uced
by Charles Aldarondo
100%: THE STORY OF A PATRIOT
By Upton Sinclair
Published By The Author
Pasadena, California
1920
TO MY WIFE
Who is the creator of the most charming character in this story,"Mrs. Godd," and who positively refuses to permit the book to go topress until it has been explained that the character is a GrecianGodd and not a Hebrew Godd, so that no one may accuse the creator ofsacrilege.
Section 1
Now and then it occurs to one to reflect upon what slender threadsof accident depend the most important circumstances of his life; tolook back and shudder, realizing how close to the edge ofnothingness his being has come. A young man is walking down thestreet, quite casually, with an empty mind and no set purpose; hecomes to a crossing, and for no reason that he could tell he takesthe right hand turn instead of the left; and so it happens that heencounters a blue-eyed girl, who sets his heart to beating. He meetsthe girl, marries her--and she became your mother. But now, supposethe young man had taken the left hand turn instead of the right, andhad never met the blue-eyed girl; where would you be now, and whatwould have become of those qualities of mind which you consider ofimportance to the world, and those grave affairs of business towhich your time is devoted?
Something like that it was which befell Peter Gudge; just such anaccident, changing the whole current of his life, and making theseries of events with which this story deals. Peter was walking downthe street one afternoon, when a woman approached and held out tohim a printed leaflet. "Read this, please," she said.
And Peter, who was hungry, and at odds with the world, answeredgruffly: "I got no money." He thought it was an advertising dodger,and he said: "I can't buy nothin'."
"It isn't anything for sale," answered the woman. "It's a message."
"Religion?" said Peter. "I just got kicked out of a church."
"No, not a church," said the woman. "It's something different; putit in your pocket." She was an elderly woman with gray hair, and shefollowed along, smiling pleasantly at this frail, poor-lookingstranger, but nagging at him. "Read it some time when you've nothingelse to do." And so Peter, just to get rid of her, took the leafletand thrust it into his pocket, and went on, and in a minute or twohad forgotten all about it.
Peter was thinking--or rather Peter's stomach was thinking for him;for when you have had nothing to eat all day, and nothing on the daybefore but a cup of coffee and one sandwich, your thought-centersare transferred from the top to the middle of you. Peter wasthinking that this was a hell of a life. Who could have foreseenthat just because he had stolen one miserable fried doughnut, hewould lose his easy job and his chance of rising in the world?Peter's whole being was concentrated on the effort to rise in theworld; to get success, which means money, which means ease andpleasure--the magic names which lure all human creatures.
But who could have foreseen that Mrs. Smithers would have kept countof those fried doughnuts every time anybody passed thru her pantry?And it was only that one ridiculous circumstance which had broughtPeter to his present misery. But for that he might have had hislunch of bread and dried herring and weak tea in the home of theshoe-maker's wife, and might have still been busy with his job ofstirring up dissension in the First Apostolic Church, otherwiseknown as the Holy Rollers, and of getting the Rev. Gamaliel Lunkturned out, and Shoemaker Smithers established at the job of pastor,with Peter Gudge as his right hand man.
Always it had been like that, thru Peter's twenty years of life.Time after time he would get his feeble clutch fixed upon the ladderof prosperity, and then something would happen--some wretched thinglike the stealing of a fried doughnut--to pry him loose and tumblehim down again into the pit of misery.
So Peter walked along, with his belt drawn tight, and his restlessblue eyes wandering here and there, looking for a place to get ameal. There were jobs to be had, but they were hard jobs, and Peterwanted an easy one. There are people in this world who live by theirmuscles, and others who live by their wits; Peter belonged to thelatter class; and had missed many a meal rather than descend in thesocial scale.
Peter looked into the faces of everyone he passed, searching for apossible opening. Some returned his glance, but never for more thana second, for they saw an insignificant looking man, undersized,undernourished, and with one shoulder higher than the other, a weakchin and mouth, crooked teeth, and a brown moustache too feeble tohold itself up at the corners. Peters' straw hat had many strawsmissing, his second-hand brown suit was become third-hand, and hisshoes were turning over at the sides. In a city where everybody was"hustling," everybody, as they phrased it, "on the make," why shouldanyone take a second glance at Peter Gudge? Why should anyone careabout the restless soul hidden inside him, or dream that Peter was,in his own obscure way, a sort of genius? No one did care; no onedid dream.
It was about two o'clock of an afternoon in July, and the sun beatdown upon the streets of American City. There were crowds upon thestreets, and Peter noticed that everywhere were flags and bunting.Once or twice he heard the strains of distant music, and wonderedwhat was "up." Peter had not been reading the newspapers; all hisattention had been taken up by the quarrels of the Smithers factionand the Lunk faction in the First Apostolic Church, otherwise knownas the Holy Rollers, and great events that had been happening in theworld outside were of no concern to him. Peter knew vaguely that onthe other side of the world half a dozen mighty nations were lockedtogether in a grip of death; the whole earth was shaken with theirstruggles, and Peter had felt a bit of the trembling now and then.But Peter did not know that his own country had anything to do withthis European quarrel, and did not know that certain great intereststhruout the country had set themselves to rouse the public toaction.
This movement had reached American City, and the streets had brokenout in a blaze of patriotic display. In all the windows of thestores there were signs: "Wake up, America!" Across the broad MainStreet there were banners: "America Prepare!" Down in the square atone end of the street a small army was gathering--old veterans ofthe Civil War, and middle-aged veterans of the Spanish War, andregiments of the state militia, and brigades of marines and sailorsfrom the ships in the harbor, and members of fraternal lodges withtheir Lord High Chief Grand Marshals on horseback with gold sashesand waving white plumes, and all the notables of the city incarriages, and a score of bands to stir their feet and ten thousandflags waving above their heads. "Wake up America!" And here wasPeter Gudge, with an empty stomach, coming suddenly upon theswarming crowds in Main Street, and having no remotest idea what itwas all about.
A crowd suggested one thing to Peter. For seven years of his younglife he had been assistant to Pericles Priam, and had traveled overAmerica selling Priam's Peerless Pain Paralyzer; they had ridden inan automobile, and wherever there was a fair or a convention or anexcursion or a picnic, they were on hand, and Pericles Priam wouldstop at a place where the crowds were thickest, and ring a dinnerbell, and deliver his super-eloquent message to humanity--the elixirof life revealed, suffering banished from the earth, and allinconveniences of this mortal state brought to an end for one dollarper bottle of fifteen per cent opium. It had been Peter's job tohandle the bottles and take in the coin; and so now, when he saw thecrowd, he looked about him eagerly. Perhaps there might be here somevender of corn-plasters or ink-stain removers, or some three cardmonte man to whom Peter could attach himself for the price of asandwich.
Peter wormed his way thru the crowd for two or three blocks, but sawnothing more promising than venders of American flags on littlesticks, and of patriotic buttons with "Wake up America!" But then,on the other side of the street at one of the crossings Peter saw aman standing on a truck making a speech, and he dug his way thru thecrowd, elbowing, sliding this way and that, begging everybody'spardon--until at last he was out of the crowd, and standing in theopen way which had been cleared for the procession, a seeminglyendless road lined with solid walls of human beings, withblue-unifor
med policemen holding them back. Peter started to runacross--and at that same instant came the end of the world.
Section 2
One who seeks to tell about events in words comes occasionally upona fundamental difficulty. An event of colossal and overwhelmingsignificance may happen all at once, but the words which describe ithave to come one by one in a long chain. The event may reveal itselfwithout a moment's warning; but if one is to give a sense of it inwords, one must prepare for it, build up to it, awaken anticipation,establish a climax. If the description of this event which fatesprung upon Peter Gudge as he was crossing the street were limitedto the one word "BANG" in letters a couple of inches high across thepage, the impression would hardly be adequate.
The end of the world, it seemed to Peter, when he was able tocollect enough of his terrified wits to think about it. But at firstthere was no thinking; there was only sensation--a terrific roar, asif the whole universe had suddenly turned to sound; a blinding whiteglare, as of all the lightnings of the heavens; a blow that pickedhim up as if he had been a piece of thistledown, and flung himacross the street and against the side of a building. Peter fellupon the sidewalk in a heap, deafened, blinded, stunned; and therehe lay--he had no idea how long-until gradually his senses began toreturn to him, and from the confusion certain factors began to standout: a faint gray smoke that seemed to lie upon the ground, a bitterodor that stung the nostrils and tongue, and screams of people,moaning and sobbing and general uproar. Something lay across Peter'schest, and he felt that he was suffocating, and struggledconvulsively to push it away; the hands with which he pushed feltsomething hot and wet and slimy, and the horrified Peter realizedthat it was half the body of a mangled human being.
Yes, it was the end of the world. Only a couple of days previouslyPeter Gudge had been a devout member of the First Apostolic Church,otherwise known as the Holy Rollers, and had listened atprayer-meetings to soul-shaking imaginings out of the Book ofRevelations. So Peter knew that this was it; and having many sinsupon his conscience, and being in no way eager to confront his God,he looked out over the bodies of the dead and the writhing wounded,and saw a row of boxes standing against the building, having beenplaced there by people who wished to see over the heads of thecrowd. Peter started to crawl, and found that he was able to do so,and wormed his way behind one of these packing-boxes, and got insideand lay hidden from his God.
There was blood on him, and he did not know whether it was his ownor other peoples'. He was trembling with fright, his crooked teethwere hammering together like those of an angry woodchuck. But theeffects of the shock continued to pass away, and his wits to comeback to him, and at last Peter realized that he never had takenseriously the ideas of the First Apostolic Church of American City.He listened to the moans of the wounded, and to the shouts anduproar of the crowd, and began seriously figuring out what couldhave happened. There had once been an earthquake in American City;could this be another one? Or had a volcano opened up in the midstof Main Street? Or could it have been a gas-main? And was this theend, or would it explode some more? Would the volcano go onerupting, and blow Peter and his frail packing-box thru the walls ofGuggenheim's Department-store?
So Peter waited, and listened to the horrible sounds of people inagony, and pleading with others to put them out of it. Peter heardvoices of men giving orders, and realized that these must bepolicemen, and that no doubt there would be ambulances coming. Maybethere was something the matter with him, and he ought to crawl outand get himself taken care of. All of a sudden Peter remembered hisstomach; and his wits, which had been sharpened by twenty years'struggle against a hostile world, realized in a flash theopportunity which fate had brought to him. He must pretend to bewounded, badly wounded; he must be unconscious, suffering from shockand shattered nerves; then they would take him to the hospital andput him in a soft bed and give him things to eat--maybe he mightstay there for weeks, and they might give him money when he cameout.
Or perhaps he might get a job in the hospital, something that waseasy, and required only alert intelligence. Perhaps the head doctorin the hospital might want somebody to watch the other doctors, tosee if they were neglecting the patients, or perhaps flirting withsome of the nurses--there was sure to be something like that goingon. It had been that way in the orphans' home where Peter had spenta part of his childhood till he ran away. It had been that way againin the great Temple of Jimjambo, conducted by Pashtian el Kalandra,Chief Magistrian of Eleutherinian Exoticism. Peter had worked asscullion in the kitchen in that mystic institution, and had workedhis way upward until he possessed the confidence of Tushbar Akrogas,major-domo and right hand man of the Prophet himself.
Wherever there was a group of people, and a treasure to beadministered, there Peter knew was backbiting and scandal andintriguing and spying, and a chance for somebody whose brains were"all there." It might seem strange that Peter should think aboutsuch things, just then when the earth had opened up in front of himand the air had turned to roaring noise and blinding white flame,and had hurled him against the side of a building and dropped thebleeding half of a woman's body across his chest; but Peter hadlived from earliest childhood by his wits and by nothing else, andsuch a fellow has to learn to use his wits under any and allcircumstances, no matter how bewildering. Peter's training coveredalmost every emergency one could think of; he had even at timesoccupied himself by imagining what he would do if the Holy Rollersshould turn out to be right, and if suddenly Gabriel's trumpet wereto blow, and he were to find himself confronting Jesus in a longwhite night-gown.
Section 3
Peter's imaginings were brought to an end by the packing-box beingpulled out from the wall. "Hello!" said a voice.
Peter groaned, but did not look up. The box was pulled out further,and a face peered in. "What you hidin' in there for?"
Peter stammered feebly: "Wh-wh-what?"
"You hurt?" demanded the voice.
"I dunno," moaned Peter.
The box was pulled out further, and its occupant slid out. Peterlooked up, and saw three or four policemen bending over him; hemoaned again.
"How did you get in there?" asked one.
"I crawled in."
"What for?"
"To g-g-get away from the--what was it?"
"Bomb," said one of the policemen; and Peter was astounded that fora moment he forgot to be a nervous wreck.
"Bomb!" he cried; and at the same moment one of the policemen liftedhim to his feet.
"Can you stand up?" he demanded; and Peter tried, and found that hecould, and forgot that he couldn't. He was covered with blood anddirt, and was an unpresentable object, but he was really relieved todiscover that his limbs were intact.
"What's your name?" demanded one of the policemen, and when Peteranswered, he asked, "Where do you work?"
"I got no job," replied Peter.
"Where'd you work last?" And then another broke in, "What did youcrawl in there for?"
"My God!" cried Peter. "I wanted to get away!"
The policemen seemed to find it suspicious that he had stayed hiddenso long. They were in a state of excitement themselves, it appeared;a terrible crime had been committed, and they were hunting for anytrace of the criminal. Another man came up, not dressed in uniform,but evidently having authority, and he fell onto Peter, demanding toknow who he was, and where he had come from, and what he had beendoing in that crowd. And of course Peter had no very satisfactoryanswers to give to any of these questions. His occupations had beenunusual, and not entirely credible, and his purposes were hard toexplain to a suspicious questioner. The man was big and burly, atleast a foot taller than Peter, and as he talked he stooped down andstared into Peter's eyes as if he were looking for dark secretshidden back in the depths of Peter's skull. Peter remembered that hewas supposed to be sick, and his eyelids drooped and he reeledslightly, so that the policemen had to hold him up.
"I want to talk to that fellow," said the questioner. "Take himinside." One of the officers took Peter under one arm
, and the otherunder the other arm, and they half walked and half carried himacross the street and into a building.
Section 4
It was a big store which the police had opened up. Inside there werewounded people lying on the floor, with doctors and others attendingthem. Peter was marched down the corridor, and into a room where sator stood several other men, more or less in a state of collapse likehimself; people who had failed to satisfy the police, and were beingheld under guard.
Peter's two policemen backed him against the wall and proceeded togo thru his pockets, producing the shameful contents--a soiled rag,and two cigarette butts picked up on the street, and a broken pipe,and a watch which had once cost a dollar, but was now out of order,and too badly damaged to be pawned. That was all they had any rightto find, so far as Peter knew. But there came forth one thingmore--the printed circular which Peter had thrust into his pocket.The policeman who pulled it out took a glance at it, and then cried,"Good God!" He stared at Peter, then he stared at the otherpoliceman and handed him the paper.
At that moment the man not in uniform entered the room. "Mr.Guffey!" cried the policeman. "See this!" The man took the paper,and glanced at it, and Peter, watching with bewildered andfascinated eyes, saw a most terrifying sight. It was as if the manwent suddenly out of his mind. He glared at Peter, and under hisblack eyebrows the big staring eyes seemed ready to jump out of hishead.
"Aha!" he exclaimed; and then, "So I've got you!" The hand that heldthe paper was trembling, and the other hand reached out like a greatclaw, and fastened itself in the neck of Peter's coat, and drew ittogether until Peter was squeezed tight. "You threw that bomb!"hissed the man.