The Argosy, Vol. XXV, No. 1 — page 125: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

AN AMATEUR IN DYNAMITE. 125 small platform used by speakers at strikers’ meetings, but which could be taken apart and removed easily to give more room for the Sunday night dances. A big hole in the partition wall between the hall and the bar room facilitated the supply of beer on all occasions. When Gottlieb entered, the smoke was so thick that he could only see those nearest to him, but when his eyes grew a little accustomed to it, he made out that Schmidt was making the report of the committee that had waited on Colonel Withers. Everybody knew all about it already, but listened intently to its formal presentation, which occupied some time, as Schmidt was fond of details and had much indignation to express. Then, everybody talked at once and there was much rattling of beer mugs to sum- inon waiters. A few of the older men muttered to each other that it was bad business as the time was ill chosen fora strike, but seemed fearful of being overheard uttering such treason against the union. Gottlieb, less prudent and still under Ottilie’s influence, was strongly minded to say the same thing out boldly, but was diffident about trying to make a speech, and while he hesitated the platform was taken by a speaker who, in a shrill voice that was almost a shriek, compelled attention by. the ery: ‘‘ Brothers! Fellow slaves! The issue is life or death !’”’ The utterer of that hysterical exordium was not one of the strikers, but Gottlieb knew him by sight as Max Finkelmaier, a stormy petrel of the labor sea, whose screams were to be heard wherever trouble between masters and men could be fomented. He was supposed to have a trade, but nobody knew what it was. By virtue of his permanent attitude of revolt against toil, he assumed to consider himself a sort of ex officio member of all bodies of strikers. Whether cloak makers or plasterers, marble cutters, musicians, horseshoers, or waiters were ‘‘ out,’’ Max was sure to be found among them, always making furious speeches. Each strike in turn was a “‘ sacred cause,’’ and he never neglected to mention that the ‘‘ bloated aristocrats ’’ were ‘‘ fattening on the hearts’ blood’’ of his hearers. He was in demand, for strike leaders found him useful in stimulating flagging ardor among their followers, and some evenings he had two or three sacred causes, for each of which he was ready to ‘‘ bare his breast to the tyrant’s steel.’’ Gottlieb listened, at first with mere curiosity, then with interest, and finally, as if fascinated. In the animation of oratory, Max’ black, reptilian eyes seemed to sparkle, his long nose to curl sinuously, his snaky locks to lash the air like whips, and his lean figure to quiver with an energy too fierce for words. One of his sentences that particularly impressed Gottlieb was: ‘‘ Your purse proud master, who refuses even consideration to your bitter wrongs, cares nothing that, on his blood stained way to wealth, his iron feet crush human hearts, stamp life out of the-tender flowers of love and hope that lie in his path.’’ It seemed as if Max must be referring to Ottilie. How was the young man to know Max always said this when a strike com- mittee had been repulsed ? The strike—or lockout—lasted long and the men met often. Max and Gott- lieb became almost inseparable companions. ‘The young man’s savings, in- —_ Comicooolks (©)