The Conflict [15]
without friends or anything. He built up little by little, winning one man at a time--the fellow working next him on his right, then the chap working on his left--in the shop--and so on, one man after another. And whenever he got a man he held him--made him as devoted-- as--as fanatical as he is himself. Now he's got a band of nearly a thousand. There are ten thousand voters in this town. So, he's got only one in ten. But what a thousand!''
Jane was gazing out into the rain, her eyes bright, her lips parted.
``Are you listening?'' asked Hull. ``Or, am I boring you?''
``Go on,'' said she.
``They're a thousand missionaries--apostles--yes, apostle is the name for them. They live and breathe and think and talk only the ideas Victor Dorn believes and fights for. And whenever he wants anything done --anything for the cause--why, there are a thousand men ready to do it.''
``Why?'' said Jane.
``Victor Dorn,'' said Hull. ``Do you wonder that he interests me? For instance, to-night: you see how it's raining. Well, Victor Dorn had them print to-day fifty thousand leaflets about this strike--what it means to his cause. And he has asked five hundred of his men to stand on the corners and patrol the streets and distribute those dodgers. I'll bet not a man will be missing.''
``But why?'' repeated Jane. ``What for?''
``He wants to conquer this town. He says the world has to be conquered--and that the way to begin is to begin--and that he has begun.''
``Conquer it for what?''
``For himself, I guess,'' said Hull. ``Of course, he professes that it's for the public good. They all do. But what's the truth?''
``If I saw him I could tell you,'' said Jane in the full pride of her belief in her woman's power of divination in character.
``However, he can't succeed,'' observed Hull.
``Oh, yes, he can,'' replied Jane. ``And will. Even if every idea he had were foolish and wrong. And it isn't--is it?''
David laughed peculiarly. ``He's infernally uncomfortably right in most of the things he charges and proposes. I don't like to think about it.'' He shut his teeth together. ``I WON'T think about it,'' he muttered.
``No--you'd better stick to your own road, Davy,'' said Jane with irritating mockery. ``You were born to be thoroughly conventional and respectable. As a reformer you're ideal. As a--an imitator of Victor Dorn, you'd be a joke.''
``There's one of his men now,'' exclaimed Hull, leaning forward excitedly.
Jane looked. A working man, a commonplace enough object, was standing under the corner street lamp, the water running off his hat, his shoulders, his coat tail. His package of dodgers was carefully shielded by an oilcloth from the wet which had full swing at the man. To every passer-by he presented a dodger, accompanying the polite gesture with some phrase which seemed to move the man or woman to take what was offered and to put it away instead of dropping it.
Jane sank back in the carriage, disappointed. ``Is that all?'' said she disdainfully.
``ALL?'' cried Hull. ``Use your imagination, Jen. But I forgot--you're a woman. They see only surfaces.''
``And are snared into marrying by complexions and pretty features and dresses and silly flirting tricks,'' retorted the girl sarcastically.
Hull laughed. ``I spoke too quick that time,'' said he. ``I suppose you expected to see something out of a fifteenth century Italian old master! Well--it was there, all right.''
Jane shrugged her shoulders. ``And your Victor Dorn,'' said she, ``no doubt he's seated in some dry, comfortable place enjoying the thought of his men making fools of themselves for him.''
They were drawing up to the curb before the Opera House where were the assembly rooms. ``There he is now,'' cried Hull.
Jane, startled, leaned eagerly forward. In the rain beyond the edge of the awning stood a dripping figure not unlike that other which had so disappointed her. Underneath the brim of the hat she could see a smooth- shaven youngish face--almost boyish. But the rain streaming
Jane was gazing out into the rain, her eyes bright, her lips parted.
``Are you listening?'' asked Hull. ``Or, am I boring you?''
``Go on,'' said she.
``They're a thousand missionaries--apostles--yes, apostle is the name for them. They live and breathe and think and talk only the ideas Victor Dorn believes and fights for. And whenever he wants anything done --anything for the cause--why, there are a thousand men ready to do it.''
``Why?'' said Jane.
``Victor Dorn,'' said Hull. ``Do you wonder that he interests me? For instance, to-night: you see how it's raining. Well, Victor Dorn had them print to-day fifty thousand leaflets about this strike--what it means to his cause. And he has asked five hundred of his men to stand on the corners and patrol the streets and distribute those dodgers. I'll bet not a man will be missing.''
``But why?'' repeated Jane. ``What for?''
``He wants to conquer this town. He says the world has to be conquered--and that the way to begin is to begin--and that he has begun.''
``Conquer it for what?''
``For himself, I guess,'' said Hull. ``Of course, he professes that it's for the public good. They all do. But what's the truth?''
``If I saw him I could tell you,'' said Jane in the full pride of her belief in her woman's power of divination in character.
``However, he can't succeed,'' observed Hull.
``Oh, yes, he can,'' replied Jane. ``And will. Even if every idea he had were foolish and wrong. And it isn't--is it?''
David laughed peculiarly. ``He's infernally uncomfortably right in most of the things he charges and proposes. I don't like to think about it.'' He shut his teeth together. ``I WON'T think about it,'' he muttered.
``No--you'd better stick to your own road, Davy,'' said Jane with irritating mockery. ``You were born to be thoroughly conventional and respectable. As a reformer you're ideal. As a--an imitator of Victor Dorn, you'd be a joke.''
``There's one of his men now,'' exclaimed Hull, leaning forward excitedly.
Jane looked. A working man, a commonplace enough object, was standing under the corner street lamp, the water running off his hat, his shoulders, his coat tail. His package of dodgers was carefully shielded by an oilcloth from the wet which had full swing at the man. To every passer-by he presented a dodger, accompanying the polite gesture with some phrase which seemed to move the man or woman to take what was offered and to put it away instead of dropping it.
Jane sank back in the carriage, disappointed. ``Is that all?'' said she disdainfully.
``ALL?'' cried Hull. ``Use your imagination, Jen. But I forgot--you're a woman. They see only surfaces.''
``And are snared into marrying by complexions and pretty features and dresses and silly flirting tricks,'' retorted the girl sarcastically.
Hull laughed. ``I spoke too quick that time,'' said he. ``I suppose you expected to see something out of a fifteenth century Italian old master! Well--it was there, all right.''
Jane shrugged her shoulders. ``And your Victor Dorn,'' said she, ``no doubt he's seated in some dry, comfortable place enjoying the thought of his men making fools of themselves for him.''
They were drawing up to the curb before the Opera House where were the assembly rooms. ``There he is now,'' cried Hull.
Jane, startled, leaned eagerly forward. In the rain beyond the edge of the awning stood a dripping figure not unlike that other which had so disappointed her. Underneath the brim of the hat she could see a smooth- shaven youngish face--almost boyish. But the rain streaming