" Some ran ahead, to clear the
traffic; and then came the wagon, lumbering and rocking, so that the
prophet was thrown from side to side. Fortunately there was a hole
in the canvas, and he could hold to one of the wooden ribs.
The cortege came opposite to me. On each side was a guard of honor,
a line of men walking in lock-step, each with his hands on the
shoulders of the one in front; they had got up a sort of chant: "Hi!
Hi! The Bolsheviki prophet! Hi! Hi! The Bolsheviki prophet!" And
others would yell, "I won't work! I won't work!"--this being our
Mobland nickname for the I.W.W. Some one had daubed the letters on
the sides of the wagon, using the red paint; and a drunken fellow
standing near me shook his clenched fist at the wretch on top and
bellowed in a fog-horn voice: "Hey, there, you goddam Arnychist, if
you're a prophet, come down from that there wagon and cure my
venereal disease!" There was a roar of laughter from the throng, and
the drunken fellow liked the sensation so well that he walked
alongside, shouting his challenge again and again.
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