As he went more deeply into the heart of the growing city,
past the socialist orator and a labor organizer who was addressing a crowd
of men on another corner, his step became cat-like as it had been in the
moment before the knife flashed at the throat of Jim Gibson. The crowds of
people frightened him. He imagined himself set upon by a crowd and hanged
to a lamp-post. The voice of the labor orator arose above the murmur of
voices in the street. "We've got to take power into our hands. We've got to
carry on our own battle for power," the voice declared.
The harness maker turned a corner into a quiet street, his hand caressing
affectionately the revolver in the side pocket of his coat. He intended to
kill himself, but had not wanted to die in the same room with Jim Gibson.
In his own way he had always been a very sensitive man and his only fear
was that rough hands fall upon him before he had completed the evening's
work. He was quite sure that had his wife been alive she would have
understood what had happened. She had always understood everything he did
or said. He remembered his courtship. His wife had been a country girl and
on Sundays, after their marriage, they had gone together to spend the day
in the wood. After Joe had brought his wife to Bidwell they continued the
practice. One of his customers, a well-to-do farmer, lived five miles north
of town, and on his farm there was a grove of beech trees.
Pages:
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375