"
"Mobs?" said the puzzled young blood-hound.
"I wish to understand a land which is governed by mobs; I wish to
know, who lives upon the madness of others."
"You have been studying a mob this morning?" inquired the reporter.
"I ask, why do the police of Mobland put down the mobs of the poor,
and not the mobs of the rich? I ask, who pays the police, and who
pays the mobs."
"I see! You are some kind of radical!" And with sickness of soul I
saw another headline before my mind's eye:
WEALTHY CLUBMAN AIDS BOLSHEVIK PROPHET
I hastened to break in: "Mr. Carpenter is not a radical; he is a
lover of man." But then I realized, that did not sound just right.
How the devil was I to describe this man? How came it that all the
phrases of brotherhood and love had come to be tainted with
"radicalism"? I tried again: "He is a friend of peace."
"Oh, really!" observed the reporter. "A pacifist, hey?" And I
thought: "Damn the hound!" I knew, of course, that he had the rest
of the formula in his head: "Pro-German!" Out loud I said: "He
teaches brotherhood.
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