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Sinclair, Upton, 1878-1968

"They Call Me Carpenter"

All that had been going on,
while we sat at table gluttonizing--and while tears were running
down Carpenter's cheeks!
It seemed to me that every third man in the crowd had one of the
morning's newspapers in his hand--the newspapers which told how a
furious mob of armed ruffians had sought to break its way into
Prince's, and had with difficulty been driven off by the gallant
protectors of the law. A man would read some passage which struck
him as especially false; he would tell what he had seen or done, and
he would crumple the paper in his hand and cry. "The liars! The
dirty liars!"--adding adjectives not suitable for print.
I realized more than ever that I had made a mistake in letting
Carpenter get into this place. It was no resort for anybody who
wanted to be patriotic, or happy about the world. All sorts of
wonderful promises had been made to labor, to persuade it to win the
war; and now labor came with the blank check, duly filled out
according to its fancy--and was in process of being kicked
downstairs.


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