“You’ve no kick coming,” he said, addressing the young man whose hat had been forcibly removed and was now irretrievably crushed; “you’re lucky not to have your face smashed as well as your hat.” “Well,” was the prompt reply, “if this is what you call it, the American spirit of fair play, then I have the good reason to dishonor your American flag.” And the red-faced man, growing still more angry, retorted: “If you don’t like the American spirit, go back where you came from. What business have you got here, anyway? Who are you?” Again the reply came promptly and deliberately: “I have the same business here like you. Me, I am Hugo Donatello, Internationalist. My journal, which I publish in your city, is by name _The Disinherited_. I commend it to your reading that you may learn from it the first principles of human justice and decency.” Then the fellow at whose suggestion Donatello was made hatless broke in again: “Oh, I know who he is. He’s an anarchist. He’s no business here. Run him out!” Half a dozen voices echoed the cry: “Run him out! Run him out!” In the crowd there was a movement, perceptible and ominous, an involuntary drawing toward the center of the disturbance. The red-faced man spoke up again: “Gentlemen, this fellow is not only an enemy to our government, he has also insulted our flag. Before he is permitted to go he should be made to apologize.” The idea became suddenly popular. “Yes,” was the cry from a dozen throats, “make him apologize!” The red-faced man turned toward the intended victim. “Well,” he demanded, “are you going to do it?” “Do what?” “Apologize.” “To whom?” “To the flag.” “But I do not honor your flag. It is the same as nothing to me.” “We’ll make you honor it. By the shade of Washington, we’ll make you kiss it!” “Ah, that is the autocratic boast! But I am of the people. I defy you! I will spit upon your flag!” He stood, with bloodless face and blazing eyes, desperate and defiant. He could no longer hold his anger in check. He had spoken his mind. And he knew, or should have known, that he must now pay the penalty for his rashness. It was Ben Barriscale who, echoing the red-faced man’s suggestion, shouted: “Make him kiss the flag!” It was a suggestion and a demand that was caught up at once by the crowd, and immediately there was a concerted movement to carry it out. A powerful man, standing near Donatello, seized his arms and pinioned them behind his back. A dozen hands reached out to force him toward the spot where the colors still lay in the arms of the girls dressed in white. Up to this moment Halpert McCormack had looked on disapprovingly, but had held his peace. He could remain silent no longer. His sense of fair play had been outraged. To hound this man into expressions of disloyalty and contempt and then to make him pay the humiliating penalty strained his patience to the breaking point.