In the wagon a voice began singing. I looked up and saw our Italian musician, the leader of those gay excursions on _The Internationale_. Now he was singing the song of that name. And as all came in on the chorus, I caught a glimpse of his face. One cheek was bleeding profusely and with one hand he was keeping the blood from trickling down. With the other hand he was beating time. And his black eyes were blazing. Soon after, we came to Jefferson Market and stopped at the entrance of the jail. As we were hustled out of the wagon, and in the stronger light our cuts and swelling bruises came suddenly in view, two young girls among us began to laugh hysterically. In a moment we were inside the jail and shoved into a striker group that had come in wagons ahead of ours. A grim old sergeant at the desk was taking down names and addresses and sending the prisoners to their cells. I found my cell a cool relief after all that fever of cries. With surprise I noticed it was clean. I had thought all cells were filthy holes. Still in a daze, I sat down on my cot and felt the big bruise on my head. "Where am I? What has happened? What has all this to do with me? What is it going to mean in my life?" I heard a nasal voice from somewhere say: "I know this pen. They're putting the girls with the prostitutes." I heard clanging gongs outside and soon the banging of steel doors as more prisoners were put into cells. And little by little, through it all, I made out a low, eager murmur. "Say," inquired a drunken old voice. "Who are all you damn fools? What is this party, anyhow?" "It is a revolution!" a sharp little voice replied. And at that, from all sides other voices broke out. Then from his cell our musical friend again started up the singing, his strained tenor voice rising high over all. The song rose in volume, grew more intense. "Heigh! Quit that noise!" a policeman shouted. "Aw, let 'em alone," said another. "They'll soon work it off." But we seemed to be only working it up. Up and up, song followed song, and then short impassioned speeches came out of cells, and there was applause. A voice asked each one of us to name his nationality, and we found we were Americans, Irish, Scotch and Germans, Italians and Norwegians, and three of us were Lascars and one of us was a Coolie. Then there were cheers for the working class all over the world, and after that a call for more singing. And now, as one of the songs died away, we heard from the woman's part of the jail the young girls singing in reply. And slowly as I listened to those songs that rose and swelled and beat against those walls of steel, I felt once more the presence of that great spirit of the crowd. "That spirit will go on," I thought. "No jail can stop the thing it feels!" And at last with a deep, warm certainty I felt myself where I belonged. CHAPTER XVII