in which I
was to see him once again--the fleeting glimpse of him in the whirlwind
carnage of the Chicago Commune.

Jackson, who had lost his arm in the Sierra Mills and who had been the
cause of my own conversion into a revolutionist, I never saw again;
but we all knew what he did before he died. He never joined the
revolutionists. Embittered by his fate, brooding over his wrongs, he
became an anarchist--not a philosophic anarchist, but a mere animal, mad
with hate and lust for revenge. And well he revenged himself. Evading
the guards, in the nighttime while all were asleep, he blew the
Pertonwaithe palace into atoms. Not a soul escaped, not even the guards.
And in prison, while awaiting trial, he suffocated himself under his
blankets.

Dr. Hammerfield and Dr. Ballingford achieved quite different fates from
that of Jackson. They have been faithful to their salt, and they have
been correspondingly rewarded with ecclesiastical palaces wherein they
dwell at peace with the world. Both are apologists for the Oligarchy.
Both have grown very fat. "Dr. Hammerfield," as Ernest once said, "has
succeeded in modifying his metaphysics so as to give God's sanction to
the Iron Heel, and also to include much worship of beauty and to reduce
to an invisible wraith the gaseous vertebrate described by Haeckel--the
difference between Dr. Hammerfield and Dr. Ballingford being that the
latter has made the God of the oligarchs a little more gaseous and a
little less vertebrate."

Peter Donnelly, the scab foreman at the Sierra Mills whom I encountered
while investigating the case of Jackson, was a surprise to all of us. In
1918 I was present at a meeting of the 'Frisco Reds. Of all our Fighting
Groups this one was the most formidable, ferocious, and merciless. It
was really not a part of our organization. Its members were fanatics,
madmen. We dared not encourage such a spirit. On the other hand, though
they did not belong to us, we remained on friendly terms with them. It
was a matter of vital importance that brought me there that night. I,
alone in the midst of a score of men, was the only person unmasked.
After the business that brought me there was transacted, I was led
away by one of them. In a dark passage this guide struck a match, and,
holding it close to his face, slipped back his mask. For a moment I
gazed upon the passion-wrought features of Peter Donnelly. Then the
match went out.

"I just wanted you to know it was me," he sai