“I worked in the fields,” he told me, “and when the thunderstorm came up I prayed God to save me. Then, when the thunderstorm was over, I began asking is there a God. When the thunderstorm came again, I prayed. One day I was sent to see my grandmother. On the way I met a stranger. We walked together, and it was a long journey. I asked him about all the things that were troubling me. He gave me two pamphlets. One was called ‘The Tenth Man.’ I had wondered why father, who was not nearly so clever as the workers, should have a whole vote for himself, while the workers had only one vote for ten men. I read the pamphlets, and at school I told my comrades about them. We published a paper about it; but the teacher confiscated it and sent for my parents. My father beat me, and I hated him. From that moment I became a revolutionist.” [Illustration: © Orrin S. Wightman A typical street scene in the Volga river towns] [Illustration: © Orrin S. Wightman Barges of wood on the Neva] At the age of fifteen Peters left home and went to work in a shop. He joined a revolutionary organization, and was four times thrown into prison. He and his comrades were stood up against a wall while they counted out every tenth man and killed him. He saw his best friend shot down in this fashion, and dozens of other comrades. Every act of oppression and repression only made him a more determined revolutionist. He escaped from prison, and lived in France, Switzerland, and England, helping as best he could his companions still in Russia. At the time of the Revolution in March he was holding an excellent position as manager of the import department of a large English mercantile company. He wore a frock-coat on Sundays, and walked out with his English “missis” and his little girl in the height of order and respectability. But the call of free Russia, the call of the Revolution, was too strong for him. He came back to rejoice and fight. He became the leader of the Lettish Socialists, and worked day and night for the cause in which he believed. He made flying trips to Petrograd, and usually managed to drop in for a few minutes while he was there. One night he drew a slip of paper from his pocket and asked me if I recognized the signature. I gasped. “Why, it’s Lenin,” I said. “Then he’s here?” Peters nodded. “I’ve seen him to-day,” he said. “This is the candidate’s ticket for the Constituent Assembly. They have given him to me, because our district is the most radical and we can elect him there.” “And you are absolutely sure that Lenin is an honest revolutionist and not a pro-German?” I asked. He raised his head with a toss of defiance and his blue eyes flashed fire. “If I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t have this,” he said.