Half way down the block we came to the Palace Hotel, and uniformed
men came pouring out of that. I heard the shrieks of a woman, and
put my foot on the edge of a store-window, and raised myself up by
an awning, to see over the heads of the crowd. Half a dozen rowdies
had got hold of a girl; I don't know what she had done--maybe her
skirts were too short, or maybe she had been saucy to one of the
gang; anyhow, they were tearing her clothes to shreds, and having
done this gaily, they took her on their shoulders, and ran her out
to the wagon, and tossed her up beside the Red Prophet. "There's a
girl for you!" they yelled; and the drunken fellow who wanted
Carpenter to cure him, suddenly thought of a new witticism: "Hey,
you goddam Bolsheviki, why don't you nationalize her?" Men laughed
and whooped over that; some of them were so tickled that they danced
about and waved their arms in the air. For, you see, they knew all
the details concerning the "nationalization of women in Russia," and
also they had read in the papers about Mary Magna, and Carpenter's
fondness for picture-actresses and other gay ladies.
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