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Sinclair, Upton, 1878-1968

"They Call Me Carpenter"

I had a flash of suspicion, and
glanced at my companion, the cultured literary critic from Berlin.
Could it possibly be that this smooth-spoken gentleman was playing a
trick upon me--trying, possibly, to get something into my crude
American mind without my realizing what was happening? But I
remembered his detailed account of the production, the very essence
of "art for art's sake." I decided that the war was three years
over, and I was competent to do my own thinking.
Dr. Henner spoke first. "I think," he said, "it might be wiser if I
did not try to go in there."
"Absurd!" I cried. "I'm not going to be dictated to by a bunch of
imbeciles!"
"No," said the other, "you are an American, and don't have to be.
But I am a German, and I must learn."
I noted the flash of bitterness, but did not resent it. "That's all
nonsense, Dr. Henner!" I argued. "You are my guest, and I won't--"
"Listen, my friend," said the other. "You can doubtless get by
without trouble; but I would surely rouse their anger, and I have no
mind to be beaten for nothing.


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