There was shouting, and people running from every direction. The throng would surge back, and a few run from it. “What's the matter?” I cried to one of these, and the answer was, “They're cleaning out the reds!” Comrade Abell, who knew the neighborhood, exclaimed in dismay, “It's Erman's Book Store!” “Who's doing this?” I asked of another bystander, and the answer was, “The Brigade! They're cleaning up the city before the convention!” And Comrade Abell clasped his hands to his forehead, and wailed in despair, “It's because they've been selling the 'Liberator'! Erman told me last week he'd been warned to stop selling it!”
Now, I don't know whether or not Carpenter had ever heard of this radical monthly. But he knew that here was a mob, and people in trouble, and he shook off the hands which sought to restrain him, and pushed his way into the throng, which gave way before him, either from respect or from curiosity. 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. Carpenter faced him without flinching; there was something so majestic about him, the man did not strike him, he merely put his spread han............