X
Not many in Southern Pacific University seriously believed that their "student reds" had any responsibility for or even guilty knowledge of the Wall Street bomb explosion. But they knew that these silly fools had been misled by sinister men who quite possibly did have part in the plot, or anyhow were bad enough to have it. Also they knew that the fools had got the university in for a lot of hideous publicity. So the fools were badgered and browbeaten on every hand; they were summoned to the Dean's office one by one and there racked and cross-questioned—and not merely by President Cowper and Dean Squirge, but by various stern gentlemen representing the district attorney and the city prosecutor and the federal secret service and the patriotic newspapers and the defense societies and the information service of the once-upon-a-time ambassador of a no-longer-existing Russian government. When Bunny Ross realized that this was happening, there was another explosion. Being a rich man's son, he was accustomed to having his rights, and more. So of the first of his questioners he demanded, "Who are you, and what brings you into this?" "Now, Ross," said Dean Squirge, "if there are evil men threatening our country's welfare, you certainly do not wish to protect them." "It depends on what you mean by evil," retorted Bunny. "If you mean men who are trying to tell the truth, I wish to protect them all I can." "All we want to know is, what you know about a man called Paul Watkins." So there it was; either Bunny must submit to being cross-questioned by detectives, or else he must have everybody decide that he was hiding some dark secrets about Paul. Said he: "Paul Watkins is my best friend. I have known him for seven or eight years. He is the straightest man I have ever known, bar none. He has come home sick, after a year and a half in the army in Siberia. He could claim an allowance from the government if he wasn't too proud. What he did to me was to tell me what he saw with his own eyes, and I believe every word of it. And I am going to tell it to other people, inside the university or out, and no one is going to stop me." So that was that, and Bunny was excused for the present. They would tackle the less wealthy conspirators—beginning with Peter Nagle, most guilty of all, because his name had appeared on the paper as editor. Peter was commanded forthwith to recant his impoliteness to God, and he swore by God that he wouldn't; so the "Evening Howler" carried a two-column head: STUDENT RED LET OUT And Peter grinned and said for the rest of the bunch not to worry, he was going into the plumbing business and get his revenge on society; and when he had made some money he would publish a paper of his own and kid the life out of God every week. And then came the turn of Rachel Menzies. She had been warned by Bunny as to the secret agents, and had promised to give them a piece of her mind; but they had a way to break her nerve. Just what had been her father's share in this conspiracy? They had ascertained that Papa Menzies had been born in Poland, and under the new deportation laws it didn't matter what you believed or what you had done, they would cancel your naturalization papers, and grab you and ship you away, leaving your family behind to starve, if it so happened. You had no trial, and no recourse of any sort. And furthermore, if a man was dumped into Poland with the red tag on him these days, no trial was held and no questions were asked—he was stood against a wall and shot. So there was Rachel, bursting into tears before these strangers and declaring that her father was a Socialist and not a Communist—as if that meant anything to any patriot! Hadn't the Socialists been opposing the war right along? And wasn't it a fact that the country had an attorney-general who was intriguing to get the nomination for president at the next Democratic convention, and was basing his claim to that distinction upon his valiant campaign to put down the red menace? Rachel telephoned to Bunny, and he hopped into his car and paid a call on President Alonza T. Cowper, D.D., Ph.D., LL.D., at that worthy's private residence in the evening, contrary to the established etiquette of the university. He began by stating his own decision—he was willing to agree to make no more public "propaganda" during his stay in the university; but he wanted to add this, if the authorities permitted Mr. Menzies to suffer deportation as punishment for his daughter's having written a review of a lecture—then he, Bunny Ross, was going on the war-path, and use some of his father's money to blow things wide open before he quit Southern Pacific. The reverend doctor's round clerical face had grown rosy to the roots of his snow-white hair as he listened to this scarcely veiled blackmail. "Young man," said he, "you seem to overlook the fact that the university authorities have nothing to do with the decisions of the United States government." "Dr. Cowper," responded the young man, "I learned from my father to go to headquarters when I want things done. I know that if you tell these defense idiots that you want this matter dropped, they will drop it. And I want to say that while I have never met Mr. Menzies, I know his daughter, and she brought us his ideas at different times, and he believes in democracy and in educating the people—every bit of advice he sent us was along that line. He belongs to the right wing group among the Socialists, and is opposing the Bolsheviks in the movement. You must know enough about the situation to realize that that is not the sort of people we are supposed to be deporting." It turned out that Dr. Cowper really didn't know that much, but was willing to learn. It was rather comical; underneath the indignation he was officially obliged to feel, the old gentleman had an unholy curiosity about these strange new ideas that had seduced his prize millionaire sophomore. So here was Bunny telling him about Paul Watkins, and about Harry Seager, what sort of people they were, and what they had seen in Siberia, and what they thought about it, and what Bunny thought. The doctor asked the most naive and childish questions, but he did try to understand, and Bunny gave him a complete lecture on Bolshevism versus Socialism lasting two hours. At the end the prize millionaire sophomore was sent away with a pat on the back, and the assurance that Papa Menzies would not be deported so long as he behaved himself; plus a solemn warning that whereas mature minds such as Dr. Cowper's were equipped to deal with these dangerous new thoughts, the immature minds of the students were not to be trusted with them!
XI There was an interview to be had with Henrietta Ashleigh. It was not so painful as Bunny had feared, because she hid her grief under a cloak of dignity. "I am sorry, Arnold, but I am beginning to fear there is something in you that enjoys this crude notoriety." Bunny tried to be humble and accept this rebuke, but he couldn't; there was something in him that was bored by Henrietta's ideas; and when you are bored, you can no longer keep up romantic imaginings about a girl. And then the folks at home! First, Aunt Emma, horrified, tearful, and completely muddled. Bunny had not got that prize after all! Aunt Emma had somehow got it fixed in her head that there had been a prize, and that Bunny might have got it if it had not been for the reds. This awful peril of Bolshevik agents, right in one's home! Aunt Emma had heard hair-raising stories from lecturers to her club-ladies, but had never dreamed that these emissaries of Satan might be seducing her darling nephew! "Watch out, auntie!" said the nephew. "You may be next!" And then Bertie. Bertie was just wild! She had been invited to a house-party of the very desirable Atherton-Stewarts, but now she would be ashamed to show her face among decent people. That was the way every time, no sooner did she achieve a social triumph, than Bunny came along and made one of his stinks. It was the most disgusting thing that could have happened, it showed his tastes were naturally low. Bertie and Bunny were quite fond of each other, and called each other violent names with true brotherly and sisterly frankness. Finally Dad, who was a perfect brick; never said a word, nor asked a question, and when Bunny started to explain, he said, "That's all right, son, I know just how it happened." And that was true; he knew Paul and Harry Seager, he had been inside his boy's mind. And he knew the tragedy of life, that each generation has to make its own mistakes. The uproar died away surprisingly soon. In a few days Bunny's classmates were "joshing" him, it was all a joke. There was only one serious consequence, that Mr. Daniel Webster Irving received a letter from President Cowper, advising him in advance, as a matter of courtesy, that his contract with Southern Pacific University would not be r
enewed for next year. The instructor showed it to Bunny, with a dry smile; and Bunny was enraged, and wanted to blackmail the reverend doctor a second time. But Mr. Irving said to forget it, there were too many ways to make life miserable for a teacher who wasn't wanted. He would file his references with the employment agencies, and write a lot of letters, and move on to pastures new. "That is," he added, "assuming I can get something. They have a pretty tight organization, and I may find I'm blacklisted for good." "How do you suppose they got on to you, Mr. Irving?" "It was bound to happen," said the other. "They have so many spies." "But we have been so careful! We've never mentioned your name, except among our own little group!" "They've probably got a spy right among you." "A student, you mean?" "Of course." And smiling at Bunny's incredulity, Mr. Irving reached into his desk and pulled out a mimeographed sheet of paper. "This was handed to me by a business friend of mine," he said. It was one of the weekly bulletins of the "Improve America League," a propaganda organization of the business men of Angel City. It explained how they had their agents at work in colleges and high schools, training students to watch their teachers and fellow students, and report any signs of the red menace. The league boasted its fund of a hundred and sixty thousand dollars a year for the next five years. So here was another chunk of reality, falling with a dull sickening thud upon the head of a young idealist! Bunny sat, running over in his mind the members of the little group. "Who could it be?" Said Mr. Irving: "Some one who was very 'red,' you can be sure. That is how it works—a man is looking for something to report, and when it's too slow making its appearance, he's tempted to help it along. So the spy almost always becomes a provocateur. You can tell him by the fact that he talks a lot and does nothing— he can't afford to have it said that he was a leader." "By God!" said Bunny. "He promised to help us sell those papers, and then he didn't show up!" "Who is that?" "Billy George. We never could be red enough to suit him! He was the cause of that fool poem of Peter Nagle's going into the paper. And now he's dropped clean out—he wasn't mentioned in the scandal." Mr. Irving smiled. "Well, Ross, you've seen the white terror in action! You'll find it helps you to understand world history. For-
tunately, you're rich, so it was just a joke. But don't forget—if you'd been a poor Russian Jew in the slums, you'd be in jail now, with ten thousand dollars bail, and ten or twenty years in state's prison for your destiny. If you had happened to live in Poland or Finland or Roumania, you and all your little bunch would have been buried in one muddy trench a week ago!"
CHAPTER XII
THE SIREN 1
Springtime had come again, and Bunny was finishing his second year at Southern Pacific. But the bloom was now worn off the peach; he no longer took the great institution at its own valuation. He knew that the courses were dull, and that they taught you masses of facts of little importance, and were afraid of new and original thinking. The one thing he had got was a clue to some worthwhile books; he wanted to read them—but you could do that better at home. He was debating whether he would come back next year. Things were freer at Paradise, it seemed. Paul had gone back to work as a boss carpenter for the company; he had recovered a part of his strength, and was making good money—building labor was scarce, because the country was making up for the lost construction of war-time. Ruth was happy again; at least three of the oil workers were in love with her, but she would think of no one but her wonderful brother. Paul was studying again; but not the biology books, all his money now went for magazines and pamphlets and books that dealt with the labor struggle. There were a good many returned soldiers with the company, some of whom had come to think about the war just as Paul did; twice a week they had regular classes, reading aloud a chapter from a book and discussing it. So the Rascum cabin became what the Angel City newspapers were accustomed to describe as a "Bolshevik nest." Much as these workingmen might differ about tactics, they were a unit on the proposition that capital and labor had nothing in common but a fight. And they made no bones about saying it; they would start an argument on the job, or while a bunch of the men were eating their lunch; the echoes would spread all over the place. There were "wobblies" in the field also, you would find their literature in the bunk-houses. Dad must have known about it, but he did nothing; his men had always been free to say what they pleased, and he would take his chances. Indeed, he could hardly do anything else, while every man on the place knew that the discoverer and heir-apparent of the field was one of the "reddest" of the bunch! Ever since the war, the union of the oil workers had been recognized and dealt with, as the government had decreed. But now the hand of Uncle Sam was beginning to relax; the idealistic President was a semi-invalid in Washington, and in Angel City the "open shop" crowd were getting ready to bring back the good old days. At least that was the rumor among the union officials, and how were they going to meet the employers' move? The wage agreements expired towards the end of the year, and this was the issue to which all the arguments of the oil workers led, whether among the "reds" in Paul's cabin, or among the rank and file. Over Bunny's head the prospect of another strike hung like a black shadow of doom. Dad never gave up longing to have his son take an interest in the company and its growing activities. And Bunny, always aware of this loving bond, would study monthly reports of production, and cost sheets and price schedules, and go out to the wells that were drilling, and take part in long consultations with the foremen. Only a few years ago, an oil well had been to him the most interesting thing in the world; but now cruel fate had brought it about that one oil well seemed exactly like another oil well! Number 142 had brought in six hundred thousand dollars, whereas Number 143 had brought in only four hundred and fifty thousand. But what difference did it make, when all you would do with the extra hundred and fifty thousand was to drill another well? Dad's answer was kept in stock on the shelves of his mind: "The world has got to have oil." But then, you looked at the world, and saw enormous crowds of people driving to places where they were no better off than at home! But it would annoy Dad to have you say that—it was a step outside the range of his thinking. To Bunny he now seemed like an old horse in a treadmill; he climbed and climbed, all day long, and at night he climbed in dreams. But if you should let him out of the treadmill, he would die—for lack of any reason for living. So Bunny learned more and more to keep his traitor doubts to himself; those theories of the "class struggle" that he learned from Paul and his fellows, and the rumors of a strike that he read in the oil workers' journal. Instead, he would take Dad fishing, and they would pretend they were just as happy as of old in the bosom of their mother Nature—though the sad truth was that Dad was too heavy and too stiff in the joints to get much fun out of scrambling over the rocks.
II
Bunny spent his Easter holidays at Paradise, and it happened that Vernon Roscoe paid a visit to the tract. He had been there before, but only while Bunny was away; their meetings so far had been brief ones at the office, amid the press of business. Bunny had got a general impression of a big face and a big body and a big voice. Dad said that "Verne" had also a big heart; but Bunny's only evidence was that Mr. Roscoe had patted him on the back, and called him "Jim Junior," with great gusto. Now he came; and it happened that a desert wind came with him, and made a funny combination. As a rule the heat of the day was endurable at Paradise, and the nights were always cold and refreshing; but three or four times in a year the place would be struck by a wind off the desert, and it would be like a hot hand reaching out and holding you by the throat. "A hundred and fourteen in the shade and there ain't any shade," was the way the oil workers put it, as they went on working in the sun, drinking barley water by the quart. The worst of it was, the hot wind blew all night, and the houses, which had heated up like furnaces, stayed that way for three or four days. The "oil magnate," as the newspapers called Vernon Roscoe, left Angel City after dinner, and reached the tract just before midnight. Dad and Bunny were expecting him, sitting out on the veranda, and he saw them, and his voice started before the engine of his car stopp
ed. "Hello, Jim! Hello, Jim Junior! By Jees, what's this you're doing to me! Christ amighty, man, I never felt such heat. Is it going to be like this tomorrow? By Jees, I think I'll turn my tail and run!" He was out of the car, and coming up the path, his face as round as the moon that shone down on his half-bald head. He had taken off his coat and shirt, and was in a pink silk undershirt; no perspiration, of course, because you were always dry when you drove in this desert heat—you might stop at a filling station and stand under a hose and soak yourself, and the wind would dry everything but your sitting down place in a couple of minutes. "Hello, Verne," said Dad; and Bunny said, "How are you, Mr. Roscoe?" He was careful to get a grip on the magnate's paw before the magnate got a grip on his—for he would make the bones crunch with his mighty grasp. He had been a cattlepuncher back in Oklahoma, and it was said that he had grabbed a Mexican horse-thief with his two hands and bent him backwards until he broke. He still had that strength, in spite of his rolls of fat. "I'm hot as hell," he said, answering Bunny's polite inquiry. "Say, Jim, do you think I'd better stay?" "You've got to stay," said Dad. "I'm not going ahead with development on that Bandy tract till you've looked the field over. We'll sit you on ice." "Has my beer come?" Hey, there, Kuno"—this to the Jap, who was grinning in the door-way. "Bring me some of my beer! Bring me a bucketful—a tubful. By Jees, I brought some in my car—I wouldn't take a chance. Did you hear what happened to Pete O'Reilly? Damn fool tried to come across the border with a crate of whiskey in his car; told me it cost him a hundred dollars a quart before he got through! Christ almighty, Verne, how do you stand this?" "Well, for one thing, I drink lemonade instead of beer." This was a reform which Bunny had imposed upon his father, and now Dad was very proud of it. "No pop for me!" said Verne. "By Jees, I'll have my suds in the bath-tub. Any women about, Verne?" And Mr. Roscoe kicked off his shoes and his trousers, and sat himself under an electric fan. "The damn thing blows hot air!" he said; and then he looked at Bunny. "Well, here's our boy Bolsheviki! Where's the red flag!" Now Bunny was expecting to reach the impressive age of twentyone in a month or two, and he had heard all possible variations on this "Bolsheviki" joke. But he was host, and had to smile. "I see you read the papers." "Say, kiddo, you made the front page all right! It did me a lot of good in some negotiations. Come down to the office and I'll introduce you to a Soviet commissar in disguise; they're trying to sell me a concession in the Urals. 'Where the hell is that?' I says; but it seems there is really such a place, unless they have forged some atlases. The guy started to pull this brotherhood of man stuff on me, and I says, 'Sure, I'm great on that dope,' I says. 'The junior member of our firm is in the business! Look at this, by Jees,' and I showed him the papers, and we've been 'Tovarish' ever since!"