Abell. More
surprising yet, T-S had seated himself inconspicuously at the foot
of the table, while at the prophet's right hand there sat a convict
with a twenty year jail sentence hanging over him--John Colver, the
"wobbly" poet! Again an ancient phrase learned in childhood came
floating through my mind: "He hath put down the mighty from their
seats, and exalted them of low degree!"
Somehow word had been got to all the little group of agitators of
various shades. There was Korwsky, the secretary of the tailors'
union--whose first name I learned was Luka; also his fellow Russian,
the express-driver,--Simon Karlin, and Tom Moneta, the young Mexican
cigar-maker. There was Matthew Everett, free to be a guest on this
occasion, because T-S had brought along another stenographer. There
was Mark Abell, and another Socialist, a young Irishman named Andy
Lynch, a veteran of the late war who had come home completely cured
of militarism, and was now spending his time distributing Socialist
leaflets, and preaching to the workers wherever he could get two or
three to listen.
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