I learned later that some of
the mob had dragged the bookseller and his two clerks out by the
rear entrance, and were beating them pretty severely. But
fortunately Carpenter did not see this. All he saw were a dozen or
so ex-soldiers in uniform carrying armfuls of magazines and books
out into a little square, which was made by the oblique intersection
of two avenues. They were dumping the stuff into a pile, and a man
with a five gallon can was engaged in pouring kerosene over it.
"My friend," said Carpenter, "what is this that you do?"
The other turned upon him and stared. "What the hell you got to do
with it? Get out of the way there!" And to emphasize his words he
slopped a jet of kerosene over the prophet's robes.
Said Carpenter: "Do you know what a book is? One of your poets has
described it as the precious life-blood of a great spirit, embalmed
and preserved to all posterity."
The other laughed scornfully. "Was he talkin' about Bolsheviki
books, you reckon?"
Said Carpenter: "Are you one that should be set to judge books? Have
you read these that you are about to destroy?" And as the other,
paying no attention, knelt down to strike a match and light the
pyre, he cried, in a louder voice: "Behold what a thing is war! You
have been trained to kill your fellow men; the beast has been let
loose in your heart, and he raves within!"
"One of these God-damn pacifists, eh?" cried the ex-soldier; and he
dropped his matches and sprang up with fists clenched.
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