood, the Candidate gazing into space, and Jimmie gazing at the Candidate, both of them dumb. It was a fact that they could not have been more shocked if the news had referred to the members of Local Leesville of the Socialist Party of America.

The pain in the Candidate’s face was so evident that Jimmie groped about in his head for something comforting to say. “At least they done what they could,” he whispered.

The other suddenly burst forth: “They are heroes! They have made the name Socialist sacred for ever!” He rushed on, as if he were making a speech-so strong becomes a life-time habit. “They have written their names at the very top of humanity’s roll of honour! It doesn’t make any difference what happens after this, Comrade—the movement had vindicated itself! All the future will be changed because of this event!”

He began to walk down the street, talking more to himself than to Jimmie. He was borne away on the wings of his vision; and his companion was so thrilled that he honestly did not know where he was. Afterwards, when he looked back upon this scene, it remained the most wonderful event of his life; he told the story, sooner or later, to every Socialist he met.

Presently the Candidate stopped. “Comrade,” he said, “I must go to the hotel. I want to write some telegrams. You explain to the Committee—I’d rather not see anyone till time for the meeting. I’ll find the way myself.”