Читать книгу Jimmie Higgins - Upton Sinclair - Страница 8

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Jimmie would not have had the courage to advance, save for the other man's smile—a smile that was weary, but candid and welcoming. “Howdy do, Comrade?” said the man. He held out his hand, and the moment of this clasp was the nearest to heaven that Jimmie Higgins had ever known.

When he was able to find his voice, it was only to exclaim, “You wasn't due till five-forty-two!”

As if the Candidate had not known that! He explained that he had missed his sleep the night before, and had come on ahead so as to snatch a bit during the day. “I see,” said Jimmie; and then, “I knowed you by your picture.”

“Yes?” said the other, patiently.

And Jimmie groped round in his addled head for something really worth while. “You'll want to see the Committee?”

“No,” said the other, “I want to finish this first.” And he took a sip from a glass of milk, and a bite out of a sandwich, and chewed.

So utterly rattled was Jimmie he sat there like a num-skull, unable to find a word, while the man finished his repast. When it was over, Jimmie said again—he could do no better—“You want to see the Committee?”

“No,” was the reply, “I want to sit here—and perhaps talk to you, Comrade—Comrade—?”

“Higgins,” said Jimmie.

“Comrade Higgins—that is, if you have time.”

“Oh, sure!” exclaimed Jimmie. “I got all the time there is. But the Committee—”

“Never mind the Committee, Comrade. Do you know how many Committees I have met on this trip?”

Jimmie did not know; nor did he have the courage to ask.

“Probably you never thought how it is to be a Candidate,” continued the other. “You go from place to place, and make the same speech every night, and it seems as if you slept in the same hotel every night, and almost as if you met the same Committee. But you have to remember that your speech is new to each audience, and you have to make it as if you had never made it before; also you have to remember that the Committee is made up of devoted comrades who are giving everything for the cause, so you don't tell them that they are just like every other committee, or that you are tired to death, or maybe have a headache—”

Jimmie sat, gazing in awe-stricken silence. Not being a man of reading, he had never heard of “the head that wears a crown”. This was his first glimpse into the soul of greatness.

The Candidate went on: “And then, too, Comrade, there's the news from Europe. I want a little time. I can't bring myself to face it!”

His voice had grown sombre, and to Jimmie, gazing at him, it seemed that all the sorrows of the world were in his tired grey eyes. “Perhaps I'd better go,” said Jimmie.

“No no,” replied the other, with quick self-recovery. He looked and saw that Jimmie had forgotten his meal. “Bring your things over here,” he said; and the other fetched his cup and saucer and plate, and gulped the rest of his “sinkers” under the Candidate's eyes.

“I oughtn't to talk,” said the latter. “You see how hoarse I am. But you talk. Tell me about the local, and how things are going here.”

So Jimmie summoned his courage. It was the one thing he could really talk about, the thing of which his mind and soul were full. Leesville was a typical small manufacturing city, with a glass bottle works, a brewery, a carpet-factory, and the big Empire Machine Shops, at which Jimmie himself spent sixty-three hours of his life each week. The workers were asleep, of course; but still you couldn't complain, the movement was growing. The local boasted of a hundred and twenty members, though of course, only about thirty of them could be counted on for real work. That was the case everywhere, the Candidate put in—it was always a few who made the sacrifice and kept things alive.

Then Jimmie went on to tell about to-night's meeting, the preparations they had made, the troubles they had had. The police had suddenly decided to enforce the law against delivering circulars from house to house; though they allowed Isaac's “Emporium” to use this method of announcement. The Leesville Herald and Evening Courier were enthusiastic for the police action; if you couldn't give out circulars, obviously you would have to advertise in these papers. The Candidate smiled—he knew about American police officials, and also about American journalism.

Jimmie had been laid off for a couple of days at the shop, and he told how he had put this time to good use, getting announcements of the meeting into the stores. There was an old Scotchman in a real estate office just across the way. “Git oot!” he said. “So I thought I'd better git oot!” said Jimmie. And then, taking his life into his hands, he had gone into the First National Bank. There was a gentleman walking across the floor, and Jimmie went up to him and held out one of the placards with the picture of the Candidate. “Would you be so good as to put this in your window?” he inquired; and the other looked at it coldly. Then he smiled—he was a good sort, apparently. “I don't think my customers would patronize your business,” he said; but Jimmie went at him to take some tickets and learn about Socialism—and would you believe it, he had actually shelled out a dollar! “I found out afterwards that it was Ashton Charmers, the president of the bank!” said Jimmie. “I'd a' been scared, if I'd a' known.”

He had not meant to talk about himself; he was just trying to entertain a tired Candidate, to keep him from brooding over a world going to war. But the Candidate, listening, found tears trying to steal into his eyes. He watched the figure before him—a bowed, undernourished little man, with one shoulder lower than the other, a straggly brown moustache stained with coffee, and stumpy black teeth, and gnarled hands into which the dirt and grease were ground so deeply that washing them would obviously be a waste of time. His clothes were worn and shapeless, his celluloid collar was cracked and his necktie was almost a rag. You would never have looked at such a man twice on the street—and yet the Candidate saw in him one of those obscure heroes who are making a movement which is to transform the world.