“I ask, why do the police of Mobland put down the mobs of the poor, and not the mobs of the rich? I ask, who pays the police, and who pays the mobs.” “I see! You are some kind of radical!” And with sickness of soul I saw another headline before my mind's eye: WEALTHY CLUBMAN AIDS BOLSHEVIK PROPHET I hastened to break in: “Mr. Carpenter is not a radical; he is a lover of man.” But then I realized, that did not sound just right. How the devil was I to describe this man? How came it that all the phrases of brotherhood and love had come to be tainted with “radicalism”? I tried again: “He is a friend of peace.” “Oh, really!” observed the reporter. “A pacifist, hey?” And I thought: “Damn the hound!” I knew, of course, that he had the rest of the formula in his head: “Pro-German!” Out loud I said: “He teaches brotherhood.” But the hound was not interested in my generalities and evasions. “Where have you seen mobs of the rich, Mr. Carpenter?” “I have seen them whirling through the streets in automobiles, killing the children of the poor.” “You have seen that?” “I saw it last night.” Now, I had inspected our “Times” and our “Examiner” that morning, and noted that both, in their accounts of the accident, had given only the name of the chauffeur, and suppressed that of the owner. I understood what an amount of social and financial pressure that feat had taken; and here was Carpenter about to spoil it! I laid my hand on his arm, saying: “My friend, you were a guest in that car. You are not at liberty to talk about it.” I expected to be argued with; but Carpenter apparently conceded my point, for he fell silent. It was the young reporter who spoke. “You were in an auto accident, I judge? We had only one report of a death, and that was caused by Mrs. Stebbins' car. Were you in that?” Then, as neither Carpenter nor I replied, he laughed. “It doesn't matter, because I couldn't use the story. Mr. Stebbins is one of our 'sacred cows.' Good-day, and thank you.” He started away; and suddenly all my terror of newspaper publicity overwhelmed me. I simply could not face the public as guardian of a Bolshevik! I shouted: “Young man!” And the reporter turned, respectfully, to listen. “I tell you, Mr. Carpenter is _not_ a radical! Get that clear!” And to the young man's skeptical half-smile I exclaimed: “He's a Christian!” At which the reporter laughed out loud. XXVII