VI

Capuchin rose early the next morning, came at eight-thirty to his office, and was soon fuming under the notion that Semicorn was tardy. Having made a pretty clear guess as to what had happened, he was really worried about the paper. You do not pick up a staff of seven men at nine o’clock in the evening as a gift of Providence. There was some canniness in it.

He knew the Wobblies and understood their ways. Generally speaking, he liked them. When they began coming in numbers to New Freedom, attracted by the Freemen’s League fight, he hired some of them for his canvassing organization—to sell the League, as he always said. They were effective enough, yet gave him a great deal of trouble by getting their propaganda mixed up with his. Several he had been obliged to dismiss for that reason. Not that he objected to their propaganda, only that it was not League propaganda, and that alone he wished to spread by invariable words. He believed the repetition of one idea very important. The dismissed Wobblies were sore, naturally, and made some ugly remarks about repression of speech. However, he handled them carefully and no enmity arose openly.

They understood him, too. Once for a year he had been mayor of a small western town where they came to stage a free speech fight. He met them with a permit, and said: “Denounce anything you dislike but the army. I don’t care about the army myself, but there’s a camp of regulars out there a few miles and they are a rough, touchy lot. That’s all. You can’t get yourself put in jail here for anything you say.” That spoiled the fun.

Yes, he liked them personally. They had much rebellion in common. But here was another figure of facts. The paper. He was in the absurd position of having got it away from the enemy on the extreme right only to let it fall into the hands of these reckless and dubious allies on the extreme left. Sure, they had no shadow of right in the case. Still, it would be no easy matter to get them out. They were in house, on the rug; they had nothing to lose and they loved any kind of uproar.

Semicorn arrived promptly at nine o’clock. As he entered, Capuchin made believe to be deeply engrossed in some papers on his desk. Semicorn seated himself, rolled a cigarette and waited.

“Sit down, Mr. Semicorn,” said Capuchin. Then he looked up. “You are already seated, Mr. Semicorn. You have a way of seating yourself.”

Semicorn made no reply to this, nor did he betray any reaction whatever. He sat there gazing steadily at Capuchin, still waiting, as if nothing had been said. His countenance was square, plumb and innocent, set with blue eyes and touched with color just a little too high to be a true mark of health. Not an impassive face. On the contrary, sensitive; and yet astonishingly impenetrable.

Until that moment Capuchin had not decided what he should say. When he spoke again his voice was combative and his words came hissing through his clenched teeth.

“I like you, Mr. Semicorn,” he said. “I don’t like you, Mr. Semicorn. That brings us to the third point. You squeeze me, Mr. Semicorn. You will admit that you squeeze me. Suppose I say, ‘Mr. Semicorn, I have decided to make you editor of the “Herald”.’ What will Mr. Semicorn be thinking? He will be chortling and saying to himself, Tm already editor of the “Herald,” in blackface type.’ If I say, ‘Mr. Semicorn, I’ve decided not to make you editor of the “Herald”,’ what will Mr. Semicorn be thinking? He will be thinking to himself what a hell of a row he and his Wobbly friends can make about getting out. It’s like trying to put out the cat. I have the cat by the belly. That’s a bad way to have it. Look at me with a free speech fight on my hands in New Freedom! That’s what you would try to make of it. I know you.”

This was all so pat to the truth that Semicorn smiled.

“It’s when you smile I like you,” said Capuchin. “Now listen. I know Wobblies. The trouble is they can’t play any tune but their own. They play that one wrong. Each man sings it to suit himself. Very bad for the tune. That’s why you get nowhere. Free speech is all right in matters of personal opinion. But where you’ve got a practical purpose in view you might as well have free trombones in a band. Take these workers of mine, selling the League all over the place. I tell them what to say. They are drilled in it. They are not permitted to add one word of their own. And it works. It works like water on a stone. Now take the paper. This is practical politics, understand. I was thinking I’d keep it neutral for a while. A big gun in the brush. That’s impossible since your name has appeared on it. All right. We’ll bring it straight over to the League with a roar. Everything for the best. But it’s got to be a League paper, not an I. W. W. paper. It’s got to sing the League tune and no other. I know how far it’s safe to scare people, and that’s never as far as you’d like. Remember, Mr. Semicorn, I don’t know you. I assume you are competent to run the paper. Assume it. You did a good job last night, except—well, never mind that. But you’ll have to run it as I say, and promise, or we’ll have our fight now and get it done with.”

“That’s clean,” said Semicorn. “Now I’ll tell you how I see it. To begin with, I’m Wobbly clear through. Maybe I’m cracked on it. Anyway, that’s where I live ‘n’ no other place. I’d squeeze you or the Freemen’s League or God Almighty for the I. W. W. Do you get that?”

He was cool, thoughtful.

Capuchin, leaning forward on the edge of his chair, nodded.

“And we all sing that tune by ear,” Semicorn continued. “But since you’ve put it the way you have, this is how I see it, as I was going to say. For a piece of the way we can all ride together. We’re going the same direction. As far as that is that, we can ride together; I’ll run the paper exactly as you say, if you leave me there. All square. No tricks. And when I think we can’t ride any further together I’ll let you know in time. How’s that?”

“Mr. Semicorn,” said Capuchin, rising and putting out his hand, “I’m glad to meet you.”

That was settled.