Guffey," said Peter.
Section 68
So there was the end of high life for Peter Gudge. He moved no more
in the celestial circles of Mount Olympus. He never again saw the
Chinese butler of Mr. Ackerman, nor the French parlor-maid of Mrs.
Godd. He would no more be smiled at by the two hundred and
twenty-four boy angels of the ceiling of the Hotel de Soto lobby.
Peter would eat his meals now seated on a stool in front of a lunch
counter, he would really be the humble proletarian, the "Jimmie
Higgins" of his role. He put behind him bright dreams of an
accumulated competence, and settled down to the hard day's work of
cultivating the acquaintance of agitators, visiting their homes and
watching their activities, getting samples of the literature they
were circulating, stealing their letters and address-books and
note-books, and taking all these to Room 427 of the American House.
These were busy times just now. In spite of the whippings and the
lynchings and the jailings--or perhaps because of these very
things--the radical movement was seething. The I. W. Ws. had
reorganized secretly, and were accumulating a defense fund for their
prisoners; also, the Socialists of all shades of red and pink were
busy, and the labor men had never ceased their agitation over the
Goober case.
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