y, is to enter a seminary and later go to China as a
missionary; else turn literary and edit an American edition of Who's Who
in Hell! But leave our East Side alone. Do you know what New York
reminds me of? Its centre is a strip of green and gold between two
smouldering red rivers of fire--the East and West Sides. If they ever
spill over the banks, all the little parasites of greater parasites, the
lawyers, brokers, bankers, journalists, ecclesiastics, and middle men,
will be devoured. Oh, what a glorious day! And oh, that terrible night
when we marched behind the black flag and muffled drums down Broadway,
that night in 1887 when the four martyrs were murdered, the hero Lingg
having killed himself. What would you have done in those awful times?"

"Try me," he muttered, as he pulled down his cuffs, "try me!"

"Very well, I'll try you. Like Carlo Cafiero, the rich Italian anarch,
you must give your money to us--every cent of it. Come with me to-night.
I address a meeting of the brethren at Schwab's place--you know, the
saloon across the street, off the square. We can eat our supper there,
and then--"

"Try me," he reiterated, and his voice was hoarse with emotion, his
pulse painfully irregular.

II

Notwithstanding his vows of heroism, Arthur could not force himself to
like the establishment of Schwab, where the meeting was to take place.
It was a beer-saloon, not one of those mock-mediaeval uptown palaces, but
a long room with a low ceiling, gaslit and shabby. The tables and chairs
of hard, coarse wood were greasy--napkins and table-cloths were not to
be mentioned, else would the brethren suspect the presence of an
aristocrat. At the upper end, beyond the little black bar, there was a
platform, upon it a table, a pianoforte, and a stool. Still he managed
to conceal his repugnance to all these uninviting things and he sipped
his diluted Rhine wine, ate his sandwich--an unpalatable one--under the
watchful eyes of his companion. By eight o'clock the room was jammed
with working-people, all talking and in a half dozen tongues.
Occasionally Yetta left him to join a group, and where she went silence
fell. She was the oracle of the crowd. At nine o'clock Arthur's head
ached. He had smoked all his Turkish cigarettes, the odour of which
caused some surprise--there was a capitalist present and they knew him.
Only Yetta prevented disagreeable comment. The men, who belonged to the
proletarian class, were poorly dressed and i