The 
 
 Torch of Reason 
 
 Or 
 
 Humanity's God 
 
 The Torch of Reason 
 
 Cloth bound, 12 illustrations, per copy, $1.00 
 
 By mail or Express, $1.20 
 
 January, 1912 
 
 The Torch of Reason, Publishers 
 
 3944 Spring Grove Avenue 
 Cincinnati, Ohio
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1910 AND 1911, 
 FOR THE AUTHOR. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1911, 
 BY FREDERICK FORREST BERRY. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1912, 
 BY FREDERICK FORREST BERRY. 
 
 All rights reserved and fully protected by law, including 
 foreign translations, picture rights, and play rights, by author.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. WOLVES 1 
 
 II. THE TALE OF AN UNTOLD LOVE 24 
 
 III. THE EVER PRESENT MENACE 60 
 
 IV. THE LAST LEAF 100 
 
 V. THE SON OF JASON SANDS 144 
 
 VI. REASON AND A STONE 188 
 
 VII. MIND THE MASTER 232 
 
 VIII. THE JUVENILE DEMOCRACY 270 
 
 IX. FOUR YEARS AROUND THE WORLD 314 
 
 X. THE RAWHIDE THONG 343 
 
 XI. THE SURRENDER OF THE FROST KING . . . 388 
 
 XII. NOT EVEN IN THE GRAVE. . . 441
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "A Giant Shadow, Bended with the Weight of 
 an Eighty Pound Pack, Stopped in the 
 Snow and Listened ! " 1 
 
 ' ' For Each Pair of Leaping, Snapping Jaws that 
 
 Came, He Sent Back a Dead Wolf" 20 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "And When a Second Later the Little Savage 
 Carbine 'Spank Spank Spanked' Into the 
 Frosty Aphony, it Spit out the Lives of 
 Three* Great Husky Timber Wolves" 28 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "To All but Jason Sands the Trip Down the 
 Wild Yukon was a Delightful and Romantic 
 Caprice" 84 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 "He Gazed Reverently Upon the Two Faces". . . 114 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "The Bawd-attired Mistress of a Screw-tailed 
 Terrier Fed that $10,000 Beast Sponge-cake 
 and Cream from Her Own Plate" 184 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "Swish! The Whip Cut the Air. The Bully 
 Came To Four Hours Later in the Hos- 
 pital" 230 
 
 V
 
 vi ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "He Found the Histories So-called Simply 
 the Printed Accounts of Bloody Deeds of 
 War Heroes!" 242 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "An Exquisitely Beautiful Young Girl in 
 Robin 's-egg Blue and with Corn-silk Blond 
 Hair, Advanced and Pinned a Luscious Red 
 Rose on the Lapel of His Son's Coat, and 
 the Crowd Went Wild!" 280 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "At Full Speed Straight Into a Mountain of 
 
 Ice!" 342 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "You May Take Your Gold-plated Religion and 
 Go to Hell! I'm A-goin' Home and I 
 Ain't A-comin' Back!" 378 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ' ' And Where the Frog-pond Chorus Rose Dream- 
 ily O'er the Sweet-scented Woodland as it 
 Had Done for Erma and Jason in the Days 
 of Auld Lang Syne, She Said, 'Yes, Dear 
 One,' When He Whispered, 'Ray' " 476
 
 " Verily, What Prof iteth It?" 
 
 * Where this asterisk (*) appears, preceding a 
 paragraph in the llth chapter of this story, it indi- 
 cates that the entire paragraph so marked is one of 
 several whole paragraphs arbitrarily striken out of 
 the magazine serial, without the author's knowledge 
 or permission, and subsequent to his having read 
 and edited the galley proofs. These paragraphs, to- 
 gether with all the other parts censored and omitted,, 
 incorrectly printed and otherwise mutilated and 
 discredited, I have taken great pains to revise, 
 correct and incorporate in this book. Herein you 
 will find THE TORCH OF REASON as originally written 
 and edited by myself, including both verse and 
 prose composition. 
 
 F. F. BERRY. 
 
 vii
 
 "I Will Be True." 
 
 Were I to let this opportunity pass without avail- 
 ing myself of it to thank those faithful comrades 
 who have stood staunchly by me through this long, 
 painful travail, I would be an ingrate indeed. 
 
 Had those for whom I have labored proven true 
 to their trust with me and the cause that shall have 
 my life, this book would long ago have been printed 
 and read by thousands, and thousands of new con- 
 verts might thereby have been added to our army 
 of peace and love. But I forgive my enemies, for 
 they are the product of the System, and a traitorous 
 environment having turned their hearts to stone, 
 they are more to be pitied than censured, and they 
 will find greater punishment than I could wish them, 
 in the canker of their own cowardice that will never 
 cease to eat into their poor misguided souls. 
 
 Those who have tried to help THE TORCH OF 
 REASON are many, and those who have helped are 
 many more. The army is increasing and will rise 
 like an ocean tide until it shall prove what this 
 book foretells. All these heroic comrades I thank 
 and appreciate, especially do I wish to thank my 
 good friend and comrade, Peter Herbert, of Cincin- 
 nati, through whose unselfish generosity and finan- 
 cial backing it becomes possible for me to bring out 
 this volume. After all others had failed me, Com- 
 rade Herbert stepped into the gap and supplied the 
 cash with which to bring out the first edition. 
 
 The illustrations in this book were created for the 
 author by our rising young artist, Roy Legault, a 
 graduate of the G. H. Lockwood School of Art, Kala- 
 mazoo, Michigan. Any patronage extended to this 
 struggling young genius will, in addition, be a favor 
 conferred on our entire movement. His address is 
 2073 East Washington St., Portland, Oregon. 
 
 F. F. B.
 
 Warning ! 
 
 (It is our plain duty to push this book and to do 
 it NOW ! There is a cloud of war's red hell gather- 
 ing over this fair land. It is not too late to dispel 
 it will you do your duty ? Will you sell ONE copy 
 of this book?) 
 
 We warn you that this book is a revelation. It 
 is not only a revelation, but it is a revolution! It is 
 an iconoclast. It is a pillar of oasian fire, burning 
 like a volcano alone in a desert of midnight black- 
 
 & Every sentence is a meteor. Every paragraph 
 is a meteoric shower, and every chapter is a volume 
 of life history, throbbing with the surcharge of 
 realism and truth. 
 
 Many books have gone before; but this book 
 blazes a new trail. This book is not an advocate 
 of the paliatives of reform. It advocates, not 
 reform, but new form. There are no soup-house 
 mediatives advocated here. The "full dinner-pail" 
 and "patched pants" philosophers will find cloudy 
 weather in the perspective of this literary Vesuvius. 
 The war fiend and battle hero will crumple up and 
 pale before the continuous cannonade of this re- 
 sistless intellectual Krupp. 
 
 Till ess you are prepared for shocks don't read 
 this terrific book. Unless you can stand a jolt take 
 no chances with its logic. If you are bound to read 
 only what the race has been fed on and starved on 
 since the invention of fire, turn not another page, 
 lest you violate the injunctions of the dead and 
 desecrate the codes and screeds of a civilization
 
 x WARNING. 
 
 which nested in trees and caves. If you read this 
 book it will open your eyes. 
 
 This creative volume is not a Billiken of "things 
 as they are." It is not a confirmation, but a 
 repudiation! It follows naught, but leads all. It is 
 a god of things, not as they are, but as they ought 
 to be. It smashes the idols. It strikes down the 
 Golden Calf. It blasts the dollar sign. It cauterizes 
 the guillotine and torture chamber, and strikes off 
 the fetters of superstition and fear. 
 
 The author of this book is a man. If you admire 
 a coward you will not fall in love with him. He 
 has dared to have his say. He has had the courage 
 to stand alone. He has spoken out from the wilder- 
 ness, and his voice shall be heard forsooth from the 
 very housetops. He has placed man above the 
 dollar. He has painted from life. His models have 
 lived and breathed and suffered the long travail 
 that portends the birth of the new world that is to 
 be. This artist's brush is a flaming torch, and his 
 soul is a fountain of love-fire unquenchable and 
 xhaustless. 
 
 This mighty book speaks the truth. If you love 
 a lie read no further. If you prefer your chains lay 
 it down now. If you are satisfied with life as you 
 see it, then you are not ready for THE TORCH OF 
 REASON, and its light of truth would only blind you. 
 This book will awaken you from your fanciful dream 
 of Fairyland to a realization of your plain duty to 
 your fellow men. But if you yearn for industrial 
 freedom; if you love liberty; if you crave justice 
 for all human society, then read this wonderful book 
 and arm yourself with knowledge and reason and 
 fit yourself for the change that is at our doors, the 
 change that shall mean peaice and love and joy for 
 all mankind. 
 
 THE PUBLISHERS.
 
 Author's Apology ! 
 
 If I must write a preface, let me tell a story a 
 true story. Personally, I do not like prefaces. They 
 remind me of index fingers on guide-boards, and 
 explanatory footnotes and artists' "keys," by 
 means of which is supposed to be conveyed intelli- 
 gence to the effect that, "this be a hoss." 
 
 So, I promise to write this foreword and I trust 
 you will agree to forgive me, not for what I have 
 said in the book, but for what I am going to say 
 in this that you are now reading. 
 
 I remember the first Fourth of July I ever 
 "had." It was away back there on the dear hills 
 of old New Hampshire when I was but five years 
 old. They brought me home from the village a toy 
 pistol that cost a cent, together with a box of paper 
 caps which cost another cent! That made my first 
 Independence celebration cost two cents! 
 
 Going some in "patriotism," says you a whole 
 two cents' worth for a whole year! But in those 
 days patriotism was cheap and enjoyed by all. That 
 was before "patriotism" became an auxiliary to the 
 trusts. 
 
 I never forgot that Fourth of July celebration. 
 We lived many miles from the village, and when 
 the cannon boomed down there, I would fire off my 
 pistol! The cannon went "boom," and my pistol 
 went "putt!"
 
 xii AUTHOR'S APOLOGY. 
 
 I have that ent pistol still ; and whenever I want 
 an "inspiration," I get out that ancient toy grin 
 and think. 
 
 You may not believe it, but that little cent toy 
 pistol is the thing which inspired me to write this 
 book. 
 
 Maybe I didn't feel some brave when I answered 
 that cannon's "boom" with my little "putt!" But 
 then, I was only a boy, and you must forgive me ! 
 
 The years rolled on. I grew out of the "putting" 
 stage and then I became a Socialist. One day I was 
 looking at that little toy pistol, all rusty, where it 
 had once been painted red, and no longer capable 
 even of a "putt," and while my thoughts were sadly 
 harking back over the painful years to that two-cent 
 Fourth of July celebration of the long ago, I re- 
 solved to take a shot at Capitalism, the historic foe 
 of Humanity. 
 
 This time it was my determination to "boom" 
 instead of "putting." If I have succeeded, I am 
 sorry that I made no greater noise. And if I have 
 "putted" instead of "booming," I regret that I did 
 not use a Gattling-gun or a thirteen-inch cannon, 
 both of which will shortly be used on us unless we 
 wake up and get together before 1914. 
 
 There are both "putters" and "boomers;" and 
 if I am still in the former class, I apologize for not 
 having been a better student in my master's school. 
 
 If my shot struck home and wrung a pain, I 
 regret that it did not kill. If I have rescued one 
 hapless soul from the bloody claws of the cruel 
 Beast, I grieve that I did not shoot before. My aim 
 was at Ignorance, Superstition and Slavery; have
 
 AUTHOR'S APOLOGY. xiii 
 
 I hit one of these? Then I beg forgiveness for not 
 having killed all three. 
 
 If you, my brother and my sister, will take the 
 trail and follow the Beast by the blood I have made 
 him spill ; if you will camp on his trail early and late 
 trying as hard to run him down as I have tried to 
 get this shot into him, I will load up, and by the 
 time you run him around this way again, I will be 
 ready for him with a "dum-dum." Keep the scent 
 hot, there is no time to lose. 
 
 I have given you THE TORCH OF REASON, but I 
 cannot make you see. I am one of you, and I can 
 look ahead of you; but I am not you. You must 
 look for yourself. I can call to you, but I cannot 
 make you come. If you would be free you yourself 
 must strike the blow. If you would know Justice, 
 you must first reason. If you would reason, you 
 must first think. 
 
 If none had ever used the mental processes of 
 reasoning the race never would have progressed one 
 inch away from the cave and the tree nest. Green 
 pastures are not discovered by satisfied cattle. If 
 no man had ever broken a law to obey The Law, the 
 workers would still be wearing neck yokes and 
 ankle balls under booted and spurred drivers with 
 "blacksnake" and pistol. 
 
 Socialism is in violation of law the law of 
 private ownership in human flesh. Socialism will 
 break that law, to write upon the books in its stead 
 the law of social ownership of the earth. Socialism 
 will break the law which legalizes profit from human 
 toil. It will abrogate the instrument of legalized 
 robbery of unearned riches, and give freedom of
 
 xiv AUTHOR'S APOLOGY. 
 
 possession to the useful worker of the full value of 
 his hands' creation. 
 
 There are many reasons why I am a Socialist. 
 First, it is because of my great selfishness. I want 
 to be happy. Not being able to satisfy this selfish 
 desire under the present arrangement, and knowing 
 that Socialism means perfect selfishness, I naturally 
 lean toward the light of my heart's desire. But the 
 selfishness of which I am speaking to-day is sure to 
 be misunderstood. I realize that any attempt at 
 an explanation of this greater selfishness at this time 
 were well nigh impossible of comprehension. It is 
 only the "charity" faker who parades before 
 the footlights bedecked in his spangled garb of 
 ' ' unselfishness. ' ' 
 
 In a world of riches and poverty, great may be 
 the harpings on "greed and selfishness." To be 
 perfectly selfish is to be perfectly happy. To be 
 perfectly happy is to be perfectly well pleased. No 
 real sane individual may be perfectly happy in a 
 world where there sorrows one unhappy brother or 
 sister. Possessed I all the wealth in the world, I 
 would still be the most unhappy person living; for 
 then I would know that no one else owned anything, 
 and the misery of their poverty would destroy all 
 my peace of mind. But were it possible for me to 
 know that every human creature on earth smiled 
 happily and secure in the fullness of a life of peace, 
 plenty and love, and that I were an economic equal 
 in the enjoyment of the same opportunities for life's 
 full measure, then indeed would I be perfectly 
 happy. This, then, would be perfect selfishness 
 achieved.
 
 AUTHOR'S APOLOGY. xv 
 
 For ten years I have been trying to think of the 
 right way by Which to reach that peculiar intelli- 
 gence which refuses an audience to Truth. There 
 are enough good and scientific books on Socialism 
 to convert the world in a day ; but they are, for the 
 most part, dry and hard to read. At least, they are 
 hard to get read. In THE TORCH OF REASON I have 
 tried to come to the rescue of the prejudiced mind. 
 I have written something that I feel will be read. 
 It was my aim to blaze a new trail, far and away 
 from the beaten paths of all conventional Socialistic 
 propoganda. 
 
 This book contains a warning to both Socialists 
 and trade-unionists. Also I have dared to fill the 
 toil-wrung heart with the promise of a better time 
 by taking the reader into the future the very near 
 future. Dangers have been pointed out wherever 
 seen. If they are not heeded in time, pardon me 
 if I blame you for the crime of inertia, for my duty 
 is well begun and if you fail to use the weapon I 
 have placed in your hands, I am willing to take the 
 judgment with a clean conscience and unafraid. 
 
 In giving you this book I have not counted the 
 cost. If I am -criticised unfavorably I shall know 
 that I have trod upon a corn. If I have hurt your 
 feelings, then your feelings were ripe for the 
 hurting. If flesh were not heir to pain the body 
 would destroy itself for lack of precaution. So if 
 I have made you weep, think. If I have made you 
 laugh, think. If I have made you think, think 
 again THEN ACT ! 
 
 THE AUTHOR.
 
 'A giant shadow, bended with the weight of an eighty-pound 
 pack, stopped in the snow and listened!"
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WOLVES ! 
 
 Alas for life the best I knew 
 
 The day is done; 
 Pause not for me, nor error rue, 
 
 But call my son. 
 
 Up from the black swamp in the valley 
 and into the chill silence tore an unearthly 
 and terrifying yell. 
 
 A giant shadow, bended with the weight 
 of an eighty pound pack, stopped in the 
 snow and listened. 
 
 Again the blood-curdling cry split the 
 night ; this time from a different quarter. 
 
 The shadow heard, and nodded, wisely. 
 
 Still once again came the doleful, agoniz- 
 ing plaint, in a long-drawn-out wail, like the 
 cadence of despair up from some cavern- 
 throated chasm of lost souls! Up, up it 
 soared, rocket-like, resonantly wooing its 
 dizzy goal with lute-noted affinity; then 
 spent and subsiding, slid back to earth and 
 lost itself in a dying, gutteral moan. 
 
 Again the shadow heard and nodded. 
 Then turning heavily in the snow looked 
 back in the direction of the little cabin left 
 behind. The shadow knew! It was the 
 dreaded CaU of the Wolf! 
 
 It was fifty below zero. The night was still 
 unto death. So still and inert was all in earth 
 and above earth that the redundant silence 
 
 (i)
 
 2 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 was palpitant with terror at its own magnifi- 
 cence. Long and motionless the shadow 
 paused and listened ; but all was still again, 
 for silence reigns supreme at the top of the 
 world, and the only voice of the Silence is 
 the conjugal voice of Death. 
 
 Then up from the valley and over the 
 bleak desert of silent rest swept the multi- 
 throated yelp of the wolf -pack. There was 
 no mistaking it, that wild, discordant chorus 
 which freezes the blood with a song that 
 spells the traveler's doom. The shadow 
 heard and smiled. Not sweetly, babe-like, 
 but grimly and cruelly like the triumphant 
 smile of the suicide. Like the gambler's 
 smile when, the victim taking a last chance 
 on a final throw, gamely loses. 'Twas the 
 smile of conquest. The smile that lifts the 
 scornful lip of the unwhipped fighter with a 
 sneer of defiance the smile that challenges 
 Death! 
 
 Jason Sands was not born yesterday. 
 The poise of head and flash of eye were 
 marks of discipline undergone in a cruel 
 school and at the hands of a cruel master. 
 This was not the first time he had heard 
 the hated wolf-cry. He had faced danger 
 many times in his day, and he had come 
 to know it for what it was worth and could 
 face it unafraid. For twenty years danger 
 had been his constant companion; and he 
 boasted he could sense it in advance in- 
 tuitively, as it were with an inscrutable
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 3 
 
 intuition that baffled even himself, but 
 which never failed him. 
 
 Right or wrong, he had come to look 
 upon death and the menace of death as 
 part and parcel of life itself, and scorn- 
 fully he invaded its most sacred precincts; 
 violated its most inviolable creeds; scoffed 
 at its immutable mandates and contemptu- 
 ously defied rather than feared it. 
 
 What was this thing Death, anyway? 
 Why should one be hounded through life 
 making preparations for a thing known to 
 be inevitable, only to flee from it in terror 
 when met with face to face? If the souls 
 of men predamned were to be "saved" 
 from death everlasting, or " damned" with 
 life everlasting, as the case might be, what 
 in hell was the use fretting to keep up ap- 
 pearances ? 
 
 If to be wafted heavenward, or sluiced 
 hellward, were at the optional whim of the 
 Heavenly Father who, being responsible 
 for our beginning and. end, had it all cut 
 and dried beforehand just what our fate 
 was to be, all one might offer by way of 
 protest must be simply so much hot air. 
 Thus he reasoned; and he would not pros- 
 titute his splendid manhood in venial sup- 
 plications to a juryless court that never 
 convened and from which there could be 
 no appeal. 
 
 Death? Ha! It would have to show 
 him ! Besides, he was ready for it, and for
 
 4 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 the filial struggle with it; for had he not 
 whipped it on more than one occasion al- 
 ready? Yes, a dozen times, single-handed 
 and alone. It were the strong who won life 
 from the battle of life, and he was strong. 
 True, the battle might not be nice, but it 
 was on, and had been raging for many a 
 year. In fact, it was here when he came 
 and was not of his making. He was a vic- 
 tim of it, a creature of environment. 
 
 His forty summers he preferred to desig- 
 nate as ' 'forty frosts;" for summers and 
 sunshine were for the idlers, and not for 
 such as he. These were things he had come 
 to know. 
 
 Having lived in twenty-eight states in 
 the union, circled the globe twice and not 
 having been born blind, there were things 
 he had seen! He had pillowed his head on 
 live goose-down in the palaces of affluence, 
 and he had slept under the wharf with the 
 rats. Also he had pillowed his head on the 
 bosom of woman; but that was a memory 
 of other days, days in the toyland of life 
 when the world was small and sweet, and 
 when love was sweet and young. Moreover, 
 his flesh had quivered at the numbing drive 
 of keen-edged steel, and the white-hot pain 
 in the sting of "cold lead" was known to 
 him. 
 
 The man was a giant and possessed a 
 giant's strength and courage. Also he pos- 
 sessed spirit, and an indomitable character,
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 5 
 
 neither to be humbled nor cajoled. These 
 splendid characteristics were ever being 
 mistaken by fools for ugliness and a natural 
 
 * C7 
 
 avidity for being on the "off side." 
 
 No more appreciated and none the less 
 creditable, was his finely tuned sense of 
 justice; and whenever he would fight rather 
 than submit to tyranny, these "little 
 people, " as he called them men and women 
 of tight-screwed mentality hastened to 
 brand him "trouble-maker and disorderly 
 person." 
 
 But here was a man one man who 
 would not be cut down to fit their pigmy 
 habitations. Here was a man living large 
 and broad in spite of want and oppression. 
 Their narrow codes and commandments 
 could not encompass him; for he loved the 
 music of the living spheres, and the limita- 
 tions of human brotherhood were bounded 
 only by the limitations of the cosmic realm. 
 
 He knew Nature, and he loved her ways 
 and deeds. Understanding her voice and 
 living by her plan, they were companions, 
 roaming the world together and singing the 
 unsung songs of their unknown and silent 
 love. 
 
 Here was a man who could carve a habi- 
 tation from the virgin forest, rear, and 
 furnish it, with the aid of but a single tool. 
 Here was a man who both wrote and sang 
 songs. And out in the world which knew 
 him not, many little children sang the songs
 
 6 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 he had written ; but he knew the world, for 
 it had broken his heart and driven him over 
 the mountains and over the snows to try the 
 one thing left him, the mining of gold. 
 
 Not that he wanted the gold for the sake 
 of it as riches, such were miserly motives 
 and tended to decay; but men had made 
 laws compelling each other to get gold or 
 starve, and without which the things of life 
 piled high in the marts were unobtainable. 
 
 He had earned much gold. Also, he had 
 done some starving, off and on, with the re- 
 sult that life had been, not life at all, but 
 ever a fruitless grind. 
 
 Political parties had come and gone, but 
 Poverty had remained. The years had left 
 him older and poorer. 
 
 He had sweltered in their mills and on 
 their railroads, on their ships and in their 
 offices; the sum total of which being that 
 he had grown older and poorer, more 
 friendless and unloved, discredited and de- 
 spised. And so, the dividend on all the in- 
 vestment had been : Age and poverty, pov- 
 erty and old age and insecurity, homeless- 
 ness, hopelessness, and death only awaiting 
 him at the end of the trail. Added to all 
 this like a nightmare had come the awaken- 
 ing consciousness of having been but a sub- 
 missive, though unwilling, wage slave. 
 
 So much in passing for the man-shadow 
 that loomed powerful and alert under the 
 growing gray of the Arctic dawn, listening
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 7 
 
 to the hunger-cry of the wolf-pack rising 
 out of the dismal swamp in the valley. 
 Why, then, should he fear them? Besides, 
 was he not a dead shot? Then let them try 
 it on. He would fool them. 
 
 "Why don't you come for me, my pretty 
 darlings?" he sneered. Then after a mo- 
 ment's listening: "I wonder what God's 
 gray angels are up to off there in that 
 damned swamp! I didn't come that way 
 and haven't made any noise. Besides, 
 that's to windward and they could not have 
 scented me from there." As the raving 
 confusion grew fainter and more to the 
 northeast, he continued: "I know it can't 
 be Ben, and I hate to think it's the mail 
 up from Dawson to Gold City; but if it is, 
 he's off his trolley by more than two hun- 
 dred miles, and I'm thinking this will be 
 about his last trip. Well, by the time 
 they've eaten him and his outfit I'll be over 
 the ridge, and by the time they've slept it 
 off I'll be out of hearing and beyond the 
 reach of their cunning smellers, if the wind 
 don't shift, which isn't likely; there's too 
 little of it. Anyway, four hundred miles 
 is not so far, so if that choir of pious-eyed 
 hell-hounds don't head me off and if it 
 don't thaw, I'll be about right with the boat 
 if she leaves Dawson on schedule time. 
 There's plenty of grub, too, my dawny-hued 
 beauties, so whenever you're ready to start 
 something I'll stay with you for a while, I 
 promise you,"
 
 8 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Beaching up over his head to the top of 
 the pack, he felt out the five boxes of car- 
 tridges to make sure they were still there 
 where he knew he had packed them. Once 
 more defiantly, though unconsciously smil- 
 ing, he turned a last time to listen to the 
 hunt-mad demons, then sarcastically solilo- 
 quized: " Whoever you are, old-timer, I'd 
 like to be in with you when the curtain goes 
 up. We'd make 'em go some while lead 
 and liver lasted; but it seems to me a man 
 with the brains of a Burbank Seedling 
 would have fought shy of rabbit swamps 
 getting in here, and you'll learn! I did. 
 These free-for-all fights, you know, tend 
 to ' bring out the best in us'; and all you 
 have to do is 'be good and you'll be happy!' 
 I guess you're in for it, old sport, so cheer 
 up, and let the best brute win! And, you 
 know," he rambled on, "if you're a good 
 Christian gentleman, 'God will be with you,' 
 which promise ought to be consolation 
 enough for any man to take with him into 
 the stomachs of five hundred wolves!" 
 
 "Poor cuss!" he reflected a moment later. 
 "He's lost, most probably, and there's ab- 
 solutely no hope for him. But why should 
 it concern me? I couldn't help him if I 
 would, he's too far away. My dear, Chris- 
 tian mother taught me to mind my own 
 business and let well enough alone; 'climb 
 to the top, beat the other fellow to it and 
 get the cream!' 'Be satisfied with your lot,
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 9 
 
 Jasie, and don't go borrowing trouble.' 
 Worse luck ! The neighbors hereabouts are 
 too far apart 1" 
 
 Thus winding up his satirical harangue, 
 the hardened miner hunched the sagging 
 pack higher between his great shoulders, 
 wound his sinewy arms around his rifle and 
 bit into the frozen end of the Arctic trail. 
 
 His course lay to the southwest, sixteen 
 days snowshoe time from the "Broken 
 Bone." But he had allowed four days 
 extra for good measure and possible acci- 
 dents, planning his supplies accordingly. 
 Once at Dawson, he would bid farewell to 
 the frozen dome of earth forever. With the 
 little dust stowed away in the pack, he 
 would go back to the world where the sun 
 shines and where the roses bloom; settle up 
 with the few friends who had proven true, 
 attend to another matter of long standing, 
 and close the books. 
 
 Four years back while prospecting alone 
 he had fallen in a mad flight down the 
 mountain, trying to escape a down-coming 
 slide, and broken the tibia of his left leg. 
 Notwithstanding the solitude and cold, 
 coupled with the danger from wolves and 
 starvation, he battled on through the long 
 winter months, successfully mending his 
 broken leg, and winning one more signal 
 victory over the courtesan queen of the 
 spectral kingdom. Later, he found gold in 
 the very slide that had caused him so much
 
 10 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 suffering, as if the hand of fate would ex- 
 piate the wrong with the wonted yellow 
 balm. And thus it was that the " Broken 
 Bone" mine came to be born and named. 
 
 At the top of the world life is a rare and 
 lonesome thing. But life is full of hope, 
 and a grim tenacity to be, and to master 
 death. It is a fighting life and a living 
 fight. It is a fight that neither begs nor 
 gives quarter. It is win or lose with the 
 winning or losing of life or death. 
 " Thumbs down," that's the symbol, and to 
 a finish! There is no arbitration here. 
 There is " nothing to arbitrate." Speech 
 is an asset not to be squandered idly where 
 Justice cowers in her citadel behind the law 
 of self-preservation. 
 
 Man, like the eaters of flesh and drinkers 
 of blood, must rise above the law or under 
 it go down. It was the weak that went 
 down, but Jason Sands was not weak. He 
 not only obeyed the law, but also he inter- 
 preted, aye, dictated it! 
 
 Morning broke still and gray. Like a 
 gyroscope, the crystal dome or earth ca- 
 reened, dipping its southern rim awash in 
 a flood of crimson glory. 'Twas like a 
 painted ship on a painted ocean, feathering 
 her lee rail in the trough of a fancied sea. 
 The scarlet sun, like a toy balloon, would 
 float lazily for a space along the frosty 
 fringe of the boreal circle, then roll over 
 the edge as the world tipped back, disap-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 11 
 
 pearing in his rosy robe like the spotlight 
 queen of the fairy fire-dancers. 
 
 Jason knew the day would be short, and 
 he would make the most of it, camping at 
 first sign of dusk, this would mean twenty 
 hours of constant snowshoeing without a 
 break for rest or sleep. 
 
 Fifty miles at least, he figured, had been 
 eaten out of the four hundred. "Three 
 hundred and fifty left fifty at a slap 
 eight camps and there you are, Jason, 
 old hoss, and you're good for it or 
 you're a piker, and you know you're 
 there with the goods," he said aloud. Paus- 
 ing to gaze down into the bottoms country 
 off to the left slope of the ridge, he broke 
 out savagely : * ' Oh, you yellow-hearted sin- 
 ners! Whose mother's darling have you 
 torn from his red bones this time? You 
 may swarm your swamps and I will not 
 molest you. Give me the ridges where the 
 footing is better and I will pick no fuss 
 with you." 
 
 The weather was fine, clear and dry and 
 cold. 
 
 The day wore on. 
 
 With the western sky ablur with purple 
 twilight, lower crouching from strain of 
 pack and trail, and heavy with oncoming 
 sleep, the titanic Jason bent on toward the 
 sound of falling water that leaped and 
 foamed through a rocky gorge and plunged 
 a thousand feet among the ice-terraced 
 rocks below. He knew the location, having
 
 12 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 prospected and camped there during the 
 summer of 1906. 
 
 The trembling thunder of the falls grew 
 louder as the distance shortened and the 
 top of the white world and the bottom of 
 the sombre sky drew together; and ere the 
 dusky nightmaids had pursed their purple 
 curtain overhead, Jason Sands had drunk 
 his fill of the icy water, that thickened in 
 the tin cup like slivered glass. He gazed 
 about the falls with puzzled scrutiny, shook 
 his head gravely, then proceeded to cross 
 the river. Climbing the far bank to the ice 
 above the falls, he studied the face of the 
 cliff long and critically. Then he swore 
 audibly, jabbed the butt of his rifle down 
 into the snow and freed himself from pack 
 and snowshoes. 
 
 The spot he had selected for his camp site 
 was a natural veranda in the side of a huge 
 shelf of rock that jutted far out over the 
 crest of the deafening waterfall. In sum- 
 mertime such a bed-chamber must have 
 been both unique and grand. But Jason 
 had forgotten that it was different now. 
 Instead of finding his old "roost" as he 
 called it, high and dry, and away from all 
 dangers, the sloping walls were faced solid 
 with ice and snow. However, the exact lo- 
 cation was clearly defined by a great crevice 
 at the rear of the platform. This showed 
 in a whiter line straight up through the en- 
 tire brow of the promontory and down to
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 13 
 
 the bed of the river a thousand feet below 
 the falls. 
 
 During the four months he had made his 
 nest on the ledge, Jason never feared a 
 visit from wolves, though he knew the coun- 
 try to be infested with the " slant-eyed ver- 
 min" as he dubbed them. The crevice in 
 the rear afforded an excellent back door to 
 the level below, and was filled nearly to the 
 floor of the shelf with crumblings from the 
 rift overhead. Thus it was safely naviga- 
 ble from the north bank for one of Jason's 
 enormous size and strength, who could 
 straddle with one foot on either side, the 
 yawning chasm stretching away deep and 
 black far beneath. But it was absolutely 
 inaccessible to all other forms of life not 
 possessing wings. 
 
 In repose, Jason Sands was a deep and 
 thorough thinker ; but in action he was like 
 a coil of steel springs released. Possessing 
 a finely disciplined mentality, thought and 
 action were a unit with him, and operated 
 with the rapidity and precision of lightning. 
 In fact, as he often said, the fighting life 
 cut out for him had been so fierce and rapid, 
 he believed he sometimes acted first and 
 without thought, reserving the latter oper- 
 ation for more leisurable and congenial 
 circumstances. 
 
 There is a peculiar development in the 
 faculties of men born with the instinct and 
 love of hunting, that enables the best of
 
 14 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 them to drop a buck running at full speed, 
 rifle at waistline. It is a sort of scientific 
 physical heritage that with long practice 
 becomes truly marvelous. Jason was per- 
 fection in this backwo.ods accomplishment, 
 and his remarkable skill in woodcraft had, 
 on more than one occasion, been the means 
 of prolonging not only his own life, but the 
 lives of others. He was both man and mas- 
 ter. And here he was at the top of the 
 world, alone in a desert of ice and snow and 
 it was coming night. 
 
 As the prospect of being eaten by wolves 
 either human or animal had never ap- 
 pealed very strongly to his sacrificial pro- 
 clivities, and noting that the cliff was an 
 ice-wall, he quickly made a decision: He 
 would scale the wall to the shelf, scoop out 
 the snow with axe and snowshoe, spread his 
 blanket and have a good night's sleep while 
 thfi torrent foamed below. To chor) an im- 
 provised stairwav slantingly ur> from the 
 frozen river to the overhang above, would 
 mean but a blow with the axe for each stair ; 
 and once safely lodged for the night, the 
 ra pin fir waters would drown all other noises, 
 including the yelmnsr of his furry friends, 
 should they trail him to his temporal perch. 
 
 That settled it. He crept cautiously to 
 the edge of the ice just back of the steai-ninn; 
 current, feeling out its strength and thick- 
 ness with his hunter's half -axe, dipped up 
 and drank some more of the burning-cold
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 15 
 
 water (for his supper would have to be 
 munched dry, and thawed as munched). 
 Backing away from the open hole he arose 
 to his feet, and with a look that was neither 
 animal nor human, and in a voice neither 
 animal nor human, fairly belched: "Great 
 God Almighty!" One swift look was 
 enough. There they were WOLVES ! A 
 great V-shaped line of them the width of 
 the river, and they were on his track. Now 
 they were climbing the south bank below 
 the falls Christ! hundreds of them. Aha! 
 It is steep. The leaders slip and fall back. 
 See! They are quarreling! Quick! It is 
 now or never. Jason! Jason! Jason Sands 
 have you turned to stone ? Fly somewhere 
 anywhere for your life. 
 
 But Jason Sands had not turned to stone. 
 Neither had the minutest detail of the 
 frightful drama escaped his trained vision. 
 In the second that had elapsed he was 
 thinking. Thinking first in this crisis, he 
 would act later and at the proper time he 
 always had. 
 
 There are times in the lives of men 
 some men when hope flees and life pivots 
 in the balance to the bending of knees and 
 the wringing of hands. A fire; the cannon's 
 mouth ; the sinking ship ; a fall from a great 
 height; a thousand ways in which men 
 have met death. And, when a moment ago 
 life was full of joy and sunshine, heedless 
 were they of both present and future; but
 
 16 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 with the Raw Head staring them in the face 
 from eyeless orifices, they paled before the 
 stark spectre, crumpled up in palsied sup- 
 plication, bellowing into the black beyond 
 and paying the inevitable toll with inco- 
 herent, raving protest. 
 
 There have been times when other men 
 faced the same immutable spectre ; and rais- 
 ing an aggressive chin to the level of her 
 lipless, worm-eaten jaw, they met her empty 
 grin of immutability with the confident 
 smile of manly godhood ; swept her croning 
 bones from life's pathway and walked free. 
 
 For the first time in his life, varied as it 
 had been and full of dangers, Jason Sands 
 felt the presence of the Bony Reaper. Not 
 that he was afraid, for to him the word was 
 meaningless. But he knew he was in a trap. 
 He knew the wolves would soon be upon him 
 and that he could not kill all of them un- 
 protected as he was on all sides. They were 
 coming. He knew what he would do. Rash 
 and desperate though it was, he would face 
 and fight them where he was ; kill as many 
 as he could with pistol and knife, then at 
 the last moment his strength gone and no 
 chance or hope, he would take one step 
 backward into the bulging crest of the open 
 falls and fool them at last with all their 
 accursed cunning. They should never pick 
 his bones. On that point he was settled. 
 
 In the Great Cosmos there is one law : the 
 Law of Change. All things being subject
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 17 
 
 to that law, why marvel that some men 
 deign to change their minds ? Some change 
 their minds voluntarily to keep pace with 
 the changing conditions of economic life. 
 Others have their minds changed for them, 
 sometimes, alas, too late. 
 
 Men have come and gone who benefited 
 the world by having lived in it. Others 
 benefit it by getting out of it. Jason Sands 
 was in tune with the universe. He long 
 since had cast off the millstones of preju- 
 dice, ignorance and superstition, and nu- 
 merous beliefs, leaving more mental elbow 
 room in which to grapple with the simple 
 problems of everyday life. 
 
 Jason Sands Changed His Mind. 
 
 It was a horrible scheme that had flashed 
 through his brain with a swiftness that took 
 his breath away. And then there flashed 
 another thought a vision the memory of 
 a lone, fatherless and motherless boy, some- 
 where out in the world, for whom he, Jason 
 Sands, must live and fight and hunt, as he 
 had lived and fought and hunted for twenty 
 weary years. For himself he did not care ; 
 but for him, his son, his only boy, he did 
 care, and he would not die. He would live. 
 He would fight and win; and some day he 
 would find his child, a victory indeed. This 
 being final, nothing could swerve him from 
 his heroic purpose. Surely not a handful 
 of cowardly puppies! 
 
 And Then Jason Sands Acted!
 
 18 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 With a bound and a blow he was halfway 
 up the ice-wall to the coveted place of 
 safety. Madly he wielded the little half- 
 axe, as step by step he rose. Then, with a 
 shock that nearly loosed his hold, hanging 
 there in bas-relief like a graven image, the 
 old sensation of impending peril seized him 
 as one may be seized from behind by an 
 unseen foe. He did not turn to look, no 
 time for that ; but with a speed and strength 
 that unleashed every fibre of muscle in his 
 huge body and fired his nerves like the 
 charged wires of a battery, he swung both 
 axe and body backward and downward with 
 the impact and resistibility of a steel truss. 
 
 "Sure! I knew it!" he hissed, as the 
 keen, polished blade crashed full in the face 
 and eyes of the leader of the pack, severing 
 the husky head at the ears and sending 
 both head and carcass spurting a crimson 
 torrent in all directions among the onrush- 
 ing brutes below. 
 
 Confusion reigned at the sight of their 
 fallen leader, but it was of brief duration. 
 Up shot another fanged shadow, then an- 
 other and another; only to meet the now 
 blood-encrusted steel in mid-air and to be 
 smashed back to earth and to the mercy of 
 the cannibalistic host at the bottom of the 
 wall. For each pair of leaping, snapping 
 jaws that came he sent back a dead wolf: 
 and for every one slain another came. Ur> 
 they sprang, death and blood and wounds 
 only lending wings to their devilish fury.
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 19 
 
 It was a gruesome spectacle. Like a fly 
 in a spider's web hung the desperate man, 
 sheath-knife driven deep in the snow-ice 
 far above, the handle of which he gripped 
 in his left hand. With muscles drawn like 
 tuned catgut, smeared with bloody ice and 
 swaying back and forth like a storm-door 
 on its hinges, cutting and slashing and 
 maiming, lip curled in the old smile that 
 never lost a battle, eyes flashing blue death 
 down into the constellation of green death 
 below, hung the grand old warrior. It was 
 a sight such as man or beast had never seen 
 before ! 
 
 Just one more step ! Oh, if only he could 
 make it ! One more, only one more ! Safety 
 lay just beyond that one step. They could 
 not reach him there. But clinging on that 
 wall-paper of bloody ice, to take that step 
 were a ticklish venture. He reasoned that 
 lie could not make the forward turn and up- 
 ward spring with enough speed and surety 
 of footing and at the same time, while de- 
 fending his none too secure left foot with 
 the axe. If he turned and raised his right 
 foot for the leap, the movement would put 
 the axe, his only available weapon of de- 
 fense, out of commission. An advantage 
 that, from experience, he knew would not 
 be lost on his alert and deadly foe. More- 
 over, if obliged to continue the fight in his 
 present predicament, it was a question of 
 but seconds ; for a new peril had beset him.
 
 20 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 His left arm for some minutes had been 
 slowly but surely losing its sense of feeling. 
 The numbness had now reached the shoul- 
 der, and was creeping up the biceps inch 
 by inch to the elbow. Jason knew that when 
 the anesthetic stage should reach the fingers, 
 his hold on the knife must relax, sending 
 him gyrating down into the jaws of the 
 murderous beasts and to certain death. 
 
 O, for one blessed moment in which to 
 switch the axe for his "Automatic." He 
 would put a different taste into their slimy 
 mouths. Now the cold, prickly sensation 
 was in his forearm. With all his terrific 
 strength he renewed his grip on the sheath- 
 knife. It was a critical moment. The in- 
 terval between life and death spanned by a 
 lightning flash of time, but age-long in 
 thought. Worlds swam before his eyes. 
 The whole life scroll unrolled. Vistas 
 eternity-long swept in panoramic train 
 past the lens of his mind with a speed to 
 shame chain lightning. Would they never 
 let up for just one second ! 
 
 "Not yet, you fiend!" he ground out be- 
 tween clenched teeth, the red flaked foam 
 of battle spurting from his bursting lips, 
 as a monster brute slashed his moccasin, the 
 next instant to lose the whole forepart of 
 his head to the eyes for his pains. Follow- 
 ing the slashed moccasin, he became con- 
 scious of a thin, needle-like pain in that 
 foot at the base of the little toe. Accom-
 
 "For each pair of leaping, snapping jaws that came, he sent 
 back a dead wolf."
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 21 
 
 panying the pain was a hot, feathery feel- 
 ing akin to the buzz of a bee's wing. But 
 there was no time for this. The mighty 
 right arm with its axen extremity had never 
 for a moment ceased its windmill cycle of 
 cutting and slashing of skull, and jaw, nose 
 and neck and breast ; but the time had come. 
 It was now pitch dark. 
 
 When a mere boy, Jason had learned 
 some great and valuable lessons from old 
 "Pete," who lived higher up on the moun- 
 tain; and now, when the end seemed near, 
 he remembered them as they had come to 
 him a thousand times before in the hour of 
 trouble. 
 
 "Boy," the old hunter would say, "don't 
 fight. It's hard on good looks. But don't 
 be a coward. And if you have to fight, fight 
 to win." Also it was old Pete who taught 
 him that: "Whatever is worth doing is 
 worth doing well." These were simple les- 
 sons of the simple wood folk of the moun- 
 tains; but Jason had never forgotten them, 
 and their author was his friend. 
 
 With the coming of darkness, eyes only 
 could Jason see. Eyes ! Eyes ! Eyes ! Green 
 balls of fire, circling and dancing and leap- 
 ing to the rythmical roar of the raging wa- 
 terfall. A veritable sea of emerald coals 
 below and in front of him; at right and at 
 left of him. Like myriads of mammoth 
 fire-flies. Straight at him they flew, dart- 
 ing up and falling back. Up and down, in
 
 22 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 and out and all around; a leaping, billow- 
 ing ocean of deadly venom and f anged light- 
 ning. Always in pairs they came, like gob- 
 lin-goggled demons storming the cata- 
 combed corridors of Hell. Dancing their 
 demoniacal dance of death to the tune of 
 the wailing damned! 
 
 It was awful ! And in that maelstrom of 
 mad destruction, the man that was a fighter 
 lived lived on and fought on, and 
 breathed, and thought and smiled the 
 smile that forbade and baffled death. Love 
 had fled from him. Mercy had fled from 
 him. Humanity had fled from him. Only 
 Will remained to him the will to live by 
 killing those who sought to kill him. He 
 was obeying the law as laid down by his en- 
 vironment. Once a great, noble-hearted 
 boy-man, now he was but a killer, an autom- 
 aton of incarnate slaughter, as he obeyed 
 the command and fought life for life. 
 
 In addition to the perpetual whirling of 
 the axe the besieged miner had kept up a 
 constant kicking of his free foot, and thrice 
 the moccasined heel had met ivory fang; 
 and thrice had the moose-hide been slit as 
 with a knife. Still the fight went on. The 
 arm kept flying, the foot kicking and 
 thrusting and sweeping in the unequal war 
 of desperation with might and will, against 
 overwhelming numbers. 
 
 With mitten now blood-encrusted and 
 frozen fast to the axe-handle, there was no
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 23 
 
 danger of losing hold on that faithful 
 weapon. If only he could hold on by the 
 knife they would never get him; he had 
 come to know that; for with all their 
 strength of body and spring of leg they 
 were scarcely able to leap above his ankle. 
 He would have them all wounded in time, 
 then he would complete the climb in safety 
 while his enemies nursed their wounds at 
 the foot of the bluff. 
 
 Meanwhile, the numbness in the uplifted 
 arm grew apace, creeping up the forearm, 
 to the wrist, thence to the hand that 
 clutched the buckhorn overhead in the ice- 
 wall. 
 
 The green fire-balls were growing less 
 and less numerous. The leaping and snap- 
 ping less and less often. Axe met flesh and 
 bone only occasionally now. He was win- 
 ning the battle! Centering all his will on 
 his now almost senseless left hand with its 
 death-like grip on the foot of steel, he was 
 about to try for the one step that must mean 
 victory when something happened a thing 
 that turned his blood to ice and ended the 
 night's carnage. He knew it, it had come 
 at last. He had felt it, for the first time, 
 alas too late! 
 
 In striking an excessively powerful blow 
 at a pair of eyes wider apart than the rest, 
 he had leaned too far out, and though blow 
 met blow, and steel met flesh, cleaving a 
 lupine skull in mid-air, the knife had 
 broken at the hilt!
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE TALE OF AN UNTOLD LOVE. 
 
 Call my son and tell him all my story, 
 Wisdom only may I leave behind. 
 
 Reason 's torch shall more than golden glory 
 Light the future where the past was blind. 
 
 Ben Page, trail-worn and weary, poked 
 his nose through the stunted growth of 
 scrub timber that fringed Lamb Swamp, 
 glanced across the valley to the little hut 
 of logs on the knoll and glided easily on 
 over the smooth snow in the bottom, after 
 the manner of men long used to meshed 
 foot-gear and heavy pack. 
 
 No light gleamed welcome from the cabin 
 window, so Jason must be asleep he de- 
 cided. He would give him a real stunning 
 surprise! The rough miner grinned boy- 
 ishly as he contemplated a practical joke on 
 his unsuspecting old companion, forgetting 
 in his eagerness both hunger and pain of 
 trail. 
 
 It was not yet daybreak and he did not 
 notice the big snowshoe tracks that ran 
 across the knoll to the southwest. Had he 
 seen these he must have recognized them 
 among thousands. Only one person in all 
 the North country possessed such enormous 
 bows, and that person was Jason Sands. 
 Their owner had wrought those very bows, 
 
 (24)
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 25 
 
 riving them from the greenhouse of Mother 
 Nature, and fashioning them in conformity 
 with his great size and weight, and with 
 his own hands. Also, he had filled them 
 with rawhide of his own killing and curing. 
 Ben Page crept stealthily, like a thief, 
 upon the silent habitation of his old friend. 
 As he drew nearer a great longing welled 
 up in him, a longing to clasp once more the 
 great, warm hand that he knew to be an 
 honest one, knowing he would be welcome 
 with the same eagerness and friendship he 
 had found so warm and generous before he 
 went away. He could hear his heart thump- 
 ing exultantly as he strode nervously over 
 the creaking snow. Stepping out of his 
 snowshoes he tiptoed to the door and 
 listened. How should he awaken him, call 
 like a wolf? No, he might get shot! Fire 
 off his rifle then, beat against the door 
 wildly and finally burst storming in upon 
 him with great hullaboo like a drunken 
 Indian ? No ! This would never do, either. 
 Such conduct would be unbecoming and un- 
 dignified ; besides, he was a friend who was 
 returning repentant to seek reinstatement 
 in his old comrade's affections. Not only 
 this, but he was all to blame for the fuss 
 he knew it ; and with the thoughts of it the 
 hot blood flushed his face with honest shame 
 and a lump got in his throat. Oh no, it 
 wasn't fear! but just suppose he wasn't 
 welcome! What if he were not forgiven!
 
 26 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Ben had seen men apprised of their unwel- 
 come to the hospitality of Jason Sands, and 
 the sight was not a pleasant one. What 
 ailed him, anyway! Was it the dampness 
 in the morning air? It gathered on his 
 forehead like ice-water. 
 
 Then courage returned. Or was it his 
 manhood reasserting itself? Anyway, he 
 was a fool ! he knew Jason Sands, and with- 
 out further trepidation he pushed open the 
 door and stalked in. All was silent there- 
 silent, and dark, and cold. A lighted match 
 revealed it all Jason Sands was gone! 
 
 The life of Ben Page had not been strewn 
 with roses. Many disappointments had 
 been his ; but what shall we say of the black 
 despair that bore in upon him in the cold 
 silence of that forsaken solitude ! 
 
 "Gone!" he cried aloud, again and again 
 in his sorrow, while the weight of his shame 
 engulfed him and crushed him down like 
 an avalanche. 
 
 Puzzled and alarmed, the derelict adven- 
 turer proceeded to light the grease-lamp 
 for a hurried investigation. With mining 
 outfit pick, shovel and mud-boots in the 
 corner, he was not in the shaft. His rifle, 
 pack and snowshoes were missing from 
 their customary places, obviating the likeli- 
 hood of foul play or suicide. There re- 
 mained but one plausible deduction the 
 man of many sorrows had struck for the 
 outside.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 27 
 
 Three months back thev had quarreled 
 over religion, and Ben had packed kit and 
 run off in a silly funk of wounded feelings 
 more imagined than real. Shame con- 
 quering anger at last, he had returned, 
 sure of being forgiven and welcomed, for 
 the heart of Jason Sands was big, and his 
 great love was as deep and as broad as the 
 universe. 
 
 He had rescued Ben from the very jaws 
 of death, shared cabin and chuck with him, 
 nursed him back to life and health, later 
 making him partner in the "Broken Bone," 
 only to be deserted by him in the very hour 
 when they needed each other's co-operative 
 heir) in successfully working the mine. Ben 
 had begun it, starting in mildly for him by 
 calling Jason an anarchist and a damned 
 infidel, and winding up with the charge that 
 all unbelievers were just alike and that they 
 were all going to hell along with the scien- 
 tists and the Socialists! Jason had denied 
 nothing, only smiling, noncommitally, and 
 in an off-hand sallv referred to what he 
 termed "churchianity" as the "F. F. P." 
 worsh ir> * ' Fight-worship, Fund-worship, 
 and Phallic-worship." 
 
 Ben loved Jason, and would gladly have 
 died for him ; but this was too much. He 
 frankly told Jason what he thought of 
 " Protestant devils," forgetting in his fool- 
 ish -passion that it was not to the Pope, but 
 to this particular devil, that he owed his 
 very life.
 
 28 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Over in a dry bed back of the " Pound" 
 Claim, forty miles north from the " Broken 
 Bone," Ben had been pegging away in an 
 old hole, deserted by Lon Downing, but to 
 little purpose. Though he had worked in- 
 cessantly and painfully, keeping up a con- 
 stant burning day and night, it was a dis- 
 couraging venture, yielding little profit. He 
 had been on foot since early dawn of the 
 preceding day, without food or sleep; and 
 upon discovering the little cabin deserted, 
 tumbled into his old bunk of fir boughs and 
 in the next breath was sleeping. He slept 
 the sleep of the dead until the yellow glow 
 of the mid-day sun streaming through the 
 solitary window straight into his eyes, 
 awoke him. He blinked perplexedly ; looked 
 at his watch hastily, bounded to his feet 
 and agilely began neaping dry pitchwood 
 against a green backlog, half burned but 
 cold, in the stone fireplace. At the touch 
 of a match the flames leaped up, quickly 
 filling the little shell with warmth and a 
 flaring red light. 
 
 Now, he knew he was hungry. Seizing 
 the coffee pot he opened the door to fill it 
 with snow 
 
 "Well, by God!" exploded the startled 
 miner, as a great gray form slunk away 
 under a scrub fir and made for the ridge. 
 In a flash, rifle had replaced coffee pot, and 
 when a second later the little Savage carbine 
 spank spank spanked into the frosty 
 aphony, it spit out the lives of three great,
 
 "And when a second later the little Savage carbine 'spank- 
 spank spanked' into the frosty aphony, it spit out the 
 lives of three great husky timber wolves."
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 29 
 
 husky timber wolves ere they could reach 
 cover over the scruff of the ridge thirty 
 yards away. 
 
 Men who carry their lives in their hands, 
 learn, with danger staring them in the face, 
 to make every second count. To miss a 
 shot or a blow, often is to sever the slender 
 thread by which life dangles hazardously 
 over the chasm of death. To live and thrive 
 in an hostile environment one must know 
 the art of such living, become expert in the 
 most compatible means of self-defense, dis- 
 trust all and spare none. This is life as it 
 is, but not as it ought to be. A poet once 
 said: 
 
 "Of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
 
 "The saddest are these it might have been." 
 
 To which Joaquin Miller, the poet of the 
 Sierras, has added two more lines, which 
 seems to bring the lament fully up to date 
 and places a period at the right hand of 
 all things in our social life that are cruel 
 and wrong: 
 
 "But sadder still are these to me 
 "It is, but hadn't ought to be." 
 
 There were no more wolves in sight, but 
 wolf tracks and wolf signs were every- 
 where. There must have been hundreds of 
 them only a few hours since, where were 
 they now, and why had he not heard them? 
 
 ' ' Must a picked me up down there in that 
 black hole," he theorized. "I sure must a 
 bin puttin' in the licks after hittin' that
 
 30 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 there bunk, or else I clean croaked and then 
 come to with the sun or I'd a heard 'em. 
 
 Soundly indeed had the spent traveler 
 slept, for their numbers had been many and 
 their yelpings wild and furious. They had 
 surrounded the cabin and kept vigil until 
 mid-day, when suddenly they disappeared, 
 leaving behind them three of their number 
 three old she wolves too heavy to run. 
 These the hunter had shot; and dragging 
 them to the door proceeded to dispossess 
 them of their warm coats before the bodies 
 should have time to freeze. 
 
 "Fine and dandy," he observed, blowing 
 his breath against the wiry gray fur, part- 
 ing it to the skin after the manner of the 
 expert fur buyer. 
 
 "Nice and warm for my little old bunk. 
 Too damn bad the rest of the cussed tribe 
 had other engagements; I'd a had tails a 
 flutterin' all over this hangout and a 
 blanket fit to wrop a baby up in." 
 
 The science and dispatch with which the 
 skilled woodman peeled off their pelts was 
 a marvel. Fairly jerking them out of their 
 hides, he flung gray skin one way and blue 
 carcass the other. The task was a small 
 one and quickly over. This done, he break- 
 fasted to a quart of boiled snow and a 
 pound of broiled moose steak, lit his bone 
 pipe and fell back in his hollow-log chair 
 and lost himself in a deep, silent reverie. 
 
 The scenes of the old days all came troop-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 31 
 
 ing back over the back track in regular 
 order. The day and night in the tree; the 
 rescue; the warm cabin; the nursing back 
 to life; the partnership in the mine, and 
 then the quarrel. Jason had laughed at him, 
 then tried to reason with him ; but Ben was 
 stubborn, and when the futility of further 
 argument became apparent, Jason insisted 
 on giving him all the dust the joint prod- 
 uct of their toiling and freezing and starv- 
 ing in the frozen hole on the " Broken 
 Bone." That was three months ago. Now 
 here he was again, this time alone ! 
 
 With Jason, his one friend and com- 
 panion gone, he felt himself helplessly at 
 the mercy of whatever cruel fate might 
 have in store for him, with not as much as 
 one single word in parting left to cheer him. 
 
 And then Ben remembered a woodcraft 
 injunction that was a law with Jason 
 Sands: "Never leave camp without some 
 word left behind in parting." It was a 
 safety measure, and one never to be vio- 
 lated where the atmosphere of death per- 
 meated every breath one breathed, and 
 where every life was a law unto itself. 
 
 " Maybe he did, then," he reflected hope- 
 fully. Animated with this straw hope, he 
 sprang to his feet and began a hurried 
 search of the old camp. He had not far to 
 look. Beaching under the lower (Jason's) 
 bunk, which was wider than the one above, 
 Jie drew forth a large bundle of letters,
 
 32 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 papers, etc., comprising a collection of 
 many documents not unfamiliar to him, ex- 
 cept, that, tucked under the rawhide rope 
 on the outside, was a smaller package, 
 across the entire length of which was writ- 
 ten, simply: "Ben," in the unmistakable 
 hand of Jason Sands. It proved to be a 
 letter, and it read : 
 
 "On the Broken Bone, 
 
 "April 22nd, 1910. 
 "Benjamin B. Page, 
 
 "Dog Cove, Alaska." 
 "My dear old pard, and brother: 
 
 "I am leaving you, Ben, forever. I am 
 leaving the Broken Bone, the gold, the 
 wolves and the frost, and I am running 
 away. All I have left behind belongs to you. 
 I hate to leave you in this way, but there 
 are things we have to do. It has been lone- 
 some, Ben, since you went back on me, and 
 I have thought of so many things that were 
 but dead memories of the bitter past. I 
 have thought, and worked, and fought, and 
 worried through the long, cold months 
 alone; now I am tired of it all, and I am 
 going to say goodbye. 
 
 "I have stood it as long as I can this 
 frozen and whited hell now I am going- 
 back under the sunshine where the roses 
 bloom, and where it will be less trouble to 
 dig a grave. I am sorry it must be so, old 
 boy, for I once tried to help you, and you 
 know we were a help to each other and only
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 33 
 
 quarreled once; but I know you, like all 
 the others, have turned against me. Besides, 
 you want to stay for the gold, so I am going 
 to slip quietly away. Fear not for me, Ben, 
 should you ever think of the old times and 
 me. Take care of yourself, for life is a 
 transient and fleeting thing. Nothing shall 
 happen to me that need cause you pain, but 
 I shall always think of you. 
 
 "The mine is yours; I am done with it. 
 I found it and gave half of it to you for I 
 liked you and wanted company. Also I 
 found you, as you will recall ; and if I helped 
 you when you needed a hand, make me a 
 silent promise now: Should you ever make 
 a strike here, and I know the Bone has a 
 pocket if only you can locate it, promise me 
 you will try to forget your childish anger 
 and come out into the world and help me 
 find my boy. If it turns out that I am 
 never heard from, Ben, will you not try to 
 find him and tell him all my story that you 
 are now about to learn from me ? Tell him 
 how I fought out the fight, living only for 
 Mm, that I might find him and teach him of 
 the ways wherein I have grown wise. 
 
 "Tell him of the long winter nights and 
 of the weary, hungry days. Tell him of the 
 fang-beasts of the forests and of the fang- 
 beasts of civilization. Say to him, that his 
 father did not desert him the truth but 
 that it was life or death with me and that 
 I had to go. I chose to prolong my life that
 
 34 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 I might help in the Great Revolution help 
 hasten the day when all mankind shall be 
 one mighty phalanx of peaceful workers 
 and happy brotherhood, singing with the 
 god of love in a reunited and fearless world. 
 Tell him that I love him, Ben, that I would 
 crush him to my breast, would plead with 
 him, aye, that I would die for him; but he 
 is gone from me now, is lost in the crowd 
 in the swirling, insane mob and I may live 
 to see him, alas, never more. 
 
 "I loved my boy, Ben, and I love him 
 still. Now that I come to think of it over 
 again think back down the dead years that 
 are gone I can see his little happy face 
 alight with joy and laughter, and the frousy 
 head of red, silken curls shaking in the sun- 
 light to the patter of his chubby feet. In 
 fancy once again I feel the tiny, soft hands 
 pulling at my face, or patting my shoulder 
 at end of day; and the sparkling eyes of 
 just this morning, now ablink with sleepy 
 things and ready for pillow and the little 
 evening prayer. 
 
 "I have not been happy, Ben, since the 
 damned authorities took our home away. 
 (Home, did I say? Yes, it was a home, the 
 kind of home a lone, helpless boy could 
 make for a more lone and helpless babe.) 
 And then they took my child away also. 
 Tore him from me with the aid of the 'law!' 
 This, after I had rescued him from the 
 'Goodwill Farm/ where that she hell-bird 
 had decreed that he must go.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 35 
 
 "Then I cursed the law, Ben. The law 
 that stabbed me in the back; the law that 
 smote me with a mailed fist; the law that 
 murdered my every hope with the murder 
 of my baby's mother the law that robbed 
 me of my birthright and my love that 
 blotted out my home. 
 
 "Since then we have drifted apart. I 
 could not find my boy, though I have 
 searched the world over. It is the one bat- 
 tle in which I have failed. 
 
 "I could not get to tell you of these 
 things before, for I did not wish to cause 
 you pain; but the bereavement has become 
 more than I can bear, and I feel a sense 
 of helplessness after all my long, vain 
 search, and I want my boy to know. 
 
 "Call my son, Ben, and tell him all my 
 story. Somewhere among the crashing 
 ruins of Capitalism's ever falling wrecks 
 you may find him, and perchance, the little 
 pat-a-cake hands of yesterday are now feed- 
 ing some grim iron monster in the mills or 
 on the steel rails of wage-slavery. No 
 longer is he the dimpled babe of tender 
 years, but the handsome youth unfolding 
 into ripe young manhood. Somewhere sub- 
 merged in the depths of their social jungle 
 they have him, and I fear for him, Ben. 
 There were none to fear for me. 
 
 "There were none to guide my footsteps 
 in the ways of wisdom, and so I made the 
 blunders. When I should have been learn-
 
 36 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 ing the science of life I was being driven 
 among the gears. When I fainted at my 
 ill-appointed task they scourged me with the 
 lash of hunger, and when I paused to dream 
 of my lost childhood they called me lazy 
 and a shirk. So I sweat my blood for my 
 masters, while their pampered sons and 
 daughters basked in the sweet southern sun- 
 shine ; on the palm beaches at the seashore, 
 or in the mountains among the fragrant 
 breezes and the green, shady forests. 
 
 "Call my son, Ben, for wisdom only may 
 we leave behind. Call him and teach him 
 love and life, and the new liberty that is to 
 be. Teach him the secret of health, and 
 woodcraft, and how to till the soil. Help 
 him in the building of strength and beauty ; 
 for the morning of his day is come and 
 there is work to do that we must leave un- 
 finished. You told me once that you could 
 never repay me the debt you owed me for 
 saving your life. You can pay it a million 
 times, Ben, if only you will hear my voice. 
 It is not me to whom you owe the debt, but 
 to yourself. When you have been true to 
 yourself you will have done your duty to 
 your fellowmen. There is no such thing as 
 debt and credit. There is but robbery and 
 injustice. 
 
 "I would teach and guide my son, and 
 help him over the unsmooth trails, for 
 many dangers lurk hidden along the whited 
 ways. It is not to dodge the pitfalls into
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 37 
 
 which I fell that I would teach him, nor 
 would I have you perfume the bottomless 
 pits of poverty, whence arise the unsweet 
 smells that profane the very breath of life : 
 but I would have him learn to damn and 
 forsake the outlived codes and creeds of 
 a dead, and archaic past; fill up and destroy 
 the polluting cesspools of their social hells, 
 making a fairer and a safer way. 
 
 "I have gone the route alone. I have 
 done the best I knew. There is much I have 
 done, and much I might have done ; the day 
 is waning now with my work still just be- 
 gun. The structure is incomplete and the 
 frost of life's winter is in my hair. At 
 the prime of life I am an old man! It is 
 not that I am old, Ben, but that the task 
 is old. My years are few enough, but those 
 years have all been overtime years. The 
 years they crowded into me and the life 
 they crowded out of me. They speeded up 
 the machine, and up, in turn, the machine 
 speeded me. The l truth' thev taught to me 
 I later learned to be a lie. The while they 
 sang to me of 'freedom,' thev shackled me 
 a slave. The 'liberty' they bragged about 
 I found was only on paper, and burns 
 vellow with sulphurous smells on the 
 Fourth of July; and the only liberty I can 
 boast is liberty to starve. 
 
 "Call my son, Ben, for Reason's torch 
 shall more than golden glory light the fu- 
 ture where the past was blind.
 
 38 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "Knowledge is good to have, Ben, but 
 Truth is crowning glory. Knowledge is 
 not always truth, but truth is always knowl- 
 edge. The error of the race lies not in that 
 men know too little, but that tliey knoiv too 
 much that is not true. The greatest truths 
 are yet untold, and the greatest force in 
 life is the all-conquering power of love. 
 The most blessed thing in life is love, for 
 love is peace and acquiescence. The great- 
 est crime is the crime of teaching a lie. 
 Poverty is a crime, and profit is the cause 
 of crime. Ignorance is the cause of pov- 
 erty; slavery is the cause of ignorance; 
 false teaching is worse than ignorance, and 
 falsehood is taught for profit! 
 
 " 'Tis sad to learn at twilight that all 
 day long we toiled to build upon the sand; 
 and sadder still at twilight of life to learn 
 that all of life had been no more than but a 
 baneful lie. 
 
 "All they made me learn at such fright- 
 ful cost I have had to unlearn again. The 
 years I spent in training mind were years 
 of waste to me, for they were cultivating 
 brains to sell like cabbages are raised for 
 market. Three times a year, Ben, with my 
 labor I built a home, living the while in a 
 dirty, rented shack. But the homes I built 
 were for the masters and they were built, 
 like my education, to sell. The 'Labor 
 Market,' this sort of thing is called the 
 process of buying and selling brains! The
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 39 
 
 traffic still flourishes, for youth is full of 
 optimism and hope; and the same old lie 
 they crammed me with they're teaching 
 still. 
 
 " 'Hands on vests,' the sign boards in 
 their windows read, and in their news- 
 papers their ads were many. 'Hands on 
 vests,' 'hands on shirts,' and 'mill hands,' 
 were common calls for help, but never did 
 they advertise for brains. They were wise 
 the bread-masters they knew the brains 
 would have to come along too, a sort of 
 'boot' thrown in for good measure along 
 with the 'hands' that must be worn out for 
 profit. The brains were a part of the deal, 
 and all the deals were made, arbitrarily, by 
 tlie masters! 
 
 "Hands on vests, indeed! And hands on 
 plows, too. Hands on shoes ; hands on coats, 
 bread, homes and all. Fashioning the 
 world's wealth into perfect things of use, 
 while the hands of the masters of wage- 
 slavery were ever busy, not on 'vests,' but 
 at the throats and in the pockets of their 
 worshiping, submissive hirelings. 
 
 "Think of it, Ben! Upon this auction 
 block of human souls I stood, blind and 
 dumb, like horned cattle are marketed, and 
 watched them traffic in my wealth of man- 
 hood my hands, mv brains, my labor 
 verily, my life was but a commodity, and 
 for all this they loaned me back my board 
 and clothes. I say loaned, because my
 
 40 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 wages were only so much loaned money 
 which had to paid right back again into the 
 same channels from which it came to me, 
 for the necessities of life, and with another 
 profit added to the profit on the wages, 
 which wages were so many drops of my own 
 heart's blood. 
 
 "Oh, I was a good animal until I awoke, 
 and I peddled out my muscle and my sweat 
 for a pauper's chance to live. They prated 
 to me of 'honest labor,' and I prided myself 
 in that I could do more work in a day than 
 any two men I had ever known, and do it 
 better. This was because I was ignorant, 
 Ben, but they called it 'thrift and fru- 
 gality ! ' It is a siren song they sing to their 
 satisfied slaves, which they call 'the dignity 
 of honest toil!' They accompanied this al- 
 luring refrain with the rhapsodic syncopa- 
 tion of 'Industry's Merry Hum,' burnt 
 much red fire and waved numerous sizes of 
 mottled rags made in sweatshops to befuddle 
 and awe the mild-eyed herd upon whose 
 backs they rode. 
 
 "Oh, the pity of it all! Oh, the waste of 
 it all ! Oh ! the crime the unspeakable, un- 
 pardonable, damnable crime of this 
 thrice damned mockery: their 'Christian 
 Civilization ! ' 
 
 "And then there was Erma! Erma, the 
 beautiful, the pure and the true. Erma, 
 with her warm, red lips and her fairy 
 tresses. Erma, the light of a new world to
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 41 
 
 me, the living water of youth, and love, and 
 feminine sweetness. Erma, the queen of 
 my dreamland wherein bloomed roses ever- 
 lasting. And mingled with the meadow 
 smells, her perfumed breath upon my 
 cheek, where, in subdued chorus, cricket- 
 song and frog-pond melodies sped the fad- 
 ing day at twilight's peaceful hour, we 
 pledged a tryst of love that Erma, my dear- 
 est Erma carried to a virgin's grave. 
 
 "It was the rath outbursting of a purer 
 love than which this world has never 
 known, away back there among the dear 
 hills of old New Hampshire, Ben, in the 
 long ago. 
 
 "Erma was a farmer's daughter and we 
 lived near together. In school she used to 
 hold her slate so I could see and helped me 
 with my lessons. We pranked as only 
 lovers will, in all the honeyed lore of youth- 
 ful lovecraft, rich and rare from Love's un- 
 published story. For every teacher's rigid 
 rule she knew a cunning ruse ; and I 've seen 
 her miss in spelling just to keep me at the 
 head. Also she knew all the secret things 
 that Mother Nature hides from city folk, 
 and all the shady glades wherein the wild 
 flowers grew were known to her. 
 
 "She could find the coolest springs; and 
 often when we used to romp the woods to- 
 gether, she'd take some hidden trail among 
 the aromatic verdure, where, with breezes 
 purled with bird-song overhead and fox-
 
 42 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 glove blooming underfoot, we'd wile away 
 to one more mossy glen, there to tell the 
 things that only lovers know. 
 
 "And then came the crash! A bolt of 
 lightning from the clear sunshine ! The sun 
 went out! The moon went out! The stars 
 hid their faces in shame ! Of course it was 
 ignorance, that, together with false-teach- 
 ing, backed by self-interest, it is ever so. 
 The secret was out at last! We were 
 'caught,' that's what they called it, and so, 
 an illiterate, wrathful mother proceeded to 
 vent her savage fury on her youthful off- 
 spring. Suspicion had long been growing, 
 and now she would have to own up! We 
 had thought to be forgiven when the time 
 came, but we were lame in our reckoning. 
 We were unschooled in the mercenary arti- 
 fices of match-making mothers. 'Whom 
 God hath joined together' suddenly be- 
 came an alien injunction. That 'marriages 
 are made in Heaven' was weak defense 
 against the more practical theory of dollars 
 and cents. So they proceeded to tear us 
 asunder and our hearts asunder. They 
 descended upon us and snatched her from 
 me as a she wolf tears a mother ptarmigan 
 from the nest of her coming brood. 
 
 "Erma had called to me through the 
 parlor window and I knew the hour was 
 come. There was the ring of confidence in 
 her sweet voice, mingled with just the faint- 
 est note of challenge for their benefit, and
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 43 
 
 all pitched in a sad, unnatural key, hysteri- 
 cally clarioned with passionate appeal, and 
 modest but thrilling with righteous victory 
 a victory she believed with all her heart 
 was now at hand. Oh, she was the very soul 
 of optimism, was this sunny-haired spirit 
 of the hills. Alas for the optimism of 
 innocence ! 
 
 "The magnitude of the situation and the 
 task devolving upon me for the moment 
 unnerved me. At sound of her voice my 
 heart stopped, sank, and then fluttered up 
 into my throat, sending the boiling blood 
 to the very sight of my eyes in a blinding 
 shower of white-hot meteors. But it was 
 only for a second, and when I rallied and 
 strode into the room I was as calm as a tree. 
 
 "In the middle of the room stood old 
 Bart Tannerhill, ox-goad in hand, the irate 
 she dragon, fists on hips beside him; while 
 cowering in a corner, her big, soft eyes 
 aswim with tears, crouched Erma, my child- 
 wife. At sight of me she bounded to her 
 feet like a wounded fawn, swept through 
 them like a sunbeam and into my arms. 
 God ! How I loved her, my darling, in that 
 prophetic moment! I can hear her heart 
 now, Ben, as it beat wildly in her terror 
 against my breast. I can see again the up- 
 turned face and trembling lips, as they flew 
 to meet mine in the trustful embrace she 
 gave me. 
 
 " 'Tell them, dear,' she said amid her
 
 44 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 sobbing, 'tell them all; I have, and they 
 won't believe me.' 
 
 "And I did tell them. And when I had 
 finished they believed me, for, although I 
 dreaded the ordeal, once begun it was the 
 happiest moment of my life. In that mo- 
 ment I was a king! a Hercules a god! I 
 knew we were right, and in that right I was 
 invincible. I could have won a world. 
 God, aye, a million Gods could not have 
 phased me. There she was, my natural 
 mate, clinging to me for protection. Upon 
 me she had cast her very life. Her every 
 ounce of unrestrained womanhood, pulsat- 
 ing the purity of the great love and trust 
 of her, and it was all for me. I lived for 
 her and she for me. I was ready to fight 
 for her, I gladly would have died for her, 
 or I would have gone to hell for her ! Who 
 would not? 
 
 "Here was life. Here was womanhood. 
 Here was happiness and love and com- 
 panionship with youth and beauty, one 
 woman who was real, and whole, and true. 
 
 "It was at this point that the hand of a 
 jealous rival dealt his cowardly blow. I 
 was standing with my back to the door, 
 oblivious to the danger that lurked behind, 
 until Erma screamed and made as if to 
 spring. I shall never forget the look her 
 features wore. She had seen, but not in 
 time. Some would have fainted; but not 
 she. My arms were about her when she
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 45 
 
 gave the alarm, but she freed herself with 
 the agility and strength of an acrobat. Giv- 
 ing me an heroic jerk forward to save me, 
 she tried to spring at the fiend. I turned 
 just as a flash of lightning and deafening 
 roar of thunder crashed down upon me, into 
 me and through me. It was all done in a 
 second's time, but in that brief space the 
 heavens and earth burst and fell together; 
 I was crushed under the debris like an egg- 
 shell, and then I knew no more. 
 
 "When again I knew, I was gliding 
 smoothly through space. All the stars were 
 in motion, diving, shooting, rising and mov- 
 ing all about me. Next I was aware of a cool, 
 soft touch like snowflakes in summer fall- 
 ing gently on my forehead. Then, faintly 
 at first, came low, tremulous sounds creep- 
 ing into my ears, sounds that were mellow 
 and endearing. Never was music wrought 
 of mortal hand to match such as this. How 
 long I was listening to the far-awav mur- 
 murings I never knew. Presentlv I dared 
 to open mv eves, just the merest peep; it 
 was all I could do. The lids would not 
 obey mv will to open them more. I floated 
 through the silverv starlight gradually be- 
 coming conscious of a sweet, radiant vision. 
 It was neither the stars, the moon, nor the 
 sunshine. It was grander than all these 
 rolled together. It was a heavenly vision. 
 T fhon^nt T was in heaven, and that angels 
 were ministering to some silly whim of my
 
 46 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 ephemeral desires. I could see more plainly 
 as my eyes grew accustomed to the light, 
 and I saw that the vision was feminine and 
 very near me. Tenderly the beautiful white 
 face bent down and laid fuzzy, moist lips 
 upon my mouth. I tried to raise my arms 
 to draw her to me, but they were arms, not 
 of flesh and muscle, but of stone! Also, I 
 tried to give back the kisses in generous 
 measure; but again the command of my 
 will was disobeyed. My tongue was on fire, 
 but my lips were frozen ! Then my eyelids 
 became mysteriously leaden and scraped 
 cruelly down over the eyeballs shutting out 
 the stellar glory and her unearthly beauty. 
 All was black night again. The sweet 
 sounds died away; the soft caresses ceased, 
 and I toppled over a deep, dark void and 
 fell down, down, down, into the unstarred 
 night of eternity. 
 
 "But the sweet vision in some way found 
 me out, and came the radiant face through 
 the black night, dispelling the last shadow 
 with her coming, like the dissolving views 
 of the stereopticon. The cool hand was 
 laid again on nrf forehead, and my icen lips 
 were being melted with her hot, moist 
 kisses. The warm sunshine came and fell 
 in golden flood upon her billowy hair. I 
 still thought I was in heaven, and that this 
 fair creature was the goddess Aurora come 
 to bring thp, morning of the Great Day.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 47 
 
 "Then came the soft murmurings again. 
 The sounds growing louder and more dis- 
 tinct with the clearer sense of returning 
 consciousness. 
 
 "' Jason! O Jason, dear,' someone was 
 calling, someone far yonder on the hillside, 
 so faintly and distant seemed the voice. I 
 was scarcely sure I heard at first, but as 
 the calling continued and my ears took on 
 the repeated resonance, I began to under- 
 stand. I made a mighty effort to throw off 
 the leaden weights from my eyes, and the 
 dizzy stupor from my feverish brain, and 
 did succeed partly, when with my returning 
 sight came the most excruciating pain. But 
 in the next instant the r>ain was forgotten. 
 The mist had cleared. It was Erma! She 
 was bending over me, crying over me, pray- 
 ing for me and calling to me to come back 
 to life and to her again. 
 
 "It was her blessed hand that had bathed 
 my forehead. How may I describe the 
 scene of jov that followed my awakening! 
 It were profanity to attempt it. Such glad- 
 ness never shone through the soul of 
 woman. It was a joy not of earth. I tried 
 to smile and tell her with my eyes that I 
 knew and would live. She understood, and 
 with fingers tearing at her breast, her eyes 
 streaming with tears, she burst into a par- 
 oxysm of hysterical laughing, crying and 
 screeching, that was the very effervescence
 
 48 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 of the insanity of human delight. The dear 
 child was mad and overwhelmed with joy. 
 
 "I had heen shot! shot in the back by a 
 cowardly, moral pervert, and without warn- 
 ing. The lead had torn clean through me, 
 splashing my blood in Erma's face and 
 hair. She had thought me killed, but she 
 would never give up in her effort to make 
 me live. It was in the evening just at sun- 
 set, and when I regained consciousness, it 
 was at sunrise the following morning. Oh, 
 the dear child, Ben ! She never left my side 
 during all that lapse of time, but had worn 
 herself out working and worrying over me 
 to save my life. When at last the victory 
 was won and T opened my eves and looked 
 nt her and smiled, she saw that I knew. Tt 
 was too much for her overwrought condi- 
 tion. She became hysterical and fell in a 
 swoon by the bedside. 
 
 "In the excitement of the quarrel with 
 the Tannerhills over our secret, we had not 
 noticed a carriage drive ur>, and when the 
 shambling slouch of Pert Perry's ape-like 
 hulk sloughed into the hallwav to listen to 
 it all, he had completed the slinking ven- 
 ture without noise and unobserved. Erma, 
 having asked me to tell them all, I had just 
 wound up by saying, defiantly, that we were 
 now man and wife, and that I would pro- 
 tect her with my life and that nothing 
 should come between us, not even the Perry 
 parasites. It was at this point that the
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 49 
 
 rejected suitor leaped into the room and 
 shoving a 44-Colt between my shoulders 
 fired. Erma had tried to give warning, but 
 it came too late. 
 
 "The would-be assassin was never appre- 
 hended, but he subsequently met the same 
 fate he tried to settle on me at the hands 
 of a woman he had previously wronged a 
 poor mill girl who had loved him and sur- 
 rendered her confidence to him, only to be 
 forsaken and cast aside. From this she had 
 gone down the line; and in making his es- 
 cape from the attack on my life, he had 
 fallen into her hands in a house of ill-fame, 
 where the race teaching of revenge got in 
 its deadly work. 
 
 "Erma nursed me back to life and in two 
 weeks I was out again; but the Tannerhills 
 were obdurate and set. There was no rea- 
 soning with them. Erma was not of age, 
 and that settled it. It was her turn now, 
 for her heart was broken. They kept her 
 under lock and key as criminals are kept 
 in prison. They made the minister con- 
 fess, then got him kicked out of church for 
 helping us conceal our secret marriage. 
 You see, Ben, it was a devilish violation of 
 the creeds, the codes and the conventions. 
 It was the rankest heresy of the accepted 
 law of private ownership of parent in child 
 until the child is old enough to be grand- 
 parent. Health, strength and youth stood 
 for nothing. Beauty stood for nothing.
 
 50 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Love stood for nothing. Even life itself 
 stood for nothing. Only the codes, the 
 creeds and the conventions stood for some- 
 thingthese and the dividends that were 
 to accrue from the sale of their beautiful 
 daughter into white slavery, for this only 
 is what marriage can mean where love does 
 not exist, but where the motive for such 
 prostitution is gold v 
 
 "Ah! we had not consulted the authority. 
 We had not drawn a check to the law. We 
 had not harkened to the merry jingle of 
 clinking coin. But we had looked into each 
 other's eyes and therein read the old, old 
 story. We had ripened in the summer of 
 each other's sunshine. We knew we loved 
 and wanted each other. In our natural de- 
 sire we saw only success and we never con- 
 sidered the possibility of failure. We had 
 heard Love calling to us through the dawn 
 of youthful glory and we had gone straight 
 to the goal. Into our plan of life we had 
 not invited death. In our house of love 
 we made no room for hate. Heaven was of 
 our own making, and when we had built it 
 we had nothing left with which to build a 
 hell. Or else we had forgotten to build a 
 hell. Perhaps we were too ignorant, too 
 happy, or too young for that. Possibly we 
 were not sufficiently well civilized as yet. 
 Anyway, as I said before, we had heard 
 the voice of Love calling out to us from the 
 wilderness of soul-starvation, and we had
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 51 
 
 gone to meet it, and we did meet it. We 
 met it in the same good old way that true 
 lovers have ever, and will ever continue to 
 meet it. Yes, we met and knew it, basked 
 our souls in it even worshiped it, in spite 
 of code, creed and convention. In spite of 
 their fearsome wailings and their tyranni- 
 cal dictums. In spite of their clanking 
 marionettes, their stereotyped heavens, 
 their horned devils and their orthodox hells. 
 
 "Yes, Ben, they murdered Erma, my 
 Erma. The loss of her, coupled with the 
 shame of their social crime, drove me stark 
 mad. For years I drifted in a daze of men- 
 tal bewilderment. My 'friends' sneered at 
 me, ridiculed me and tried in all manner 
 of ways to discredit and disgrace me. 
 Whenever they dared, they took advantage 
 of me to further their own sordid ends; 
 and when I thrashed them for their double 
 dealing they ran away into safety to stab 
 me in the back with their javelins of 
 slander. 
 
 "It was then that the panderers and the 
 demagogs would appear. With each suc- 
 cessive turn of the wheel of fortune they 
 came or went as the case might be, hanging 
 onto my broad shoulders whenever I was 
 prosperous, and deserting me to a man in 
 my hour of adversity. They all turned 
 against me, Ben, even my brothers turned 
 against me and shamefully malinged and 
 scandalized me, calling me black sheep and 
 trying to magnify their own puny lives by 
 heaping odium upon mine.
 
 52 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "So I learned that, in a society enslaved 
 under a system of economic strife and self- 
 interest, there can be little friendship 
 worthy of the confidence of honest men and 
 women. After that, I slipped down into 
 the scathing, festering abyss of this graft- 
 ing commercialism in a desperate effort to 
 drown the memory of an assassinated love 
 among the shifting sands of hived humanity 
 inhumanity gone mad for gain. 
 
 "Nature had been kind to me, Ben, as 
 well you know. Over well built and thewed 
 like the things that roam the wild, I knew 
 not fear, and the poisoned fang held its 
 terrors, but not for me. I could take the 
 world by the horns, as it were, and wrestle 
 it to the bent of my will. Also, I could hold 
 my own in a fight; but I was poor, and all 
 my people were poor; so this, Ben, was the 
 secret of the crash. Had I been rich like 
 the Perrvs. all would have been well with 
 the Tannerhills. Born up among the stars 
 on the snow-capped crest of the White 
 Mountains, we knew not the crooked ways 
 of the taloned financier, and so we were of 
 plebian cast! We were not of the blue 
 blood tribe like the saffron-faced and saf- 
 fron-livered Perrys. We were just common 
 dirt like the Tannerhills. Producers till- 
 ers of the soil were we. The language of 
 the Stock Exchange were Sanscrit to us: 
 but we knew how to do the useful things of 
 life, and life's labor, as we knew it, was a 
 joy, and we were happy.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 53 
 
 "But plain mountain dirt was not good 
 enough for their only daughter. For such 
 as she there must be found finer clay ! Down 
 in the town men wore neat-looking white 
 cuffs and black, shiny foot gear. Also they 
 curled their mustaches and talked fast and 
 loud. The pretty girls of the village wore 
 much fine raiment and worked seldom. This 
 was the place for Erma! Here she must 
 become refined and stately and dignified. 
 
 " 'She'd shine in a ballroom and them 
 fine gentlemen would look at her, I bet,' 
 her mother used to say. 
 
 " 'Cut out to be a lady sich as don't have 
 to work,' old Aunt Ellenor encouraged. 
 But Erma, mind you, had never been con- 
 sulted in the matter and possessed ideas of 
 her own that she thought best to confide 
 only to one she knew she could trust. 
 
 "The banker old man Perry was rich, 
 and this banker had a son. It was for him 
 that they murdered Erma, my Erma. Al- 
 though an imbecile, deformed and bald, 
 they had favored him, implanting hatred in 
 her young heart with such favor. But he 
 could sport many a white diamond and held 
 office in the Republican party. Also he 
 could get drunk, beastly drunk; and this 
 was the fine gentleman over in the village 
 that tried to court my Erma, and whom her 
 mother had picked for her to wed. For 
 this cancerous, parasitic offal, they pro- 
 ceeded to tear us asunder and from each 
 other's love, breaking our hearts Enna's
 
 54 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 and mine and when it must have been all 
 in vain, and forever too late. 
 
 "She never saw her child, Ben, this little 
 love mother this virgin purest of the 
 pure. She never saw the flowers again! 
 But when the silver clarion rings down the 
 pathway of the future in Freedom's joyous 
 reveille, there in the pantheons of Love and 
 Truth, and Virtue, shall men bare their 
 heads in reverence and sing of such as she, 
 whose chastity was not for price ; whose soul 
 was the fountain of love Humanity's God 
 and whose bosom rose and fell with the 
 surge of maternal grandeur. 
 
 "When the news was brought to me I 
 hurried to her fought my way to her. 
 They barred the door on me and I went 
 through it like a tornado. I was no fledg- 
 ling at twenty, Ben, and wise men hesitated 
 to oppose me. But they would not let me 
 see our child. They spirited it away. Of 
 course I could not stay. But the speck of 
 life would live, and the fire of life, virile 
 with the surge of health and purity the 
 heritage of a reciprocal and youthful love 
 would not go out. They tried to kill it, 
 and still it lived and thrived. They starved 
 it, but it stayed with them and in spite of 
 them. Then its tormentors hit upon a happy 
 medium ; they would freeze it to death ! Ah ! 
 the very thing ! Why had they not thought 
 of so simple a thing before! So they left 
 it on a doorstep a far drive from home and
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 55 
 
 in the night; but it's blood was red. It was 
 of that breed. Moreover, and to help thwart 
 their devilish purpose it would seem, a 
 winter thaw set in that very night; and 
 when the next morning the good farmer's 
 wife opened the door to sweep back the 
 snow, it put up its tiny red hands to 'go 
 to mamma,' and smiled up at her like a 
 beauty rose dropped in the snow. 
 
 "They were rid of it at last, the brat (so 
 they thought), but the neighbors knew! 
 They had heard, for it was in the country. 
 
 "Back it went again. Then the Smiths 
 got it and the town paid its board. 'Town 
 pauper,' it went down on the books. Later 
 old 'Spot' condemned it to go to the County 
 Farm. But in this last wanton crime I 
 baffled them. Leland had written at the 
 last minute and I rose like a revolution. I 
 swept them back and fled with my boy on 
 the very day they had him all bundled up 
 to go. It was like the pardon that comes in 
 the nick of time in the stories and moving 
 pictures. It was chance, mere accident, but 
 in that accidental coincidence of time, 
 thought and action, the whole future course 
 of a human life was changed, environed and 
 reconstructed. 
 
 "But, Ben, I am wearying you. This 
 letter is longer than I had planned, and yet 
 it is all too short. Briefly, I have told you 
 the story I denied you when we quarreled, 
 when you, with your childish superior as-
 
 56 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 sumption boasted of your devil charms and 
 your ancestral lineage, and called me names 
 because I shrank from telling the sad 
 secrets of my gloomy past. It is the story 
 of only one more of the heart-breaking, 
 home-wrecking crimes of riot-ruling Capi- 
 talism. Capitalism, the social criminal of 
 which men sing; for which men pray; and 
 for which men vote. It is but one more of 
 the millions of cold-blooded outrages of a 
 misguided civilization for which men shed 
 their blood; for which they fetter their 
 wives and children in slavery; from which 
 a nation gasps in poverty, leaving a pauper 
 heritage to the generations yet unborn 
 generations destined to be poorer than each 
 predecessor with a heritage stained with 
 the shame of every unspeakable crime in 
 the criminal category since the race began. 
 It is the story of how they broke two loving 
 hearts. It is the story of two broken homes. 
 It is the true story of how they murdered 
 as pure and as holy a virgin as ever 
 mothered a Jesus. And it is the tale of the 
 scattered fragments of their pious ravage 
 cast upon the four winds of a groaning 
 world. 
 
 "I have wandered over the earth in a 
 trance. I have made friends easily, for 
 they could read the open book; but I have 
 lost them more easily, for they could not 
 understand. 
 
 "My life and home ruined, with the es- 
 sence and goal of life destroyed, I fought
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON 57 
 
 the unequal fight. The odds were against 
 me. The dice were loaded, and with the 
 chasm of desolation ever yawning before 
 me, I have been but chaff in the tempest. 
 To-night, dear old pal, I am lonely, lonely, 
 and sad and blue. I am thinking of my 
 sweetheart my one love who sleeps over 
 the river and over the mountains. Far away 
 there in the old churchyard they laid her. 
 Under the weeping willows and among the 
 white stones she's resting with the kiss of 
 blessed peace upon her brow, and with the 
 kiss I pressed to her cold, white lips life's 
 last love token. 
 
 "I see again the smile she gave me at 
 the parting. It was her last. She wears 
 it still. It was her answer to my promise, 
 Ben, the promise I have kept for twenty 
 years, and which shall not now be broken. 
 Bless her trusting soul! She had faith 
 that we shall meet again among the flowers 
 and the wildwood in a new home among the 
 stars. Who shall blame her for this faith? 
 It was her early teaching, even as it was 
 mine. I will keep that promise, Ben, and 
 if, when I go, I shall find the dear one knew, 
 then I can meet her as when we parted; and 
 she shall know me then as she knew me in 
 the old days when we were young. 
 
 "I will not desecrate her dear memory 
 with a violation of her confidence. It was 
 not her wish, but mine that I make the sac- 
 rifice. When first her burning cheek fell 
 limp against my own, her round, white
 
 58 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 arms trembling on my neck, I kissed her 
 in her shining hair and spoke the words that 
 shall stand unmoved against the wrath of 
 man, and God, and Heaven and Hell. Here 
 are the words, Ben ; say them over and over 
 again, and if you live to grant my wish and 
 find my boy, call him to your side and teach 
 him the sacred words with all their grand 
 meaning: l l will ~be true, I will ~be true!' 
 
 "And now I long for the sound of the 
 night winds through the treetops, and the 
 smell of the sweet grasses where we roamed 
 and sang together. There lies buried my 
 world with my Erma. White lies her lily 
 bosom, whiter than the white snows above 
 it. There she waits for me, and I am going 
 home. 
 
 "Forgive me for running away from you, 
 Comrade, and now good-bye." 
 
 "JASON SANDS." 
 
 "P. S. Please try to get this package 
 out on the down mail at your first oppor- 
 tunity. I have addressed it to her brother, 
 who is my friend, Mr. Leland B. Tanner- 
 hill, the only survivor of the family. You 
 will find the dust to pay carry and postage 
 in a cartridge box at the foot of my bunk. 
 I have used your name as a return address 
 in case of non-delivery, and should it come 
 back to you, you preserve it and turn it 
 over to my boy should he ever turn up. His 
 name is Quimby Sands." 
 
 "JASON."
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 59 
 
 EKMA, 
 THE BELLE OF THE WILD WOOD. 
 
 (A Retrospection) 
 
 Belle of the Wildwood, my angel-haired Erma, 
 
 Nymph of the Fountain of Beauty to me ; 
 Mocking birds sigh for her sorrows and murmur 
 "Erma, sweet Erma, the belle of the lea." 
 
 Eyes like the stars in their blue-mantled glory, 
 
 Cheeks like the roses abloom in the snow ; 
 Telling again of the old pretty story, 
 Darling you loved me, you loved me I know. 
 
 Pictures appear on the screen oft returning, 
 Visions of paradise when you were near; 
 
 Ever my life with the love-fires aburning, 
 Erma, will cherish your memory dear. 
 
 Sadly the moon and the stars purple gleaming, 
 
 Lonely my exile wherever I roam ; 
 Oft as of old I return in my dreaming 
 Tearfully calling she beckons me home. 
 
 Nightly I weep by the camp-fire aglowing, 
 Whippoorwill calls to his mate in the dell ; 
 
 Driven forever to wander just knowing, 
 Erma, I love you, my fairy-haired belle.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE EVER PRESENT MENACE. 
 
 I have drunk of the strife 
 
 In the battle of life 
 From the chalice at Poverty's well; 
 
 In the blistering flare 
 
 Of the hell of despair 
 I have seen that my tongue may not tell \ 
 
 With the breaking of the knife, Jason 
 Sands did not fall down to be eaten by the 
 wolf-pack. 
 
 With the feeling in his left hand and arm 
 entirely gone, the time had come when he 
 must either try for the final climb, or else 
 give up and be torn to pieces alive. To give 
 up a fight once begun were the ethics of 
 weakness and spelt defeat and death. He 
 was not one of the giving-up kind. 
 
 Knowing that he was within reach of the 
 shelf, and that only a thin crust of ice lay 
 between him and safety, he had planned 
 with the dealing of that last terrific blow to 
 spring for the final landing, and at the 
 same time bring the axe up over and for- 
 ward in contact with the crust with enough 
 force to break it through. It was the act of 
 this combination of spring and double blow, 
 that had thrown the extra tension on the 
 thin steel. It snapped like glass; but the 
 trained will of a master mind defied the 
 
 (60)
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 61 
 
 shock, and as the ponderous hulk swayed 
 clear of the ice-wall, it shot forward and 
 upward, the free, right foot lodging square- 
 ly in the step made for it by the axe, as 
 both axe and arm to the elbow crashed 
 through the crust of the crevice, giving him 
 a full arm hold on the solid rock. 
 
 Thus the battle ended and he was safe 
 for the night, at least. 
 
 Jason paused in his new position and 
 rested long enough to smile down at the 
 defeated brutes with their fiery eyes in the 
 darkness there, then cleared the snow from 
 his bracket perch and took account of the 
 situation. There was his pack securely 
 strapped in its customary place on his back. 
 How it ever got there was beyond him. He 
 distinctly remembered having removed and 
 left it with his carbine and snowshoes when 
 before that last drink from the falls, and 
 the memory of it ended there. But here it 
 was, and in it there was moose meat cut 
 thin, and he was hungry. Also it contained 
 the five boxes of cartridges and his Indian 
 blanket. But his Savage was down there 
 on the ice, and the only ammunition availa- 
 ble was about fifty shots for the Auto- 
 matic. " That '11 help some," he said, 
 slipping off the bloody mitten and feeling 
 of the holster at his hip. He was silent a 
 moment, then fishing a quantity of the 
 moose meat from the pack, continued: "I 
 hate to disappoint you, you patient, saintly
 
 62 THE TOECH OF REASON. 
 
 dears, for I know you must be hungry after 
 such, violent exercise; but I'm not quite 
 ready yet, and if you'll stick around here 
 till morning, we'll open the show with a 
 farce comedy, and I'll sing you a sweet 
 lullaby all in one key, and one you forgot 
 to get down on the program." 
 
 The pain in his foot worried him not a 
 little; but he was hungry and spent, and 
 sick. The blood creeping back into the 
 paralyzed arm felt like ice water. He did 
 not look a last time to see if the green fire 
 balls were gleaming up at him; he knew 
 they were, without looking. He would not 
 hector them. Wait till morning ! He would 
 show them! 
 
 The shelf cleared of snow, and his un- 
 thinkable repast greedily devoured, though 
 it was frozen with the hardness of stone, 
 and with the Boreal batteries blazing their 
 Northern Lights above and the gray angels 
 of death keeping vigil below, he rolled him- 
 self in his warm blanket and slept. 
 
 The nights are long up under the North 
 Star, and Jason's sleep was not a peaceful 
 one. What with the events of the day how 
 could one be expected to sleep soundly! 
 With the repose of the conscious mind, came 
 the reign of the sub-conscious, or dream 
 mind. Strangely enough, he did not dream 
 of wolves not the fanged kind, the kind 
 that were waiting to eat him at the foot of 
 the cliff but he dreamed back down the
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 63 
 
 trail of the past, with all the long train of 
 disasters through the whole horrible laby- 
 rinth of his chance existence of crushing, 
 debasing toil. 
 
 Dreams with Jason Sands were no new 
 menace to trouble his peaceful slumbers. 
 When had he ever been free from them! 
 He had worked and worried and thought, 
 and fought, and failed! His brain had be- 
 come a veritable perpetual motion. It 
 would not stop thinking, and he could not 
 stop it. Asleep or awake it rambled on just 
 the same in spite of him. The machinery 
 of his brain seemed like the machinery of 
 the hosiery mills, and the weave rooms, and 
 the shoe factories in which he had worked. 
 There, when his day's work was done, 
 a night shift w^uld come on to operate 
 the machines in the factory, as the night 
 shift of demons came now to operate the 
 machinery of his brain. But the factories 
 and the machines were owned by others- 
 parasites who did no useful work ; while his 
 brain belonged to him, or ought to belong 
 to him, and why could not the torment cease 
 now that he had rebelled and become an 
 exile! Crudely, and in a vague way, he 
 knew the chemistry of the brain, and he 
 knew that all this everlasting nightmare of 
 somni-slavery was a result of long years of 
 servitude in wage-slavery under the lash 
 of hunger. Each separate brain cell had 
 received and retained these weary impres-
 
 64 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 sions as the dry plates of photography re- 
 ceive and retain impressions through the 
 lens of the camera. That's what the brain 
 was for to receive impressions then to de- 
 velop and direct the mind and body 
 accordingly. 
 
 He would close his eyes, and instantly the 
 power would come on, and away would fly 
 the pulleys, the gears and the belts. An- 
 other operator would step in and work his 
 tired brain through another long shift, and 
 things had gotten so he was powerless to 
 prevent it. Thoughts would flit rapidly one 
 after another, and with each shifting scene, 
 he could feel a twitching of the eyeballs. 
 This twitching of the eyeballs was more 
 than an annoyance, it was painful, and 
 brought on dull, sick headaches. He would 
 try to control his eyes, commanding them 
 to be still, and centering all his mental 
 forces on the effort; but success would be 
 only temporary, and presently the demons 
 of unrest would be turning at the cranks 
 again, and the twitching and jerking and 
 flitting would begin again, and the snap- 
 ping, crashing, buzzing sounds would get 
 back in his ears, to damn his every moment 
 with their diabolical activity. 
 
 Dreams! Dreams! Dreams! Oh! the 
 dreams and the pictures, and the visions 
 and the horrors, the noises, and the tears, 
 and the pain! And oh! the poverty, and 
 the pictures of the poverty! An endless
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 65 
 
 chain and endless moving picture film of 
 vivid flashes from scenes of life and death 
 that threatened to unbalance his mind and 
 drive him mad. 
 
 From a day's toil in the frozen earth he 
 would sink into his bunk of fir boughs, 
 eyes heavy and weary for sleep, but no 
 sleep would come to him. No sooner would 
 he stretch himself for the sleep his eyes 
 craved, than open they would pop, and open 
 they would stay, far into the night; while 
 his aching muscles and tired bones turned 
 and twisted and flopped and thrashed 
 around, as the whistles blew and the bells 
 clanged, and the street cars screeched and 
 ground around corners in the helter-skelter 
 chaos of muddled civilization. The more 
 the ache and pain, the more, it seemed, his 
 sleepy eyes rejected the very sleep he could 
 not live without. And then he would spring 
 up, light the grease lamp and shiver 
 through a pile of old manuscripts he had 
 written, rewritten, and which he ever found 
 himself rereading, rewriting, correcting and 
 revising, and tying up again. Some were 
 songs, songs of labor, and of labor's woes. 
 Some were baby lullaby s, and some were 
 love songs, tender and full of sweet appeal. 
 Other poems there were among them, and 
 stories, philosophy, science and letters of 
 address. This nightly task performed, he 
 would return to the bunk half frozen and 
 fall into a sleep that was not a sleep at all
 
 66 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 asleep in body, but with mind alert and 
 active to wake at dawn with lagging spir- 
 its, sodden, discouraged, and blue! 
 
 But these were moods. They came only 
 periodically, and it was while obsessed by 
 one of these unhappy broodings with its 
 reminiscences of sorrow, that the lure of 
 the old home had come upon him with a 
 force he could not resist. He knew it was 
 a weakness, but suffered himself to be 
 whelmed by it, and finally yielding to its 
 subtle wooings as a blind man yields to the 
 touch of a little child's hand. 
 
 On the trip to Dawson, he had planned 
 to camp only every other night, with hope 
 that the excessive strain of trail and pack 
 might break down the momentum of his 
 brain and induce sleep. He hoped to es- 
 cape the dreams, for he needed all his 
 strength for the long tramp over the snow. 
 Alas, he was doomed to failure in this fond 
 hope like all others ; for no sooner were the 
 scenes of the day just ended shut out, than 
 came galloping on the heels of the wolf 
 fight, the whole miserable phantasmagoria 
 of infernal horrors, associated here and 
 there with a glint of joy and beauty, the 
 more to aggravate the pestilence of the 
 black drama. 
 
 Strangely enough, the joy pictures were 
 the first on the program. A boy again, he 
 was playing yacht race on the white sandy 
 shores of Squam Lake, sending out his toy
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 67 
 
 canoes with their birch-bark sails, under 
 the frowning visage of old Bald Ledge. 
 There were the two "Kattlesnakes," tower- 
 ing, like the nude nipples of some adaman- 
 tine goddess, basking in the summer sun- 
 shine, or lying dormant in her crystal robes 
 of brumal splendor. He was a strapping 
 youth, and it was autumn. The corn was 
 yellow, and the vast maple forests were 
 dreamily nodding their tinted tresses to the 
 drowsy year. The eagle soared higher in 
 his dizzy round above the mountain, and 
 there was cider-making at the old Smith 
 mill. 
 
 On Ace Enos' Point he was hunting 
 squirrels with old Bob, or lining bees with 
 Arthur Godfrey, and rolling rocks from the 
 top of West Hill through Steve Bennett's 
 sap house, for the mischief that was in him, 
 and that had to come out of him. 
 
 And still on went the dream. The roar 
 of the little river did not disturb him, and 
 the pain in his swollen foot was forgotten 
 along with the wolf fight and the frost. He 
 was transported far from the jagged cliff 
 where his tired body rested, and in fancy 
 once again he was at the Red Gate, splash- 
 ing home through the rain with his brothers 
 from The Bridge. A vision of the Otter 
 Islands came next. There were his 
 brothers, wrecked, and he was flying to the 
 rescue! The lake was afoam and the sky 
 black and lowering. With blanket and pad-
 
 68 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 die he was running for his canoe, Omar and 
 Sam heading him off for fear of his life, 
 while the storm increased in fury, and the 
 boys clung manfully to the wave-swept reef. 
 
 So far it was not an important dream. 
 He was familiar with all this thing, but it 
 went merrily on as dreams have a habit of 
 doing, and as moving pictures are thrown 
 on a screen by the biograph. There was 
 Uel Bragg 's tribe, first, second, and third 
 crops. And his fox hounds that hunted 
 rabbits, and his rabbit hounds that ran only 
 foxes. There were many mouths in this 
 tribe : Frank and Ben and Joe and Mamie, 
 Emma, Alice, Fred and' Harry, Hannah, 
 Bob, Pink and Bogy, Spot and Spiver! 
 And a dozen or so more he could not recall 
 twenty-three in all oh, yes! and the 
 "Nimshi!" But they were a good lot of 
 kids, he decided, only full of the devil, as 
 the old man used to say, and hard to keep 
 track of especially the "Nimshi." Used 
 to bore their ears, Uel told the neighbors, 
 and made them wear a tin tag with a num- 
 ber on it, so he could tell when they were 
 all at home at night. 
 
 Whisk! He was over to Carrie Page's 
 (dear, dear Carrie!), in her hillside home, 
 where all were welcome and where all was 
 free. There was Charles Densmore, old 
 Ezra, and the Old Squaw under the trees 
 by the boulder. Down the dusty road was 
 the old schoolhouse. It was recess time,
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 69 
 
 and there was Winnie, with her winsome 
 ways and wisdom, and her vari-hued brood 
 of chattering human chicks. * * * To 
 the bonfire on the ice. The skating party, 
 and the crowds of rustic youths and hoary 
 patriarchs. He was cutting fancy scrolls 
 with Mamie Smith and the Piper girls- 
 Nina and Lil and, oh, the jealousy of 
 Johnny Reynolds! Now he was leading 
 Otis Scruton and "Long-legs" Charlie a 
 merry race around Croag's island, while 
 Oilman Thompson smoked his T. D., and 
 passed the cider to Frank Marsh and Elder 
 Sinkler, with Jennie and Alice leading in 
 the merriment and song. * * * 
 
 Down to John's. Up to Susan-Marl's. 
 A Euchre party at Carry- Ann's Euchre, 
 Pitch, and Seven-up with Nina nudging 
 under the table, and Gilpin slipping the 
 Joker to Hen, Warren Leivitt "rubbering," 
 and "Cud" Wilder keeping tally. That 
 was twenty-five years ago, before Sue 
 Jones' girls were married off, and when 
 there was peace and quiet in the land, and 
 the farmers were happy and free. 
 
 And now it was a dance. Ah! the coun- 
 try dances! Over at John Downings, on 
 the Neck. At the Harbor. Up to The 
 Bridge. Away to Hardback on a hay ride. 
 A husking at Frank Jewell's. Here he was 
 again, living over all the old times, singing 
 the old songs and dancing the old inspiring 
 dances with the same old-fashioned maid-
 
 70 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 ens, with their freckled necks and freckled 
 noses, the rosy glow of rural health and 
 rampant beauty in their round, hard 
 cheeks. The fiddler in the entry rasping 
 out "A Turkey in the Straw," and beating 
 a rhythmic "thump, thump, thump," with 
 his cowhide boot, at the same time calling 
 off: "Barlance yer pardner'n swing up 
 7 n daown th' center awl hands 
 'round." Eawny Fred Killyard prying 
 himself around a ten-foot circle, one foot 
 stationary, the other doing the prying, after 
 the manner of a spring cockrel in a pullet 
 pen, and taking with him in a mad embrace, 
 little Bosie Brown, her feet a full yard off 
 the floor. Oh, the freckles and the frolic! 
 The apples and the cider! The red ear of 
 corn and the kiss behind the door! Oh, the 
 yesterday of life! Oh, the sweet, sad 
 visions made sadder by their very sweet- 
 ness of the joyous days of these recrudes- 
 cent transpositions amid the silent scenes 
 of wasted years, years that can never come 
 back again never, never more! 
 
 Following all of which there came an- 
 other dream another vision. It were a 
 mercy if only it might have been but a 
 dream a vision. The picture came rapidly 
 in regular order off the reel, flashed vivid 
 and unerring on the mental canvas with all 
 the realism of this wonderful mutoscopic 
 sub-consciousness, and it came this night 
 as it had come a thousand times before to
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 71 
 
 torture him and scourge him on toward his 
 grave: The divine form and radiant fea- 
 tures and sweet womanly grace of one too 
 pure and true for life in a cruel world of 
 beastly immorality and tinseled fraud. He 
 saw again the liquid, hazel eyes with their 
 heavy, dark lashes, beaming upon him full 
 of love and beauty. He stretched forth his 
 hands for the warm, soft press of the tender 
 hands that used to fondle his tangled locks 
 while he laved his greedy soul in the lavish 
 gift of her girlish wif ehood. It was the old 
 hope of home and happiness that for twenty 
 empty years had hungered his famished 
 life, rustling dryly in his broken heart, like 
 autumn leaves that cling on icy boughs in 
 winter to rustle coldly in the sleet and wind. 
 
 Again he saw himself the round, rose- 
 cheeked youth, asurge with the red fluid- 
 fire of his nomadic strain, arm in arm, 
 cheek to cheek, and heart to heart with this 
 stainless rural beauty, basking in the hal- 
 lowed sunshine of each other's wholesome 
 love. All was hope. All was love. All was 
 promise, and his faith in man and God had 
 not been scant nor shaken. Flushed with 
 youth and health, and conscious of a mod- 
 est, manly pride both in himself and in his 
 sweet, young bride, all the world was beau- 
 tiful and filled with joy and plenty. * * * 
 
 And then came the old crash ! 
 
 The world stopped, gasped, trembled in 
 space then burst asunder! The heavens
 
 72 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 fell down and the earth shot up to meet 
 them ! Crashing and smashing they fell to- 
 gether, and the dream went on. The stars, 
 in a fusing meteoric galaxy of sputtering, 
 sizzling fire, went spilling out over the 
 world, mingling with the mangled frag- 
 ments of human hearts, crushed, and torn 
 and bleeding, and all festooned with gilded 
 crosses and broken swords. Books with 
 brassen clasps and with pages loose and 
 fluttering, pages red with the blood of 
 virgins, were being swept along into a great 
 whirlpool together with red-labeled bottles 
 from which spurted redder wines and yel- 
 low liquors. Bald-headed priests were 
 trampling on the upturned faces of crying 
 children. Mighty-muscled workingmen 
 were beating back pussy, hog-like creatures 
 in smooth black broad-cloth, who were 
 snatching bread from the mouths of pale- 
 faced women and naked babes. 
 
 And still the merciless Gehenna persisted. 
 With the suffocating fumes of burnt pow- 
 der choking him, a stream of white-hot 
 metal poured through him from a cannon's 
 mouth behind his back, worlds, rolling and 
 tumbling through burning ether, swirled 
 and curved and met in mid-air. Moun- 
 tains shook and crumbled to dust. Lakes 
 boiled and stood on end. The mighty ocean 
 was sucked up into space and spilled out 
 over the world with all the live sea monsters 
 and fishes shredded to pulp and wriggling
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 73 
 
 in the throes of death. Forest trees hurri- 
 caned through the blistering tempest roots 
 uppermost; and into this stifling cata- 
 clysmic caldron where fetid smoke curled 
 in inky billows shot through with incessant 
 flames of tongued lightning, Jason Sands 
 was pinioned, helpless, speechless, and 
 alone ! 
 
 Consciousness left him. Down he sank 
 into the boiling mass, down, down, for a 
 million years! Then he was alive again. 
 His ears caught far soft sounds. A spirit 
 hand, cool and gentle, bathed his scorched 
 forehead. Something touched his rigid lips 
 and left a drop of sweetest nectar there. 
 He opened his eyes, and there, beaming 
 down upon him sweetly but sadly stood the 
 one divine figure, and when he smiled she 
 stretched her white arms out to him in 
 silent longing. He could see her clearly 
 now. The sun was shining on her glorious 
 head, the promise of a sacred love oft re- 
 peated still radiating from the windows 
 of her dear soul. Surely he was not dead, 
 for it was Erma ! But at that moment came 
 a great shock greater than all others which 
 had gone before. The earth staggered, 
 heaved and was parted at their feet, leav- 
 ing a great and widening gulf between 
 them. On the brink of the black maw she 
 stood wildly calling. His heart was being 
 torn as with talons. But he could not go 
 her, and she could not come to him! * * 
 
 * *
 
 74 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 There was a movement on the shelf in 
 the cliff. A great red hand pushed back the 
 folds of a frosted blanket. Eyes stared up 
 into the blood-red sunshine eyes that were 
 sunken, and sad, and wet with icy tears. 
 Minutes passed and there was no further 
 movement. The eyes glared bewilderingly, 
 the hand fingered the soft, mealy snow, and 
 then the huge form of Jason Sands sat 
 erect. The next instant he was on his feet. 
 Bending over the cliff he looked down where 
 the night before he had hovered between 
 life and death. The wolves were gone ! Not 
 one remained. 
 
 " Clear case of cold feet," he said, "I 
 wish they had waited for me ! Providence, 
 your discipline is lax, and your emissaries 
 are becoming unruly." 
 
 The awakened dreamer was not long in 
 deciding what to do. His foot was badly 
 swollen and paining him. It needed imme- 
 diate attention, but the best he could do was 
 to loosen his mocassin and hurry to the 
 Porks where stood Frank Durgen's old 
 cabin, and where he could have heat and 
 shelter. There he would hold up for a day 
 or two and give it proper dressing. 
 
 The weather had moderated, and the first 
 faint hint of breaking winter was in the 
 air. 
 
 At the Forks, he found the cabin occu- 
 pied by an Indian a small young squaw. 
 Her man, she said, had gone to Dawson for
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 75 
 
 grub, and she was looking for him to return 
 every day. They had run out of flour two 
 months back, and the Canadian half-breed 
 had packed the dust and left her, promising 
 to be back with the supplies in fourteen 
 days. It was three hundred miles, with 
 spring trail and open country. 
 
 "Took the dust with him, did he?" re- 
 peated Jason after the guileless squaw. 
 Then he changed the subject abruptly. 
 That, then, was the secret of it! But he 
 had not the heart to tell her, for he saw 
 that her trust in the scoundrel was still un- 
 shaken, and he could afford to be merciful. 
 
 She would go to Dawson to look him up ! 
 In fact, she was packed and ready to start 
 when Jason arrived. 
 
 "All right," he said, "take this letter 
 with you and I will give you much dust. I 
 would go, too, but" and he pointed to his 
 swollen foot and the Indian knew. Open- 
 ing his pack Jason poured her two hands 
 full and heaped them up, from a sack of 
 yellow gold a full thousand dollars. 
 
 "There," he said, "this is yours. Find 
 the doctor and lay this letter in his hands. 
 And see," he admonished her, "many days 
 must I suffer great trouble. Dawson is very 
 far." The simple child of Nature read his 
 meaning ere he had spoken ; and turning on 
 her tiny snowshoes bade him keep watch 
 and said:
 
 76 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "Toy bring Long Hair, sure, quick! Toy 
 no 'fraid. Big Snow count sleep small 
 (holding up her ten fingers), Indian foot 
 much swift." With this she was gone, and 
 the man of many troubles was alone. 
 
 Ten days later Dr. Spanto and Jack 
 Philips, accompanied by the young squaw, 
 and with an outfit of twelve husky dogs 
 and a well-laden sled, pulled into the Forks. 
 It had snowed, but there were no tracks 
 outside the little log hut. 
 
 In his early days Spanto had house- 
 boated the Mississippi River from St. Louis 
 to the Gulf of Mexico; and in those days 
 the happiest of his life he would main- 
 tain he had first met Jack Philips and 
 Jason Sands. Later, they had met in Daw- 
 son, Jason bound for a mythical El Dorado 
 as yet undiscovered, and farther to the 
 North, while the happy Spanto was con- 
 tent, as he put it, to "fry his bacon and 
 wallop his dodger in his own skillet, and 
 over a fire of his own making." And in 
 Dawson City he preferred to mine the miner 
 moderately in return for his profes- 
 sional skill, to the more arduous methods 
 of pick and fire-hole. Jason had not seen 
 him in four years; but he knew him to be 
 a true blue friend and comrade, and if 
 still in the north country Toy would find 
 him and he would move heaven and earth 
 to come to his aid. 
 
 Jack Philips was also a Socialist, one of 
 the kind that can usually be found working
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 77 
 
 at it. Also he was a close friend of Jason's, 
 and when the doctor told him of their old 
 friend's plight, Philips threw down every- 
 thing and joined the rescue party in the 
 three-hundred-mile race with death. 
 
 Jason and Philips had met in St. Louis, 
 and, although they disagreed on about 
 everything with the exception of Social- 
 ism, they railroaded together between St. 
 Louis and Kansas City, and became firm 
 friends. And now here they were meeting 
 again in this God-forgotten corner of the 
 world, after many years and many hard- 
 ships in the individual strife for life. 
 
 After seeing the squaw on her way, Jason 
 turned his attention to his wounded foot. 
 Removing mocassin and socks he was horri- 
 fied at the sisrht. Also the r>ain multiplied 
 a thousand fold with the free circulation 
 and the warm of the fireplace. At first 
 sierht of the dark purple gash he felt the 
 color recede from his face and he knew he 
 was going to faint. There was a nasty 
 sickness at the pit of his stomach and he 
 was weak and vacillating. "Blood poison!" 
 he said aloud. "And probahlv rabies, and 
 possiblv lockiaw!" Jason Sands had seen 
 this thing before, and "he knew the route of 
 the victim of mad wolf -bite. 
 
 Tn the half-breed's bunk he found raw 
 tobacco. This he soaked in hot water and 
 bound on the wound: but the next dav the 
 foot was worse, and then he soaked the 
 foot in hot water, the next thing in line
 
 78 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 to do ; but on the fifth day it began to turn 
 black, and then he literally boiled the flesh 
 from the bones! 
 
 When on the tenth day after the fleet- 
 footed Indian girl had gone on her flying 
 errand, she returned with help and stormed 
 into the little shack, it was a pitiful sight 
 that met their horrified gaze! The cabin 
 was poorly lighted, and it was some mo- 
 ments before their "snow eyes" accustomed 
 themselves to the sudden change. The doc- 
 tor was the first inside the door, and at his 
 first step he put his foot on something that 
 moved under his weight and nearly threw 
 him. A lighted match revealed a naked 
 human foot! The desperate miner had 
 waited until the last minute, and then, with 
 his pocket knife, he had amputated the 
 wounded foot at the ankle and tossed it 
 toward the door! 
 
 Juarez Spanto was an Aztec Indian. 
 Born in Old Mexico, he was a lineal de- 
 scendant from the once great and powerful 
 tribe of that name, which ruled that 
 southern empire in the days before the 
 Spanish conquest. He was a finely knit 
 specimen of the now rapidly disintegrating 
 breed, of medium height and with glossy 
 black hair that hung in massive waves below 
 his square shoulders. The practice of medi- 
 cine with him was a pastime. He had in- 
 herited the love of it from his semi-savage 
 forebears. It was the Science of Herbs, and
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 79 
 
 there was an herb for the cure of every ill. 
 When he saw what Jason had done he was 
 furious; but later agreed that, in all prob- 
 ability, and in the absence of the more 
 scientific treatment, it was the only imme- 
 diate means of relief, and that it had saved 
 the man's life. 
 
 "I suppose the Christian Scientists would 
 have us believe that there was never any- 
 thing very seriously wrong with the foot, 
 and that a little heavy thinking would have 
 been sufficient to restore the foot as good as 
 new, 'eh, Jack?" challenged the Physicist. 
 
 "The Christian Scientist mav be off his 
 trolley in some respects, like all the rest of 
 us ; there are few perfect in this world. But 
 I am of the opinion that he would deny the 
 necessity of hacking off that foot, and I 
 think T should agree with him," replied the 
 unruffled Jack. 
 
 "I believe," ventured Jason, "they claim 
 that 'good' is everything powerful, and 
 that everything else is what they term 
 ' error.' Therefore they might be expected 
 to say, that, although the wolf had bitten 
 the font, the flesh being 'error' a 'temporal 
 unreality' must have surrendered to 
 'good.' which is all powerful, being 'reality,' 
 and 'infinite.' They could, on that assump- 
 tion, reason that, the result of the bite could 
 not have been serious owing to the fact that 
 the bite being simply contact of tooth with 
 flesh, and that both being 'error matter,'
 
 80 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 and therefore 'unreality,' must have been 
 subordinate to 'good' which reposes in the 
 mind." 
 
 " There are many so-called ills," re- 
 sponded Jack, "that are merely an un- 
 natural condition of mind." 
 
 Neither Jason nor the doctor seemed as 
 yet fully converted to the think-remedy 
 "faith, and the doctor sacreligiously offered 
 the suggestion that, had the man fallen 
 down among the several hundred ferocious 
 beasts, and had they deigned to connect 
 their many-fanged "error" with his one 
 flesh "error," according to past history 
 anent the reputation of the wolf, it must 
 have required some hot stepping on the part 
 of his mental "divinity" to dissuade them 
 and convince them of the "error" of their 
 ways! 
 
 The Jason told a story on the Christian 
 Scientists: "One day," he said, "there 
 were two little girls at play, when the 
 mother of one of the little girls called to 
 her. 'I must go,' said she, 'for papa is 
 sick, and mamma needs me.' 'Aw, he ain't 
 sick,' encouraged the other, 'he only thinks 
 he's sick!' 
 
 "The next day the two little girls met 
 again, meanwhile the man had died. 'How 
 is your papa to-day?' sympathetically 
 inquired the one whose people were 
 ' scientists. '
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 81 
 
 " 'Oh!' replied the other, tears filling 
 her swollen eyes, 'he just thinks he's 
 dead!" 
 
 But Jack Philips, with his new-found 
 "bug" theories, as Jason characterized 
 them, was honest, and his fealty to the 
 cause they both loved was none the less 
 manifest and sincere because of their re- 
 ligious discrepancies. In this particular 
 faith, like all the faiths, creeds, and doc- 
 trines that had attached themselves to the 
 race and found favor, he knew Jack was 
 but a seeker after the truth, and that his 
 present philosophy of life false or true 
 was simply a transition through which 
 eventually he would pass, and which 
 would land him high and dry above the fog. 
 For Philips was a thinker, as well as a 
 doer, and possessed a big, broad intellect, 
 and a generous, loving heart. He loved all 
 mankind with the genuine love of a brother, 
 a friend, and a comrade, and with a love 
 that was constant and real. More men like 
 Jack Philips could only result in making 
 the world a better and a sweeter place in 
 which to live. The great goodness and faith 
 of this simple-hearted boy-man only the 
 more seemed to bear Jason out in his theory 
 that, man, to-day, is not the man he desires 
 to be, and that he will be under conditions 
 more compatible with his ideals and aspira-
 
 82 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 tions. He believed man is ever hopeful of 
 the future. That he has ever striven for a 
 goal which is an idealism wherein want 
 shall be unknown, and where every man 
 may look squarely in the eyes of every 
 other man, knowing he is his friend. 
 
 Before amputating the foot, Jason had 
 thrown an extremely effective tourniquet 
 on his leg just below the knee with the raw- 
 hide lacing of his mocassin. This precau- 
 tion had saved his life. He had not acted 
 in time in the heroic application of the 
 knife, and the poison had reached the thick 
 muscles of his calf before he performed the 
 operation at the ankle. The flesh was the 
 color of creosote. The eye of the trained 
 physician and physicist needed but one 
 swift look. Flashing a silent threat at 
 Philips, he motioned Toy forward with his 
 long instrument case. With a few positive 
 orders to her, he turned to Philips with 
 sweet serenity but firmness withal and com- 
 manded: "Jack, the wafty stuff don't go. 
 Cut it out! Steady, now, there's not a 
 minute to lose!" And Jack was silent. 
 
 When three months later the Aurora 
 blew her screechy whistle, for "all aboard 
 for down river," four passengers, the last 
 to go on board, hustled up the gangplank 
 together. The man in the lead wore 
 crutches of enormous size, and his hair was 
 the color of pure, white silk. Also his left 
 trousers' leg was pinned up at the knee.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 83 
 
 The man was too big and wide for the gang- 
 way, and had to edge his way between the 
 narrow railings sidewise. The next in line 
 was a big, jolly, good-looking boy-man with 
 laughing eyes and a handsome double row 
 of pearl white teeth set in a generous mouth 
 above a square, strong jaw. His every look 
 and movement bespoke manliness, courage, 
 and great strength. Immediately behind 
 him came a tall, spring- jointed, soldierly 
 looking man with long black hair and 
 swarthy skin; and following close on his 
 heels came a small, pretty featured and 
 neatly attired woman. She was also 
 swarthy, but less swarthy than the man 
 with the long hair, and her great dark, sen- 
 suous eyes and rose-tinted cheeks, belied 
 the purity of the Indian blood and clearly 
 reflected the infusion of the Spanish strain. 
 
 A great throng had pressed to the water's 
 edge, for Dawson City was celebrating a 
 wedding! God-speeding honeymooners re- 
 quires much rice and many old boots; and 
 though rice sold at a dollar a pound in 
 Dawson, the quantity available was copious, 
 and littered the deck along with the old 
 boots until the footing in that quarter be- 
 came extremely perilous. It was an eager 
 sea of faces that clamored for a last look 
 at the happy couple, and it was not without 
 difficulty that the big boy-man finally per- 
 suaded the blushing Toy and grinning 
 Spanto to appear at the starboard rail, as
 
 84 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 the little stern-wheeler slued into the cur- 
 rent and headed for the salt water two 
 thousand miles away. 
 
 It was the month of August. The brief 
 northern summer was at an end, and the 
 more brief autumn was drearily dreaming 
 out its evanescent reign. 
 
 To all but Jason Sands the trip down the 
 wild Yukon was a delightful and romantic 
 caprice. There was a time when to him it 
 also would have been delightful; but that 
 was when he was a whole man and possessed 
 two legs and as many feet to walk on. Now 
 what was he but the relic of his former self 
 a dereliction? It was all the same to 
 him now. Each day was like its prede- 
 cessor, and hours were so many cogs in the 
 wheel of Time. 
 
 To the dare-devil Spanto, it revived vast 
 recollections of other days days of his 
 early exploits and adventures on his house- 
 boat in company with Billy Kirkendoll on 
 the riotous waters of the Old Mississippi. 
 Jack Philips was full of sunshine and op- 
 timism, and the passengers were uproar- 
 ously entertained with his jovial compan- 
 ionship and inexhaustible wealth of wit and 
 good stories. The little bride was radiant 
 and happy. Her other man had lost all 
 their dust on a game of chance in a gamb- 
 ling hell, and then lost his miserable life 
 in a fight. When she went to the Mexican 
 Spanto and related the circumstances, he
 
 'To all but Jason Sands, the trip down the wild Yukon was a 
 delightful and romantic caprice."
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 85 
 
 looked long and thoughtfully into the 
 brightly burning embers of his warm fire, 
 and a dark cloud gathered on his brow. 
 Then, laying a hand gently on the bowed 
 head before him said, simply: "Toy, come! 
 I will be your man, and you shall be my 
 Toy. You are good. I have much dust. 
 We will be comrades." Whereupon the 
 diminutive daughter of the wild dried her 
 eyes, and fetching her blanket, laid it on 
 his bed. 
 
 But poor Jason! He was an object of 
 pity! He would sit for hours on deck, 
 gazing steadily with a far-off look in his 
 paternal eyes, oblivious to all save the 
 anguish that ate into his heart and that was 
 eating the heart out of him. In spite of 
 all the rest of the little party could do to 
 cheer him, he seemed constantly growing 
 dispirited and morose. As the days went 
 by, he became the very embodiment of dis- 
 suasion and sadness. " Brace up," Jack 
 Philips would chirrup, " forget it, old boy, 
 the blues don't get you anything, only 
 nearer Salt Creek, and this craft ain't head- 
 ing right to fetch that harbor; so come out 
 of it, Comrade, and let's have a song." 
 
 "Think of it," chimed in the doctor one 
 day, "only for little Toy,' here, you would 
 not be with us now. But here you are, a 
 million times better than a dead man, and 
 we are not going to desert you. We will 
 see you through in safety, and you are
 
 86 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 going to be with us when we take the world 
 from the thieves who have stolen it, and 
 when we usher in the Co-operative Com- 
 monwealth." 
 
 But Jason understood. And the more 
 they tried to jolly him along, the deeper his 
 grief sunk him in the quagmire of despond- 
 ency. It seemed there was no escape for 
 him, for the crew, and all the other pas- 
 sengers got the habit, and no one could pass 
 him without parroting that detestable 
 "brace up!" "Cheer up!" "Be jolly!" 
 "Forget it!" "Smile!" "Remember there 
 are others worse off than you!" "Laugh 
 and the world laughs with you!" and all 
 that garrulity of fools. 
 
 "How in hell can a man laugh?" 
 
 It was a beautiful afternoon, all hands 
 were seated aft, the little boat coughing 
 merrily along, when at a bizzare outburst 
 of laughter from some of the crew, Jason 
 turned to Jack Philips and literally took 
 his breath away with the foregoing explo- 
 sive interrogation. For a moment the 
 happy-hearted Jack was speechless. The 
 Mexican shot a swift glance at Toy, and 
 that humiliate child of piety suppressed a 
 little scream, and looked generously tol- 
 erant but mildly reproachful at Jason 
 Sands. 
 
 "Oh! Big Snow," she chided, "Toy no 
 hear Big Snow talk fire-talk before. Toy 
 no like fire-talk. Please, Big Snow, try
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 87 
 
 laugh small. No be sorry. Toy sorry! 
 Great Padra much sorry!" 
 
 Here the little tamed wildling crossed 
 herself, and came and knelt beside Jason's 
 chair. 
 
 "You are right, Toy," he said, "and I 
 am sorry right now; for it is not manly to 
 use so great an invention as the language 
 of the human tongue in wasteful, senseless 
 phrases. Besides, Toy, you believe that God 
 heard me swear, and that he is worried 
 about the welfare of my wicked soul ? And 
 that if I am good, and don't swear, we shall 
 all meet in the Happy Game Preserve up 
 yonder where there is plenty dust and much 
 big hunting; eh, Toy?" The unsophisti- 
 cated Toy looked up at the cruel jester 
 wide-eyed, and with the joy of conquest 
 beaming from an unsullied soul and nodded ! 
 
 "Poor little wounded birds," he thought, 
 "how easily their gilded wings are broken; 
 but their superstitions and prejudices 
 never! Oh, the obeisance of a blind belief I 
 Alas for the fetish of faith, and the igno- 
 rance, and the false teaching!" The kind- 
 hearted man of sorrows laid a hand on her 
 raven-black hair and spoke to her in pure 
 charity: "Toy, you have made me under- 
 stand. I shall be a better man. When I 
 die and go to Heaven I shall tell the 
 good saints of you, and how you made your 
 little feet fly to save my life; and if I 
 should happen to be the first to go, I will
 
 88 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 tell the Great Padra that you are very good 
 and are coining too. And now you run and 
 sit beside Doc, for he's beginning to be 
 sorry too!" 
 
 Turning to Philips with feigned impa- 
 tience, but without repeating the question, 
 he demanded, naively: "Why don't you 
 answer, Jack?" 
 
 "It's easy enough to laugh, Comrade, the 
 world is beautiful and life is sweet, and 
 everything would look bright to us if only 
 we had love in our hearts. Look at me. I 
 love everybody and everything, and every- 
 body loves me. It was the teaching of the 
 Nazarene." The doctor "huhed," audibly, 
 and Toy fidgeted in evident anticipation of 
 a volcanic eruption from that direction and 
 Jack went on: 
 
 "You see, Comrade," he said, "hate has 
 ruled the world so long that all mankind 
 has come to look upon life as a fight, and 
 we hear much about 'the struggle for life.' 
 Men meet, not as brothers, but as enemies- 
 antagonists. As if there were not room 
 enough in the world for all of us to live in 
 peace and amid plenty! I am a Socialist, 
 because I recognize the injustice of the 
 capitalist system, and the inevitability of 
 its downfall and the establishment of the 
 more sane and equitable system of co-opera- 
 tive human endeavor. But there is no rea- 
 son why we who know the causes of things, 
 as well as the remedy and the method of
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 89 
 
 / 
 
 the application of that remedy, should cling 
 longer to the old hate philosophy. Love 
 will accomplish much more good for the 
 cause than can be achieved by any other 
 method." 
 
 "How about the fellow I catch picking 
 my pockets?" fumed the Aztec. "How 
 about the conscienceless degenerate who 
 violates my confidence and my friendship? 
 How about that rat-eyed cur that dragged 
 her (pointing to Toy) from her people, 
 beat and starved her, then finally shook her 
 three hundred miles from nowhere, went on 
 a drunk and to an unmarked grave? Ex- 
 pect a sane man to love cattle of that stripe? 
 I tell you it is unnatural and impossible. 
 A cada malo su did malo!" 
 
 "You are right, Doc, and you are wrong. 
 It is true, as you say, that, 'the evil doer 
 shall know his evil day.' But in the sur- 
 rendering of the point, my position only 
 becomes the stronger. Listen: I am not a 
 believer in the crime of punishment. Man 
 does not commit evil from choice, but be- 
 cause of necessity, or what he imagines to 
 be necessity. Evil is not of human nature 
 but of Inhuman nature. It is the beast-man 
 and not the god-man at riot in the china- 
 shop of human morals. Man is ever fleeing 
 away from the Beast. He is ever seeking 
 higher levels. 'The evil conscience needs 
 no accuser;' and the evil day of the evil 
 doer shall be the day when he reviews his
 
 90 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 shameful handiwork in the light of truth 
 and reason." 
 
 "But there are some men, I tell you, who 
 are absolutely devoid of conscience. Right 
 and wrong to them has become simply a 
 question of, 'how much will it pay.' Morals 
 don't enter into the deal at all. It is simply 
 a viewpoint, anyway, an economic view- 
 point, focused from a selfish angle. These 
 men are a menace to society; do you mean 
 to tell me that you want such men to run 
 at large, and that they should not be 
 punished?" 
 
 "Man is a creature of environment, Doc, 
 and his course in life is shaped by his con- 
 tact with life, not from the inner promp- 
 tings of his better nature. He is molded 
 from without, not from within. Eead 
 Twain's 'What is Man?' 
 
 "No, I do not believe in punishment. We 
 have been punished too much already 
 usually for the crimes of others. A man 
 cannot be blamed for fighting for his life. 
 For he finds himself being fought, and until 
 the cause of the fight is removed, the fight 
 will go on, and on, and he who will not 
 fight must submit to inevitable annihilation. 
 But he who fights for more than life fights 
 in ignorance, and he should be suppressed 
 and educated, not punished. Under a sane 
 and equitable arrangement of industrial 
 and economic co-operation, he would not
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 91 
 
 need to fight; so, instead of strife and hate, 
 his course would be governed by peace and 
 love." 
 
 "Oh, I understand all that. Say, you 
 make me tired! You always run away off 
 on a round-about rampage among a lot of 
 parenthetical sidetracks, to begin expound- 
 ing Socialism to me! As if I were not a 
 Socialist already, but some ignorant chief 
 justice, senator or professor, or even a 
 Roosevelt ! What I cannot understand, and 
 what you have a habit of dodging, is, how 
 you can expect we are to love and treat 
 gently, the brutal fiend who interferes with 
 our personal efforts to earn an honest liv- 
 ing. I know it is the capitalist system 
 which brutalizes men all of us more or 
 less the whole race. But if one of the more 
 brutal and ignorant of the beasts oozes a 
 stilletto down the back of my neck and 
 takes my watch and dust, I want you to 
 explain to me by what process of mental 
 hypnotism I may so twist the law of self- 
 defense as to excite in me a great and undy- 
 ing love for this particular human hyena?'* 
 
 "Very well, old boy, I will tell you once 
 for all, and if you will follow me closely, 
 then think it over for a long time seri- 
 ously, now, Doc you will see that I am 
 right, and instead of hating this poor, weak 
 brother, you will come to pity, and even to 
 love him. You will find yourself reaching 
 out to him with the torch of reason, just
 
 92 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 as I am doing. This is Love conquering the 
 world Love, the God of Humanity." 
 
 At this point Jason began to exhibit un- 
 mistakable signs of a deep, and growing in- 
 terest in the discussion an interest such as 
 he had not manifested in anything since 
 the loss of his good left leg. He liked 
 Philips, but he had never been able to see 
 through this love-of-an-enemy logic, and he 
 was all attention now that it was about to 
 be laid bare. 
 
 The little boat had passed Fort Yukon, 
 which is the junction of the Yukon and 
 Porcupine rivers, where the waters widen 
 out into what amounts almost to a shallow 
 lake, long and narrow, and filled with small 
 islands for a distance of ten or more miles. 
 This lake-like stretch of sluggish water is 
 called "The Flats," or, more properly 
 speaking, "Yukon Flats." Navigation 
 through "The Flats" is always considered 
 a dangerous procedure at best. The hun- 
 dreds of sand bars are constantly shifting, 
 and it is not an infrequent occurrence for 
 steamers to scrape their bottoms on these 
 bars, or go aground dead. Complete wrecks 
 are matters of current history. 
 
 At Fort Yukon, Capt. Anderson shipped 
 a larsre consismment of bullion from the 
 Fort Yukon Mining and Milling Co. for the 
 'Commercial Trust Co., of Washington, at 
 Seattle. 
 
 There was nothing out of the ordinary in 
 the appearance of any of the six passengers
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 93 
 
 who came aboard at that point, more than 
 that they were rough-looking men, unshaven 
 and generally unkempt in accord with the 
 custom of miners of that north country. 
 But the Mexican, Spanto, eyed them 
 sharply. Toy exhibited an unmistakable un- 
 easiness whenever they appeared on deck, 
 and, somehow, Indians seem to know. 
 Jason noticed her watching them and re- 
 marked to Philips that there was something 
 out of tune aboard ship. And while the 
 crowd drew near to hear Jack preach, he 
 turned to his comrade and remarked, in a 
 low whisper: 
 
 "Jack, there is a born criminal a man 
 with an inherited aspiration to kill. He 
 might easily be the son of a priest, sucking 
 his first milk from, and cradling his head 
 on the hairy breast of a she gorilla. " As 
 he spoke he pointed over his shoulder to a 
 hercules with a thick mat of black whiskers 
 and beady black eyes which almost came out 
 of the same socket, and which seemed to 
 see everything at once without looking at 
 anything in particular. 
 
 "Hell," he went on, "will heave a sigh 
 of relief when that blessed brigand joins 
 the golden harp orchestra up among the 
 immaculate wing-wafters of the favored 
 few." 
 
 "Man," Philips began again, "is but an 
 animal. But he is a progressive animal. 
 Also, he is the most virtuously ignorant of
 
 94 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 all the animal kingdom, for he is the only 
 species in the universe which has to be 
 ''civilized.' 7 All other forms of life come 
 into the world with an inherited instinct 
 for life's full measure, an intelligence that, 
 in many respects, by far surpasses that of 
 man. Now, then, man has to be taught. 
 He may be taught truth, or he may be com- 
 pelled to believe a lie instead of the truth. 
 If he is taught the truth in the beginning 
 he will be progressive and you can never 
 hang a lie on him; but he will soar on to 
 heights of intellectual grandeur, leading 
 his fellows up and out who flounder in the 
 fog of error and false teaching. Teach him 
 a fie in the early days of his life when his 
 mind is plastic and susceptible, and the task 
 of unlearning that lie and replacing it with 
 truth is by no means an easy one. Es- 
 pecially becomes this a task when the victim 
 absorbed it from a source in which he had 
 grown to confide, as in the case of the suck- 
 ing babe who comes to know and turns in 
 confidence' to its mother's breast. 
 
 " Capitalism is a false teacher of life. It 
 is a liar! Life under such a regime is a 
 lie. It teaches, not life, but death. It 
 teaches, not truth, but error and falsehood. 
 It muddles the brain, confuses the intellect, 
 and drives men to crime, loads them down 
 with disease and puts them into premature 
 graves. It sets every man against his 
 brother in the so-called struggle for life.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 95 
 
 It poisons the generations that are, with 
 adulterated foods, and it poisons the gen- 
 erations yet unborn with ignorance and 
 mental pollution. It suppresses and holds 
 down Art, Literature, Science and Love, 
 and rides, rough shod over the morals of 
 the race. It teaches race-hatred and class- 
 hatred; it fosters prostitution and per- 
 petuates slavery wherever it holds sway. 
 
 "Now, a Socialist is a progressive person 
 who has found out some new truth, who has 
 repudiated the old lie, and who is moved 
 by the spirit of human welfare to teach 
 that truth to his fellows. Should he, then, 
 continue to hold on to the old false reason- 
 ings unreasonings of the old hate and 
 antagonisms of Capitalism, or do you not 
 think more interest may be engendered in 
 behalf of the new education by projecting 
 the more transcendent expedient of sym- 
 pathy and brotherly love? How may we 
 best reach the ignorant and the vicious and 
 the apathetic, by force and hatred? Which 
 of the two teachers will be the more suc- 
 cessful with the pupil; the one who mani- 
 festly loves and takes pleasure in the teach- 
 ing, or he who wields the big stick and hues 
 to the rigid rule?" 
 
 "Then it is a matter of tactics, pure and 
 simple, is it an expedient for the gaining 
 of your selfish ends that you would have 
 those whom you are pleased to class as 
 ignorant believe you love them?" piped a
 
 96 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 little weazened, nervous man, one of the 
 six who came aboard at the Fort. 
 
 "No, my friend," Jack replied, "it is 
 grand and ennobling to love all nature and 
 all things in the universe; and a more piti- 
 ful sight I cannot conceive than the man, 
 in a world of progress and knowledge, so 
 ignorant and purblind as to openly oppose 
 those who are giving their lives for his best 
 interests. They are men who are trying to 
 help him on to a higher plane, and he bites 
 the hand that would save him. I pity such 
 a creature. More, I love him; for he is a 
 member of the race my race : and I never 
 forget that I once was like him, and as 
 ignorant as he possibly more so. It is my 
 duty to love him, because he is blind, and 
 being blind, he is helpless to see his way. 
 We who know and can see are strong. Some 
 day we all shall see, and then there will be 
 no weaknesses and no error among men." 
 
 "Say, Jack, why don't you go back to St. 
 Louis, take out a license and go to preach- 
 ing? You've about got me converted to 
 that loveology dope of yours, already," 
 cynically teased the exasperating Spanto. 
 "And," he frolicked on, gaily, "if to love 
 the guy that pinks you in the back is such 
 fine medicine for the regeneration of the 
 race, what's the matter with teaching the 
 habit to that particular individual, and in- 
 fusing him full of the love idea, first? And 
 the trust barons'? And all the rest of the
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 97 
 
 grafters and other first citizens and unhung 
 criminals? Now honest, Jack! You've 
 signed a big contract. There's pretty much 
 everything else in this world in great pro- 
 fusion except real love. I'm beginning to 
 pity you I am, really, Jack. But this may 
 be taken to mean that you are winning all 
 the time; for, you know," pestered the 
 merciless Spanto, "pity is one of the ingre- 
 dients in the love-compound, and when ad- 
 ministered without ether, acts directly on 
 the palpi of the epidermis, exercising a 
 laxative influence on the lariats of the 
 heart. ' ' 
 
 At this grotesque sally the crowd laughed 
 heartily at what they appeared to take for 
 a good one on Philips; but the sunny Jack 
 only grinned good-humoredly, and slying a 
 cunning wink at the Indian bride came back 
 at the recreant and somewhat tardy bene- 
 dict, with: "I think you'd better give in, 
 Doc, if that last splurge of yours is the best 
 you have to offer. For recent events seem 
 to indicate that, even the biggest rogues are 
 sometimes the least immune from the in- 
 trenching meshes of the love-compound, as 
 you are pleased to term it. " A little ripple 
 of merriment escaped the lips of the modest 
 Toy, who sprang up and darted forward 
 and around the pilot house. At this the 
 fun broke out anew, and everybody turned 
 on the herb-man. "Take the money, 
 Jack," he surrendered, "I'm stung! And
 
 98 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 now that the question is before the house, 
 let someone tell us what this thing love is, 
 anyway." 
 
 Up to this point Jason Sands had re- 
 mained silent and passive. Love, to him, 
 was a sacred thing. To treat the subject 
 lightly, were desecration. When the flurry 
 of levity had subsided, he turned to his 
 comrades, removed the sombrero from his 
 hoary head and opened his mouth to speak, 
 just as the piercing scream of a woman, 
 followed by a splash and a smothered gur- 
 gle, silenced every tongue and struck terror 
 to the hearts of all. Instantly there was a 
 shock ! The boat shivered, rose on her heel, 
 and amid belching billows of yellow smoke 
 and the sound of crashing wood came the 
 roar of a stunning explosion ! Confusion 
 that's the word mad riot and indescrib- 
 able confusion reigned. To add to the hor- 
 ror, if such were possible, rose the cry of 
 "ship on fire," and "the ship is sinking!" 
 
 It was twilight. The smoky haze in the 
 southwest marked where the sun had been 
 an hour ago. The murky shadows falling 
 on the river through the nude treetops on 
 the bank, looked like the wagging jaw of 
 some snag-toothed giant witch gloating over 
 the ill-fortunes of the race. All were 
 thrown off their feet when the bow went 
 skyward. When the ship righted and 
 lurched forward again, it was at an angle 
 of several degrees, and with a jolt and a
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 99 
 
 shudder that rolled all hands in a heap 
 against the engine house. 
 
 The boat had been blown up with some 
 high explosive, and when she righted after 
 the frightful impact of the charge, she 
 trembled, balanced her ponderous hulk 
 briefly like a drunken sailor then dived 
 with her broken nose straight for the bot- 
 tom of the river!
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 Far through the boding gloom 
 Suddenly a great light appeared! 
 
 It was a queer-looking piece of first-class 
 mail matter that Lone Mooney, the new 
 rural carrier, left at Raven Roost one 
 glorious September afternoon, and it was a 
 puzzled and deeply interested mountain 
 farmer who received it. 
 
 Leland Tannerhill was not a literary 
 beacon. His mail was a very inconsiderate 
 item of importance in the daily mull of his 
 lonely life. So, when the slattern youth 
 rudely kicked a huge package over the 
 wagon wheel at him without thawing out 
 enough to pass the time of day, he eyed the 
 numerously stamped and generously pen- 
 ciled thing with wonderful scrutiny. It was 
 a new one on him, and he was clearly 
 stumped. 
 
 Leland was a subscriber to the Ash- 
 worth Item, Happjon-an's Aberrant, and 
 the Montly Gopherhole, the latter, an al- 
 leged journal for tillers of the soil, pub- 
 lished at O'Pallon, 111. The Item was the 
 "old reliable," printing the "news," which 
 news comprised: Births, Deaths, and such 
 
 (100)
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 101 
 
 other information as interests nosey people, 
 and sheriff sales, etc. 
 
 The Aberrant was all its adapt cognomen 
 implied, and more. In addition to its 
 local column, which never failed to inform 
 its readers that, Buttertoad Smith, of 
 Centre Harbor Neck, was visiting "rela- 
 tives and friends" at Hinklyville; that 
 Tommy Soagden, of Kittery, would spend 
 a few days at the Tie Eanch near Foggs 
 Station, all sandwiched in between the mar- 
 ket fluctuations on cow peas, labor and 
 Berkshire shoats. It was, like its profligate 
 editor, a notorious liar. It strictly ab- 
 stained from printing anything resembling 
 truth, satisfying its gormand lust for scan- 
 dal by attacking the character of every de- 
 cent citizen who was not a subscriber, and 
 some who were. Also, it was a past master 
 at misrepresenting the opposition political 
 parties, fairly engulfing itself with parox- 
 ysms of benevolent solicitude for the 
 " worthy " poor, just prior to election. 
 
 However, it was a fair sample of the 
 average country newspaper, and its inflic- 
 tion on the rural populace was, with few 
 exceptions, borne, either in silent contempt, 
 or with grudging tolerance. 
 
 These three publications if such they 
 may be called, together with an occa- 
 sional spavin cure almanac, tnx assessments, 
 and the monthly pew rent duns, comprised 
 Leland's regular annual mail. A letter he
 
 102 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 had not received since far beyond his 
 recollection. 
 
 No word of greeting spoken, the rickerty 
 old buggy cramped around the well curb 
 in the middle of the dooryard and was 
 slowly squeaking along toward the gate at 
 the end of the lane, when Tannerhill sud- 
 denly straightened up, and pushing back a 
 sweat-begrimed palm-leaf hat, called sharp- 
 ly: " What's your hurry, Lone? I hain't 
 seen you f er some time. How 's yer father ? ' ' 
 
 At first sound of the man's voice, the old 
 grey mare seemed suddenly to remember 
 something! She sat back in the britchen 
 with a "chug," all four feet braced on the 
 steep incline, and stopped short. Like- 
 wise, the wagon stopped. Then the new 
 government attache, together with the as- 
 sorted and classified mail he had stacked up 
 on the seat beside him for handy delivery, 
 stopped that is, began to stop stopped 
 after a while, a little farther on down the 
 hill! The rawney sapling scrambled from 
 under the horse's feet, and Leland turned 
 his back and laughed, silently, though per- 
 ceptibly, with his shoulders an eccentric- 
 ity characteristic of some generously mod- 
 est and charitable men. Meanwhile, angry 
 youth and grey mare proceeded to go 
 through the formality of adjusting their 
 respective differences of opinion concerning 
 mail clerk etiquette, lax horsemanship and 
 general horse sense. When the ether had
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 103 
 
 cleared, the older man ventured, by way 
 of oiling the troubled waters: "When d'ge 
 start in fer Uncle Sam, boy? Like the 
 job?" Ignoring the other's interrogations, 
 the novice United States wage-slavepro 
 tern. red and wrathful, shied a casual ob- 
 servation at the smoking sun, prophesied 
 the intelligence that it looked "laowry fer 
 tumorrer," clucked, softly, to old Kate and 
 went weaving easily down Winding Hill. 
 The stoic Leland watched the receding out- 
 fit cross the last pitch-pole at the bottom 
 and go clattering off on the New Eoad and 
 in to the Jewell woods. 
 
 There are some things slower than others 
 in this world, and things do not move with 
 as much celerity in the New Hampshire 
 hills as they do at Reno and on Wall Street. 
 Tannerhill did not open his mail at once, 
 but seated himself on the well-curb and re- 
 garded it long and thoughtfuly. Painstak- 
 ingly he spelled out the characters blurred 
 and soiled among the stamps that made 
 up his name and address. 
 
 "Who this side o* the Promised Land 
 can thet air be frum!" he meditated. Then 
 espying the return address in the upper 
 left hand corner, he paused, traced it out 
 with a gnarled index finger and read. 
 
 Tf Not Delivered In Six Months, Return to 
 BENJAMIN B. PAGE 
 
 High Heath, 
 
 "Broken Bone Mine," 
 
 Alaska, U. S. A.
 
 104 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Leland Tannerhill was a good man. It 
 was said of him that he could not kill a 
 chicken without shedding tears. It was his 
 boast that he had never struck a living 
 thing a blow in all his life. Also he boasted 
 he could pick up any hen on the place, any- 
 where, and at any time of day or night. All 
 the animals about Raven Roost attested 
 their confidence in their master's love and 
 kindness, by every conceivable form of 
 friendly demonstration. Even the wild 
 robins knew him as their friend and would 
 eat from his hand. Imagine, then, the sur- 
 prise of the great Brahma rooster, when he 
 sauntered up to peck at the rawhide ends 
 on the gruesome bundle, and like lightning, 
 and without warning, got a vicious kick 
 from one of Leland 's size-10 cowhides. So 
 indignant and frightened was the lordly 
 chanticleer, that he squalled out the cus- 
 tomary danger signal in case of hawks with 
 such vehemence as to enlist the entire barn- 
 yard population in a wild discordant chorus 
 that lasted an hour. But Leland Tanner- 
 hill heard it not. Too absorbed was he in 
 a futile effort at fathoming the mystery of 
 the strange prize that had come so far 
 through the mails, unsought, unannounced, 
 and from a stranger. 
 
 Long and silently the good man sat there 
 in the shade of the great maple and cudg- 
 eled his brain with thought. Carefully 
 turning the mental pages, he ran back over
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 105 
 
 the long, weary years of an uneventful life, 
 but years, forsooth, filled with sadness, 
 loneliness, and toil. Vainly did he try to 
 recall some ancient promise of a forgotten 
 friend; counting them back, one by one, as 
 they had died off, and all he could think of 
 among the living. It was no use. They 
 were gone! None of the chums he could 
 think of bore the unfamiliar name of Ben- 
 jamin B. Page, and the mystery deepened 
 with each rereading of the alien legend in 
 the upper left hand corner of the soiled 
 paper wrapper. 
 
 Twice had he started to open it, turning 
 it over and over to find the right end of 
 the string, and twice had he subsided with 
 great gravity and meditation. "Page, 
 Page! Benjamin Page!" ponderously re- 
 peated the baffled recluse, over and over 
 again, as if to familiarize his tongue with 
 the strange articulation, the better to resur- 
 rect a possible memory long since dead 
 of some person by that name. 
 
 Slowly raising his snow-white head, Le- 
 land Tannerhill looked out over the vast 
 panorama to the horizon before him. He 
 knew every intervening hill, lake, river and 
 valley. Also, he knew, as he soliloquized, 
 " every neighbor old and new for forty mild 
 around; but Mr. Page must a bin afore my 
 time, or else he's somebody thet went off. 
 out West when I was too young to recollect, 
 maybe. Anyway," he concluded, "nobody
 
 106 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 I ever knowed ever had any sich a bell 
 lamg on 'em, and the marster on't is, thet 
 they should know me, whoever they be. ' ' 
 
 Raven Roost (so named by old Bart 
 Tannerhill's beautiful daughter) stood, like 
 a fort, on the top of a low lying hill among 
 the higher mountains. The buildings were 
 at the far end of a lane leading up the 
 west slope from a tiny schoolhouse on the 
 main thoroughfare and painted red, the 
 back sill of which rested on a granite ledge, 
 while the front was propped up with piles 
 of cobble-stones six feet high, and that wab- 
 bled and threatened to collapse and send it 
 tumbling down into Dan Willoughby's sap 
 orchard. 
 
 The Tannerhills had helped to settle the 
 country in the early days of the flint-lock 
 and the bow. But the strain had dwindled. 
 Of the latter generation there were but two 
 children: Erma, whose name for twenty 
 years had not been spoken, and Leland, the 
 only survivor. He was a big man, with 
 great freckled hands and a big warm heart ; 
 but he had never married. He had stayed 
 there on the old place alone after the others 
 had gone, one by one, visiting never, and 
 being visited seldom more often, he was a 
 sad and silent man. He was the last leaf on 
 the tree the last leaf, and it was autumn! 
 
 He turned his eyes westward, and there 
 stretched the Prescott range, with Mount
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 107 
 
 Prospect in the foreground. Looking to 
 the south, he could see Sheapards and the 
 Asquam Castle on the summit. To the 
 east in the valley lay beautiful Squam 
 Lake, stretching its clear waters with its 
 three hundred and sixty-five islands from 
 i "Joe's" point, under the Lone Pine Hill, 
 to Bearcamp on the north, and under 
 the dark brok of old Chickwolnepy. He 
 could count up all the old schoolmates. 
 And he ran over the list to make sure: 
 There were the Sanborns, and the Mudgetts, 
 the Bennetts, and the Howe boys, George 
 and Olando. And then there was "Ginger- 
 bread Red," who lived on the Mountain 
 Brown place, and who wore the fuzzy red 
 homespun breeches dyed with butternut 
 bark. Bill Low and the Wallaces, Hattie 
 Smith and Mamie Stevens yes, and the 
 Lee girls, Hattie and Susie. O, he could 
 remember them all right, but they were 
 gone! 
 
 That was in the old days before the city 
 folks came and bought up all the country 
 for summer camps. It was different now. 
 Every one of the wild, wooded islands in 
 the lake had been gobbled up and were 
 covered with cottages. Every farm on the 
 white sandy shores of the dear old lake 
 was in the clutches of millionaires, who 
 carried their heads high and their noses 
 higher, as if they smelt a stink. The pam- 
 pered sons and daughters of these plunder-
 
 108 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 ing parasites tore through the hills in their 
 great touring cars, frightening the country 
 horses and killing the farmers' fowl with 
 impunity. 
 
 Raven Boost was severely shunned. In 
 fact, it was said to be haunted. That the 
 old Puritan mansion had gained its un- 
 canny reputation because of having been 
 named by his beloved sister, Erma, was no 
 secret to Leland. She had so named it in 
 honor of Poe's Raven, which, being a 
 poet of rare genius herself, she used to 
 declare to be the masterpiece of the "Poor 
 Poet of Sorrows." Haunted or not haunt- 
 ed, Leland Tannerhill continued to live 
 alone in the big square house, in peace, and 
 unafraid. Cultivating as much of the rich, 
 black soil as one man could comfortably 
 care for, he allowed the rest to grow up to 
 bushes. Owing no man a cent in all the 
 world, he had no enemy as far as he knew 
 on earth. Moreover, and as he had grown 
 to realize with the passing years, he had no 
 friends. "Not a single, solitary soul in all 
 the world since the days of Sis and Jason 
 Sands," he would cry aloud. "I am here 
 alone ! Jason was the last and he too must 
 be dead." 
 
 A glance toward the west revealed but 
 half of the red disk slipping down behind 
 Plymouth Mountain. The chickens so 
 noisome just now had gone to roost under 
 the cow-shed by the barn, and were quar-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 109 
 
 reling because the older cockerels, as usual, 
 were unmercifully pecking the immature 
 youngsters and crowding them off the 
 perches. They did this nightly in their 
 selfish efforts to gain some vantage point 
 beside a plump, red-combed pullet. 
 
 It was getting late. 
 
 The shadows grew longer and deeper 
 over the glassy lake. The melancholy tinkle, 
 tinkle of the brass cowbell in the lane grew 
 louder among the sleepy nightsounds of the 
 verdant mountain. Leland heard, and knew 
 that old Bess was at the pasture bars with 
 her load of pure, rich milk. Night was 
 coming on. It was time to do the chores. 
 
 With the woodbox refilled, the milk 
 strained and put away and a fresh pail of 
 water on the sinkboard, Leland drew his 
 chair up to the kitchen table and turned 
 all his attention to the bulky thing before 
 him. Taking from his pocket a wire nail, 
 he proceeded to untie the moosehide thong, 
 picking out each knot and foregoing the 
 cutting of any, abundant though they were 
 and hard. The string off whole at last, 
 there was yards of it. "Five, eight ten," 
 he calculated, as he economically untwisted 
 every quirk and wound it around his big 
 left hand, then into a tight ball. He was in 
 no hurry. It could not escape him, this 
 new-found treasure from the top of the 
 world, and he would take his time and learn 
 all about it as he went along. Minutely
 
 110 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 examining the thin rawhide through his 
 reading glasses, he critically ran the ball 
 of his thumb along the grain side for hairs, 
 then he tried to break it. He wound sev- 
 eral feet of it around his hands and pulled 
 on it with all his might over the bend of 
 his knee. But the faithful rawhide the 
 one cord that never breaks though the day 
 was dry, stretched beautifully and the tell- 
 tale red marked where it sank deep into the 
 toil-hardened hands, but it would not break. 
 
 "Buoy 'tunder!" blasphemed the pious 
 Leland. "Thet air thing never growed on 
 no caow, ner hoss, nuther!" And then he 
 tried it once more. This time standing up 
 and taking several turns around his hands, 
 he dropped the loop under his boot, and 
 with all his terrific strength he pulled- 
 hands, arms, back and legs until his face 
 purpled and the tears came ; but the slender 
 rawhide went with him and came back and 
 was not broken. The saving farmer smiled 
 his pleasure, walked to the corner where a 
 clock ten feet high was standing where it 
 had stood for fifty years, opened the door in 
 the bottom and dropped the ball in among 
 the weights. 
 
 Turning sharply to face the clock, the 
 man started as if a sudden thought had 
 struck him, as a reminder of a tardy mis- 
 sion that must be fulfilled. "Your 're late 
 tonight, Leal.," he admonished himself. 
 Then lighting a smoky lantern, though it
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. Ill 
 
 was not yet dark, and slipping a small, 
 black object under his arm from the mantel- 
 shelf, he shot a swift weather-glance at the 
 sky through the west window and was gone. 
 
 He did not lock the great oaken door. 
 In fact, it was never locked. He paused a 
 moment among the rose-bushes, then turn- 
 ing into a well-worn path was soon lost 
 among the trees. This was his nightly er- 
 rand. He had not missed this duty but 
 once in twenty years, and that was when 
 the fever had him on his back. 
 
 It was far into the night when the red 
 glow of the lantern came out of the maple 
 growth above the meadow and vanished 
 into the old house. And what of his sur- 
 prise on returning to find a second package 
 from Alaska addressed in a different hand 
 but bearing the same return address as the 
 first! The two were lying side by side on 
 the table, and the only way to account for it 
 was that the carrier had overlooked the 
 smaller one on his first trip, and had called 
 on his return and left it while Leland was 
 absent. It was unimportant anyway. He 
 would lose no time in idle speculation. 
 Tearing the wrapper from the first, he fell 
 upon a strange collection of letters, papers, 
 poems and songs, essays and stories; all 
 save the letters bearing the unmistakable 
 signature of Jason Sands. Also there was 
 a letter addressed to himself, and with 
 greedy haste and trembling hands he 
 opened it and read:
 
 112 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "Alaska, April 22nd, 1910. 
 " 'Broken Bone' mine. 
 "Dear Leal: 
 
 "It has been a long time since yon heard 
 from me, for they have kept me moving on 
 and on, always moving on from place to 
 place over the earth, hither and yon like 
 the chaff on the winds of the wild prairie. 
 This is the fate of the man who works for 
 wages. This is the fate of the man who 
 dares to dream. It is the fate of twenty 
 millions of human souls in America, and I 
 am one of them! 
 
 "I have never ceased to think of you, as 
 I have never ceased to think of our dear 
 lost Erma. I remember your promise to 
 me on the day that she said goodbye, that 
 you would keep the roses she loved so 
 dearly bloomin g above her cold clay. I 
 know you have not forgotten, and I am 
 coming back to see you once more and to 
 tell you that I cannot find our boy. 
 
 "Four years ago I came to this grave of 
 last resorts, where everything is frozen all 
 the time and where the fire went out on the 
 first Saturday night when God quit work 
 on the world. There is gold enough here to 
 plate the earth, and I have some of it; but 
 it is all frozen in, and only a few succeed 
 where many fail. 
 
 "Tonight I shall start afoot for Dawson, 
 four hundred miles away. The boat will 
 take me down the river from there, and
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 113 
 
 once on the outside, I shall lose no time 
 in reaching you. 
 
 "This package contains all my personal 
 property save what is in my pack and on 
 my back. I am entrusting all to my friend 
 and partner, Benjamin Page, who will have 
 it mailed to you by the first dog outfit 
 through the pass. I thought it safer this 
 way, as I am going on foot and alone and 
 you never can tell. Take care of it till I 
 see you, old boy, for, as you will see, there 
 are some things therein contained more 
 sacred to me than life itself. I have kept 
 them, spitball notes and all, and they have 
 gone with me wherever my feet have trod. 
 You are at liberty to read them, for you 
 know all the sad story and you and I are 
 one. 
 
 "If nothing happens I should reach 
 Raven Roost early in September; so be 
 on the lookout for me, and remember I am 
 your old friend and brother, 
 
 " JASON" SANDS." 
 
 So it was from Mm at last! Leland Tan- 
 nerhill's joy knew no bounds! He read the 
 missive over and over, again and again. He 
 was coming home Jason Sands! His 
 heart beat faster, and he could hear it 
 pounding against his breast like a drum. 
 He laid the letter down, and with lamp in 
 hand entered the front room, whose 
 weather-worn shades had not been opened 
 since the last funeral, and turning the
 
 114 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 leaves of an ancient plush-covered album 
 until he came to an old-fashioned double 
 picture, he gazed reverently upon the two 
 faces. With the album still open before 
 him, and palsied with emotion, he sank to 
 his knees, raised aloft his trembling right 
 hand in earnest appeal and cried out wildly, 
 almost incoherently: "O Heavenly Father! 
 Keep Jason Sands and fetch him back safe 
 to me. I want to see him once more here, 
 and then I'm willin' ter go!" Then draw- 
 ing the picture from its old place in the 
 album, he turned it over and read two 
 names written in a clear, bold hand on the 
 back "Erma and Jason." Below the line 
 this, also, was written in a soft, feminine 
 hand and with violet ink: "He, and She." 
 "There they be, the two on 'em," he said, 
 great tears clinging to his sun-browned 
 cheeks. 
 
 "If God only knowed how thet man has 
 suffered he'd give her back to him now I 
 know," he went on hysterically. "No two 
 children ever lived thet thought as much of 
 one another as them air two lovin' ones did, 
 and there weren't none better ever drawed 
 the breath o' life than either on 'em." Poor 
 Leland! His broken heart was bleeding 
 anew. For if ever a brother loved a sister 
 it was he; and no brother could have more 
 loved Jason Sands than did this brother of 
 Erma. In the picture, Jason was seated 
 in a rustic chair, his great shoulders thrown
 
 "He gazed reverently upon the two faces/'
 
 THE TORCPI OF REASON. 115 
 
 back advertising the secret pride their pos- 
 sessor felt in the consciousness of his manly 
 strength and in the companionship of his 
 handsome mate. And there just back of 
 him, stood the beautiful young creature, 
 eyes aglow with happiness, her arm stealing 
 slyly around his shoulder and just the tips 
 of her fingers showing through his curly 
 hair. She was loving him there in the pic- 
 ture. 
 
 "Poor Erm," he said, "You're in 
 Heaven, God bless ye, and I'll try to wait; 
 but I only hope it won 't be long arfter Jase 
 comes. I'm tired, Erm, I be, God help 
 me!" 
 
 Closing the album he went back to his 
 letters in the kitchen. He knew her hand- 
 writing, and all the letters addressed to 
 Jason he piled together. He had seen them 
 all before. In fact, he had helped her in 
 their writing, keeping watch at the head 
 of the stairs for the old folks and stealing 
 away to Jason's with them at dead of night 
 when all was still. It was a clandestine cor- 
 respondenceclandestine with the cunning 
 codes of lovers' sweet intrigue. Drawing 
 a thin one from among the many thick ones, 
 he began to read again the faded lines 
 across the soiled envelope, but it was too 
 much! The arms stretched out across the 
 table and the snow-white head sank down 
 upon them. Heavily the massive shoulders 
 heaved with emotion as the lonely and be-
 
 116 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 reaved brother sobbed out the bitter an- 
 guish of his broken heart. The hours of 
 night slipped swiftly away with the tolling 
 of the old clock in the corner. The shoul- 
 ders ceased their heaving, and began to rise 
 and fall evenly with the deepdrawn breath- 
 ing. The goddess of rest had mercifully 
 touched the troubled brow and the sinless 
 son of sorrow was sleeping. 
 
 It was the breakfast call of old Bess in 
 the barnyard three hours later that aroused 
 him from his slumber to face two burning 
 lamps and the sun an hour high over Red 
 Hill. 
 
 To milk and get the cow out, feed the 
 chickens and the pigs, was the work of but 
 half an hour. Meanwhile, water boiled in 
 the teakettle, and with a breakfast of ham- 
 and-eggs, biscuits, coffee, and a pint of 
 warm fresh milk, Leland attacked the sec- 
 ond package, which as yet he had not 
 opened. The first thing to catch his eye 
 was this letter from Ben Page : 
 "Mr. Leland Tannerhill, 
 "Dear Sir:- 
 
 "I don't know you nor you don't know 
 me; but when you get this you will know 
 that I ain't no schoolmarm. I wouldn't 
 bother nobody with my poor writin', only, 
 you see, Jason Sands was my pard, and he 's 
 cut traces and flew, and I'm skat and wor- 
 ried about him, for wolves is thicker 'n hell 
 hereabouts and nothin' but them and sich
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 117 
 
 fools as I be can live here. God never 
 cal'lated on nothin' but them there gant- 
 gutted hellcats and jack rabbits for this 
 yere country, and Jason showed good sense 
 in quittin'. 
 
 "But that ain't what I started out to tell 
 about, exactly, and right here I want you 
 to know that it ain't no snap for me to 
 write letters no how. So, the whole thing 
 in a nut shell, as they say, is, that I got 
 mad like a damn fool and run off from 
 Jason, and while I was makin' faces at 
 myself and ponderin' over comin' back, 
 Jason he ups and lights out. He left a 
 letter for me that it took me four days to 
 read and that nobody can understand, and 
 wanted me to mail all his stuff to you. 
 I reckon he's struck for Dawson and 
 the outside, and probably will fetch up at 
 your place if he ain't eat up on the way 
 out, and if he ain't, most probably he allows 
 to hit the first boat down behind the ice. 
 I wisht he had a waited; for the hole he 
 was burnin' was jist a foot from a pocket 
 when he quit, and when I struck it the 
 yeller showed on the pick pint like it was 
 plated; and that there hole looks like the 
 show winder of a city hawk joint. I picked 
 up a hatful in fifteen minutes, and the sam- 
 ple I'm sending you you keep and write as 
 soon as you get it, so I will know you get 
 the rest of Jason's literchure dope and the 
 Indian moccasins and the rest I dug out 
 of his bunk and stuffed in the bundle.
 
 118 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "I ain't goiii' to fret much about him, 
 for Jason Sands ain't af eared of no thin' 
 and he can fight wolves to beat hell. But he 
 was a good pardner, and I kinder feel bad 
 about the way I acted, and miss him after 
 three years with him, fightin' agin God's 
 carelessness and them there ravin' fiends 
 and only one spat. He was a regular crank 
 on poetry, and used to tear it off to me by 
 the yard of a evenin', sad and pityful like 
 by times, specially that purty stuff 'bout 
 love and sich like. I tell you it would nigh 
 break a body's heart and give you the Jim- 
 mies to hear it when the spirit took him. 
 He never used terbarker, nor drinked, and 
 never sent out for much but pencils and 
 paper and cartridges, no time; but he sure 
 did like to write. 
 
 "Now he never told me a word about his 
 inner secrets until he writ that letter, but 
 he was allus rantin' about politics and 
 economics and that there rot, and I think 
 he must be a arnikist, and is agin religion; 
 for we fit over the Bible and what he said 
 religion was invented for. He said religion 
 was invented by some barbarians or thieves 
 or suthin', so as how them slick cusses that 
 never does nothin' but work with their 
 brains could rob everybody that worked 
 with their hands by makin' the laws to suit, 
 and the damn fools would think it was 
 God's will! I come right back at him good 
 and hard and asked him to tell me how we
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 119 
 
 ever could get along without them high- 
 flown gentlemen that's rich to hire us if 
 we driv 'em off and took possession as he 
 proposed, and he hollered and laughed like 
 a idiot and asked me what in hell I wanted 
 somebody to hire me to burn my own hole 
 and then to wash up my own dust for? 
 
 "Anyway, there wern't no better than he, 
 take him all round, ever walked the earth, 
 even if he don't believe in God. Mebbe 
 he had good reasons for thinkin' that way 
 after all, for he claimed to be one of them 
 there scientist philos'fers or whatever you 
 call 'em, and there ain't no use argyin agin 
 'em for they got you skinned erry way you 
 tackle 'em. Besides, suthin' had hit him 
 purty hard sometime in his life, for he 
 wern 't happy a minute while I knowed him, 
 but was allus mopin' around like he hadn't 
 a friend on earth. His letter shows it too, 
 and I guess I was wrong. 
 
 "Now I never was much on mind readin'. 
 But the way that there letter winds up, it 
 don't appeal to me as bein' jist right, some- 
 way; and so, if you get this o. k. before 
 he lands, I'd kinder keep an eye out for 
 your old friend for he saved my life wornst 
 when I was froze and starved most to death 
 up on the Hedghog. I'll never forget him, 
 even if he did say he'd rather go to Hell 
 with a clean record than to Heaven along 
 with them there 'Big Stick' square deal 
 fakirs that got the Maine blowed up.
 
 120 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "You and him must a bin good friends, 
 for lie allus spoke of you whenever he got 
 the blues and had them awful dreams. 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 "BEN PAGE." 
 
 "P. S. There's a fortune in sight on our 
 property Jason's and mine, and half 
 on't is hisn; for he divided his chuck with 
 me when he needed it all his self, and I 
 can't tech his half now we've struck it rich 
 and luck's changed. I'm sending the letter 
 Jase left for me, to you, and if you say so, 
 I'll go to Dawson and sell the mine and go 
 on a sure enough hunt for that boy of his. 
 Or we'll wait and leave it all to his dad, 
 whichever you say. 
 
 "B. P." 
 
 Tannerhill was thoroughly aroused. The 
 prospect of Jason coming thrilled him and 
 filled him with boyish glee. But Page's 
 letter displeased him. In fact it nettled 
 him. 
 
 "Gold!" he fairly growled, and repeated 
 the ugly word again and again. "He sent 
 me a sample, did he! Well, I'm much 
 'bliged, Mr. Page. But I don't need it jist 
 yit, and as fur's writin' to you's concerned, 
 we'll see to thet later." Whereupon, he 
 returned to the task of going through the 
 packages. 
 
 "Gold!" Give him the "pizen" stuff and 
 he would make jshort work of it! Hadn't 
 he seen enough trouble on account of it?
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 121 
 
 What of Her, his poor, lost sister! What 
 of the banker down in the village who died 
 in rags after spending a fortune shielding 
 that coward son of his that shot Jason, only 
 to read in the papers that he in turn got 
 himself shot in a "fast" house in Boston! 
 
 "Gold!" he fumed on. " Torment their 
 money! It can never give back what it 
 took from me and Him. Jason 'n her'd a 
 bin happy only for the greed o' thet cussed 
 yarler dross. Mother couldn't see through 
 it though, how thet them air young 
 folks was goin' to be happier with their 
 likes for one another, than Sis would a bin 
 to be the wife o' that sponge-faced worm- 
 head with all his tainted gold. And to 
 think thet Jason Sands would run away off 
 up there on top o' the north pole, a 
 freezin' and a starvin' to death is beyend 
 me, by Judas! It's curis, mighty curis!" 
 
 The man was much agitated. And when 
 a huge bright nugget rolled out from among 
 the letters and papers and fell with a leaden 
 thud to the floor, he snatched it up with the 
 evident intention of throwing it, either into 
 the stove or through the window; but hesi- 
 tated, then raised it to the light. The coun- 
 tenance of the man underwent a lightning 
 change. First it was anger, then surprise, 
 and now it was curiosity! Wildly he re- 
 garded it with open mouth and bulging 
 eyes, as if it were the touchstone of eternal 
 youth and beauty from the Celestial Realms.
 
 122 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 There is something inexplicably attrac- 
 tive about the first sight of virgin gold. 
 Moreover, there is an irresistability about 
 it that is positively compelling. More espe- 
 cially is this true when viewed in large, 
 bulky lumps, and this one weighed a full 
 pound. 
 
 During the Klondike rush of '98, he had 
 read in the Gopher Hole how that men 
 had gone mad at sight of gold; and now 
 here it was, the very stuff! And Page had 
 scraped it up in handfulls ! Also, he knew, 
 in a vague way, that pure gold was worth 
 about twenty dollars an ounce and if this 
 lump weighed a pound and there was no 
 mistake on that point then, " sixteen times 
 twenty bein' three hundred and twenty, thet 
 air homely hunk o' rubbish's wurth mor'n 
 my caow and hoss put together, and all the 
 herd's-grass in the barn to boot," he mathe- 
 matized. It was soft and leaden and he 
 could mark it easily with his thumb nail. 
 
 "Jist so much metal," he said positively, 
 "a part of the earth's composition and 
 clean 'nough until made into money and 
 stamped by the government, and then it's 
 rank pizen and cussed forever and eternal." 
 The next moment it had gone to join the 
 rawhide thong in the bottom of the old 
 clock. Seizing his hat the agitated farmer 
 bolted out of doors and went about his 
 neglected duties.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 123 
 
 But Leland Tannerhill had little appetite 
 for work. His brain was in a whirl, and 
 he found himself going hurridly about the 
 farm from one thing to another, commenc- 
 ing a dozen jobs and completing none. Fi- 
 nally, he gave it up and returned to the 
 house. 
 
 "It's no use," he reasoned, "I'm all up- 
 sot, and my nerves has clean got the better 
 o' me. If suthin' ain't done I'll be out of 
 my head and over the bay afore Jason gits 
 here." Half an hour later saw him on the 
 road to Ashworth, holding in on as hand- 
 some a four-year-old as ever pawed tan- 
 bark. 
 
 Leland was no sport. Neither was he 
 vain; but if ever child loved red candy, he 
 loved to sit behind a good horse and he 
 was never known to be without one of the 
 best. He loved fine animals for the pure 
 love of them; and, as he often said, "It 
 costs no more to feed a good horse than a 
 scrub, so why should a man be satisfied with 
 slabs when there's plenty of good clean 
 timber?" 
 
 At The Bridge he halted long enough to 
 read a notice a fellow with a red button on 
 his coat was tacking up on Nate Whitten's 
 horse shed, then went sailing around Lit- 
 tle Squam and past the Qusump Mills, 
 Black Raven scarcely touching the ground, 
 his glossy black coat flaked with foam. Once
 
 124 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 in the village, he drove straight to the 
 Holiness Tavern, the only hostelry in the 
 place, and was met at the door by "Landy" 
 Cotton the genial 'and prosperous pro- 
 prietor. He threw the reins over the dash- 
 J3oard, and in stepping from the buggy was 
 jerked off his feet by the fidgeting colt who 
 had taken fright at Rec Cotton's sput- 
 tering auto. Leland was unhurt, however, 
 and the frightened animal was soon quieted 
 by Carl Huckins, after Charlie the parrot 
 had sung out "Whoa," from his cage under 
 the porch. 
 
 Leland little dreamed of what his im- 
 promptu visit to Ashworth that sunny Sep- 
 tember afternoon portended. It was des- 
 tined to mark an epoch in his lonely life, 
 an epoch of unfoldment from the empty 
 husks of his saharial isolation to the oasian 
 dream of human brotherhood, only to be 
 dashed to destruction at the very moment 
 when life would seem worth the living! 
 Had he possessed more adequate means of 
 social and intellectual intercourse, the 
 events that were staged for the near future 
 must have been an open book to him and 
 the disaster averted. As it was, he had 
 never seen a Socialist paper. The pity of 
 it! More the pity aye, the shame of it- 
 he had never met a Socialist, and none of 
 the comrades had ever called on him! He 
 had never heard the blessed message of 
 Socialism's grand mission of human justice
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 125 
 
 explained. He had been shunned and left 
 alone in his ignorance and sorrows to nurse 
 and nourish them, pining away the empty 
 years without hope, and with only his in- 
 herited prejudices, superstitions and fears, 
 while those who might have saved him and 
 added his honest support to their ranks, 
 had not yet learned the wisdom of classified 
 propaganda. When finally the truth broke 
 through to him, it came with a suddenness 
 that blinded him and plunged him head- 
 long on to the reef of self-abnegation. 
 
 As he fell from his carriage he did not 
 notice the skulking hulk of the rat-eyed 
 lawyer Jibbs in company with the editor 
 of the Aberrant, as they reeled around 
 the corner from an alley dive in the rear of 
 the house. Had he known what devilish 
 doings the rum-soaked maggots of their 
 degenerate brains were scheming for the 
 coming night, Leland Tannerhill might well 
 have hesitated ere he accepted Cotton's in- 
 vitation to remain over for the lecture. 
 
 "I don't know what benefit it's goin' to 
 be to me if I do stay and hear the lies 
 them politicians tell. I hern 'em for forty 
 year, and a body can tell aforehand jist 
 what they are comin' at." He had replied 
 to Cotton's coaxing. 
 
 "What do you know about Socialism, 
 anyway?" bluntly blurted out a member of 
 the local committee on arrangements. 
 
 "Wai, I hain't heard much about it,"
 
 126 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 truthfully apologized the other, "but if 
 what the papers says is true, I guess I've 
 hearn about all I care to of them air crit- 
 ters thet wants to get 'lected ter office, no 
 marter which party they belong to. They're 
 all alike, purty much, same's the French- 
 man's kittens." 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 " 'You put it all in ze bag, you shake 
 him all up, ze first one come it out, all 36 
 rest jes ze same.' '' At this point Ross San- 
 born and Dr. Sweeney came into the office, 
 and in reply to a suggestion from Cotton 
 that possibly this party the Socialist party 
 might be different, Leland ranted on, to 
 the effect that, once elected, they have no 
 further use for working people until elec- 
 tion day rolls around again, and added, 
 hotly: "I tell ye it ain't no use talkin', 
 them air rich bucks has got everything fit 
 ter own, and a poor man is friz out these 
 days. Friz out, I say. And the dimmer- 
 crats and the republicans, and the pro'bi- 
 tionists, Socialists and what all, are six o' 
 one and half a dozen o' tother. The whole 
 tormented parcel on 'em is rottern'n To- 
 phet! The country is gone clean ter the 
 dogs and they ain't no hope for nobody thet 
 has to work for a livin'. There'll be an- 
 other war, soon, and it'll be right ter hum 
 here I'm af eared. God pity them air pus- 
 guts thet corners all the grain and cotton 
 and sich thet we have to live on, when the
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 127 
 
 honest folks thet digs it all out o' the sile 
 gets their eyes open to the mischief. I, fer 
 one, will never shoulder a gun, 'less they 
 come where I be; but, then, I'm one of 
 them fools thet ain't in favor of spillin' 
 human blood, ye see." 
 
 "My dear sir, you're a Socialist and 
 don't know it! Come up to the meeting 
 tonight, and if I fail to convince you of the 
 fact, I promise you I will leave the lec- 
 ture field and start a popcorn stand or open 
 a Chinese laundry on a desert isle," put in 
 a tall, fine-looking stranger with a bronzed 
 skin and wearing a wide-brimmed Stetson. 
 "Mr. Tannerhill, shake hands with Mr. 
 Stanley Lark, of Texas. This is the gen- 
 tleman who speaks tonight in the Town 
 Hall. Pardon me for neglecting to make 
 you acquainted, and now you will excuse 
 me, for I have to meet the train from 
 Boston." Thus volunteered the affable host 
 by way of rescuing the situation. 
 
 "So you're from Texas, be ye, one o' 
 them wild and wooly Westerners? Well I 
 swaw! Say, you don't look 'ziff you had 
 any horns growin' out of your head, and 
 I hope I hain 't 'fended nobody for I meant 
 well enough, and jist to show you, my 
 friend, thet we ain't a lot o' barbarians 
 here in the weakkneed East, come with me 
 for a sort drive this afternoon," invited 
 the hermit of Tannerhill Hill. "I've got to 
 go hum," he resumed, "and put up the
 
 128 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 caow and milk afore thet spoutin' o' yourn 
 begins, for I want you to understand thet 
 1 have got the best caow in Carroll county, 
 and she hain't laid out a night since I 
 owned her. If you're from Texas, you know 
 enough to know thet it spiles 'em and dries 
 'em up to go without bein' milked." And 
 without giving his new-found friend time to 
 either accept or protest, he called to Ree 
 Cotton: "Here, Bee, harness up the Raven 
 and fetch him around. I'm going to give 
 this 'ere long-horn a balloon full of good 
 old New Hampshire air thet ain't mixed 
 all up with soft coal smoke and sewer-gas." 
 
 Ordinarily Leland was a man of reticence 
 and solemnity; but, somehow, he seemed to 
 warm up to this sweet-toned son of the 
 plains, with his thrilling handshake and 
 his wholesome, genuine smile. 
 
 Five minutes later they were fairly flying 
 along toward Raven Roost mansion at a 
 three-minute clip, the big Texan truly ad- 
 miring the clean-limbed black stallion reel- 
 ing off the miles through the changing scen- 
 ery of the mountain road. Leland, com- 
 panion-hungry and therefore susceptible, 
 readily unbosomed to him the pain of all 
 his sad story; and ere the great gate at the 
 foot of the lane swung open to admit them 
 to the Raven Roost mansion, the two 
 big-hearted boys-grown-up had become firm 
 friends, aye, comrades; in a friendship and 
 comradeship such as Leland had not known 
 since the days of Erma and Jason.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 129 
 
 Stanley Lark has a way of walking right 
 up to the door and into the hearts of men ; 
 and when those two big children of God's 
 perfounaed acres started for the lower field 
 to visit the potato patch, they were keeping 
 step side by side, Stanley's long arm across 
 Leland's shoulder an irresistible demon- 
 stration of the great love and comradeship 
 that dwells in the hearts of god-men such as 
 these, who live above the fog, where the 
 soul-habitations of real humanity welcomes 
 man above the dollar. 
 
 They looked over the farm, looked at the 
 pigs, at the chickens and the flowers, and 
 after cooling their lips from a spilling 
 oaken bucket at the old well, Leland opened 
 the shutters and they entered the front 
 room. 
 
 Over the organ in the west corner of 
 the spacious parlor with its old-fashioned 
 fireplace and antique furnishings, hung a 
 large crayon portrait. In front of this the 
 visitor paused, looked inquiringly at his 
 host, then turned without speaking and 
 gazed at it long and silently. 
 
 "Thet's Her, there was only two on us, 
 and it seems she had to go. I s'pose it was 
 God's will, and I hadn't ought to complain; 
 but some way I hain't never been quite 
 able ter f'give the old folks for the part 
 they played in her takin' off. Mother was 
 all sot on her havin' thet white-livered 
 young buzzard of old 'Muskrat' Perry's. 
 Said he'd make a good 'catch!' Mebbe he
 
 130 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 would, fur's his devilish gold went, but 
 ruther'n ter see poor Sis have ter have 
 him ter put up with, and ter be motherin' 
 children by sich vermin as he, I'd sooner 
 she'd be dead, if I'm punished ferever in 
 Hell-fire and brimstone fer sayin' it!" 
 
 The other made no sign that he had 
 heard, vouchsafing no reply, and the be- 
 reaved brother continued: "Thet's her 
 organ. Jason worked in Featherick and 
 Berth's mill at Ashworth fer a dollar and 
 ten cents a day and bought it and give it 
 to her 'fore they was married on the sly. 
 She took it wonderful, and larnt in no time 
 so she could play like she was gifted. And 
 then they turned agin Jason and it killed 
 her. Oh! Erin, poor Erm!" 
 
 Atremble and weeping, the last of the 
 Tannerhills turned and looked out over the 
 valley to a little hill where the white stones 
 glistened in the sunlight a mile away. Up 
 to this point the entranced visitor had not 
 spoken; but here, and without taking his 
 eyes from the lovely face that smiled down 
 at him from the canvas on the wall, he ex- 
 claimed aesthetically: "My God! My God! 
 what a beautiful woman, what a beautiful 
 woman! And you tell me her parents sep- 
 arated her from her natural mate! No 
 wonder it killed her. She was too sensuous 
 -too much alive." And under his breath 
 he said more that his host did not hear ! 
 
 'Yes, she sartin was above the average 
 in good looks. So was he ; and to see them
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 131 
 
 air two together was worth a body's while, 
 knowin' as how they thought so much of 
 one another and seemed so well in every 
 way and strong/' 
 
 "It is a pity! A sad and crying pity!" 
 solemnly declared the big Texan. Then 
 seated himself at the organ and laid hands 
 on the tarnished ivory keys. 
 
 Leland drew up a chair and was silent. 
 
 Softly at first, then in drowning billows 
 the mellow music rose and fell, rolled and 
 trilled and subsided, rose and rolled again 
 to the magic touch of the inspired player, 
 as out from his great soul in mighty re- 
 quiem poured a flood-tide of Mozartian 
 sorrows sorrows, tears, and joys. 
 
 From the mad horrors of a midnight 
 dream of the martyred Poe, rolled back 
 the black thunder-clouds of misery to the 
 happy laughter of little children waking 
 to the gladsome reveille in man's Pierian 
 Dawn. Next an opera from Wagner. Then 
 an Italian serenade. Now a sweet baby 
 lullaby. Finally, far out of the long for- 
 gotten lyric-lore of the 3 r esterday of youth, 
 he called up the tender notes of an old love 
 tune. On, and on, over the keys the 
 trained fingers flew, mingling all the 
 pent-up emotions of the human heart with 
 the Eolian strains of the Astrial Realm, as 
 if held to the sweet cadence by Euterpe's 
 seraph hand. Leland, his hoary head bowed 
 upon his hands, the sunlight streaming in 
 golden flood down upon his snow-white
 
 132 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 locks, moaned and sobbed as the silvery 
 notes poured a torrent of medleyed woe and 
 bliss, sorrow and joy, hope and promise, 
 into the empty gulf of his silent past. And 
 when at last he could stand it no longer, 
 he fell on his knees and passionately im- 
 portuned High Heaven in silent prayer! 
 
 The music stopped. Both men bowed 
 heads in silence. Then laying a hand on 
 the troubled brow, the Texan said : "Come ! 
 Come, Comrade! We have lived long 
 enough in the dead, and dusty past. Your 
 dear sister is dead was murdered. She 
 was murdered, I say! Murdered in cold 
 Wood! but not by her people as you think 
 I am charging. I will tell you all about it 
 later. Come, I know it all! Listen! I am 
 going to sing you a song." 
 
 With a shivering shock the old organ 
 burst into life anew. Came then the voice 
 of the singer, a clear baritone, sonorous 
 with cultured excellence and full of yearn- 
 ing and appeal. He sang a song of toil, of 
 the tramp, tramp, tramp of weary feet. 
 " March on! March on!" Who has not 
 heard it? Who has not felt the hot 
 blood surge and rage in fiery sympathy 
 at the sound of it? The singer was now 
 at the zenith of his physical and musical 
 efficiency. The old organ rocked and 
 pitched to the terrific strength of the 
 storming player, as he swayed and reeled 
 under the scorching fury of his own vol-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 133 
 
 canic will. The purple veins stood out on 
 his neck and forehead like huge welts, as 
 the impassioned harmony pleaded for the 
 rights of men in Labor's righteous cause. 
 It seemed that all the world-old wrongs of 
 Mammon's riot rule were centered in that 
 grand rebellion. 
 
 It was the voice of the slave crying up 
 from the abyss of fettered centuries for jus- 
 tice that had never come! It was the 
 weeping wail of the widowed wife and the 
 orphaned child, mingled with the brutal 
 din of the bloody battlefield. It was the 
 reverberating voice of defiance from the 
 torture-chamber and the burning stake. It 
 was the bitter story of the empty sleeve and 
 the empty lives of the myriads of disin- 
 herited poor. And finally, it was the blessed 
 promise, coupled with the heroic challenge 
 of the workers of the world; and at the 
 words: " Liberty or death!" Leland Tan- 
 nerhill leaped to his feet, eyes aflame, his 
 white hair shaking to the tremble of his 
 massive head! The man was wild beside 
 himself with emotion! In fact, he was, 
 like the musician and the music, clearly 
 mad! Mad and transported back over the 
 gruesome path of man's inhumanity to his 
 fellow-man. Mad with a madness born of 
 the wrongs of the tyrant reign of graft and 
 gold and greed ! Mad with the madness for 
 love, for life, and for home ! Mad with the 
 desert-thirst of long hungry years of loneli-
 
 134 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 ness and burning drouth ! And hysterically, 
 joyously mad, because of the letters of 
 Jason, and for his new found friend with 
 his great optimism and his irrefutable 
 philosophy of life. 
 
 The music and the singer ceased as ab- 
 ruptly as if suddenly shot out of the world. 
 The Texan rose to his feet, and seizing the 
 agitated mountaineer affectionately by the 
 arm strode with him out of the room. 
 
 " Don't! Don't, Comrade!" he said. "You 
 must not. be unnerved. If you knew what 
 I know, you would be happier, even in the 
 midst of your sorrows, than those vampire 
 capitalists down there on that smooth water 
 in their handsome yachts, and with their 
 private ownership in other men's lives. 
 There is a great future for us. I will tell you 
 all about it tonight when I tell it to those 
 poor devils who are grinding out their lives 
 in the woolen and cotton slave pens of Ash- 
 worth." 
 
 Leland gazed down at the great sheen of 
 silvery water, speckled with its emerald 
 islands and tiny crafts. "Tell me Mr. 
 Comrade Lark, what thet was you sung ter 
 me? O Lord, O Lord! I never heard the 
 like, and it jist sort o' overcome me, en- 
 tire." 
 
 " 'The Marseillaise.' France's national 
 hymn, and the international battle-song of 
 Labor. It is very popular with the Social- 
 ists, and is pretty generally conceded by
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 135 
 
 everybody to be the most inspiring piece of 
 music ever written/' 
 
 "Socialists is purty much all poor folks, 
 ain't they, Texas'?" (Leland was himself 
 again.) The Texan grinned, but not at 
 the interrogation, and his host continued: 
 "I've hearn as much, and if they be, I'm 
 for 'em more o'r less anyway. Give me my 
 kick at the top dog every time, 'specially 
 when he's big agin as the one down. And 
 now you come with me, I've suthin to 
 show you." Whereupon he led the way 
 into the kitchen and straight to the old 
 clock. Opening the door at the bottom, he 
 ran his arm down, clawed around a mo- 
 ment, and brought out the nugget and flung 
 it down heavily on the table. The Texan 
 seized it, looked it over sharply and ex- 
 claimed: "Gold!" 
 
 "There ye go, 'gold!' thet's the name 
 on't, and where thet come frum they say 
 a body can scrape it up in gobs. Read thet 
 air letter." Here he handed the other Ben 
 Page's letter from Alaska, and when he 
 had read it he sat back in his chair and 
 meditated thoughtfully. 
 
 "What will you do, Comrade?" he said 
 finally. "I ought ter write, I s'pose, and 
 say suthin ^bout gettin' thet stuff from 
 Page, and tell him what he ought ter do 
 with the mine; but I hate ter undertake it, 
 I'm a poor hand at penmanship, and a let- 
 ter I hain't hed ter arnswer fer no knowin'
 
 136 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 when. Don't you want to do the job for 
 me, bein's how you're right here, and know 
 all the circumstances and probably more 
 used ter thet sort o' thing than I be?" 
 
 Stanley replied that he would be very 
 glad to be of service in the matter, and after 
 a few suggestions from Leland proceeded 
 to write the following letter: 
 
 "Raven Roost R. F. D. No. 2, 
 "Holiness, N. H., Sept. 10, 1910. 
 "Mr Benjamin Page, 
 
 "Broken Bone Mine, 
 
 "High Heath, Alaska. 
 "Dear Sir: 
 
 "The two packages from you and my old 
 friend, Jason, Sands, came safely to hand, 
 and please accept my thanks for your 
 prompt action and deep interest, as mani- 
 fested, and for your devotion to Jason and 
 his interests. 
 
 "Jason has not yet reached this place. 
 I shall look for him from how on with 
 great anxiety, but have no doubt that ere 
 this reaches you he will have arrived safely 
 home; in which event you shall be notified 
 immediately. 
 
 "As to the mine, I would say, hold on to 
 it until further communications from here, 
 providing you can endure the hardship; 
 but in case of your inability to do this, I 
 would suggest that you make an effort to 
 realize on it as handsomely as possible, 
 and then come right here, where you will,
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 137 
 
 in all probability find Jason awaiting you. 
 
 "However, use your own judgment in the 
 matter, as I have every confidence that, 
 being on the ground, such judgment would 
 be more sane and efficient than any I could 
 possibly render from this point. 
 
 "Trusting all will come out right in the 
 end, and with best wishes, I remain, 
 "Yours very truly, 
 
 "LELAND B. TANNERHILL." 
 
 "He'll get thet about next year at this 
 time, if the letter don't git wore out afore 
 it gits to him, and if he ain't eat up by 
 wolves fust," said Leland, "and now if 
 you'll come and hold the light while I skim 
 a couple o' pans of milk fer the pigs, I'll 
 show you milk thet is milk, the kind thet' 
 grows on a real caow and not related ter 
 the brand they pump out o' the Mississippi 
 sewer, 'cording ter the tell of them thet's 
 been there." Here Leland led the way to 
 a big, airy cellar, cool and clean. 
 
 In one corner, all bricked off and ce- 
 mented, with long rows of shelves filled 
 with old-fashioned earthen pans, was the 
 milk-room. "Them four on the top shelf 
 was sot this mornin', and these 'ere six 
 b'low is last night's milk; we won't tech 
 any o' that air, but these 'ere bottom ones 
 is thirty-six hours old comin' six o'clock 
 tonight, and if it ain't sour (trying it on 
 his finger) and it ain't, I'll show you suthin 
 thet, if you Texas folks can beat it, 111 sell
 
 138 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 out and buy a jint o' thet Pan-handle alki- 
 liar country o' yourn, and go to raisin' post 
 holes and revolution seeds along with the 
 rest o' you red-flaggers. " Whereupon he 
 ran a case-knife around the edge of the 
 pan freeing the cream from it, flopped the 
 edges into the middle then lifted the whole 
 mass of thick, yellow stuff on the case- 
 knife and carried it across the room to a 
 large-mouthed stone jar and dropped it in. 
 
 " How's thet, Texas?" he challenged, 
 "and jist ter show thet thet air ain't nothin' 
 extra, what d'yer think er this 'ere?" As 
 he spoke he lifted a pan of the "last 
 night's" setting from the shelf, placed it 
 on the cellar bottom, and taking an egg 
 from the basket under the butter table, held 
 it to the full height of his long reach above 
 his head and let it fall, spat, into the 
 middle of the pan. It simply made a dent, 
 but did not go through the cream. Taking 
 another pan from the bottom row, he ran 
 the knife around the edge, threw down the 
 knife, and deliberately seizing it with thumb 
 and fingers in the center, lifted the half- 
 inch of leathery matter intact from the 
 blue milk underneath and deposited it with 
 the first in the stone jar. 
 
 "The only thing I have to say, is, that 
 I'd like to own the cow that gave that 
 milk," decisively and emphatically declared 
 his enthusiastic visitor, "and she is worth 
 five hundred dollars with the wink of an
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 139 
 
 eye, or I'm a maverick. Where did you 
 get such a critter, Comrade, and what breed 
 is she?" 
 
 "Gutter off old Sam Massey thet lived 
 yender there on the Langdon place by thet 
 big wilier tree," replied the owner, as they 
 emerged from the rollway with the blue 
 milk for the pigs. "She's one o' two twins 
 he rize from a Black Dutch heifer calf, 
 gi'n him, so he used to tell, by a rich woman 
 in Boston when he w r as in the oyster bus- 
 iness there. Imported from Germany, so 
 she told him, and the twins was half Black 
 Dutch and half Jersey. Sam was alms a 
 great hand ter brag about what little he 
 hed, and one night I happened in there 
 when he was duin' the chores, and he 
 showed me the tricks I jist showed you, and 
 run on about the breed until I offered ter 
 trade him old 'Charlie' thet was a hoss I 
 owned at thet time and a bran new side- 
 hill plow ter boot. He took me up, and 1 
 got the caow. She'll be ten year old come 
 another spring, if he knowed what he was 
 talkin' about and didn't lie. And she'll 
 stay with me a while longer yit, and I guess 
 you won't blame me fer wantin' ter hang 
 on ter her, when you see the mess she gives 
 when we milk her tonight." 
 
 Nor did the Texan blame him for his 
 fancy of the fine old "Bess," when, at milk- 
 ing time, he sat on a stone in the barn- 
 yard, and saw Leland draw a brimming ten-
 
 140 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 quart pail of milk from her. And when, 
 ten minutes later, they were in the milk- 
 room, each drinking a full quart of the 
 pure rich lactage food, he marveled no more 
 at the rugged healthy glow of his big com- 
 panion. 
 
 "I allus set here and drink my drink o' 
 milk, warm from the caow," he explained, 
 "and half the time thet's all I eat fer a 
 meal. My 'pinion is folks eats tue much 
 stuff thet ain't good fer 'em, 'specially meat 
 and sich like. And in the cities I've hear'n 
 they 'dulterate the milk and pizen it ter 
 keep it from sourin'; is thet so, Comrade 
 Lark?" Stanley replies that the charge 
 was far from being a slander, and added: 
 "That gives me an idea. Comrade Tanner- 
 hill, and I propose to make a point on that 
 city milk question in the course of my re- 
 mark tonight. Millions of babies are either 
 poisoned with improper foods, or else die 
 from starvation for lack of proper and ade- 
 quate nourishment every year in the big 
 cities of this country, and in the face of 
 ample and numerous so-called pure food 
 laws." 
 
 "Why don't they take 'em to the country 
 where there's plenty of- 
 
 "Pure milk, pure air, pure water, and 
 peace and quite and health?" interrupted 
 the Texan. The other looked mystified, and 
 Lark continued: "I'll tell you why a poor 
 widow with several small children, working
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 141 
 
 for three dollars a week in a garret sweat- 
 shop cannot do it. I will tell you why the 
 family whose head is blistering his naked 
 pelt over molten metal in the steel mills 
 for nine dollars a week, paying gas and 
 water privileges five times in excess of their 
 real value, paying a fat landlord two rents 
 for half a shelter unfit to kennel a decent 
 dog in, paying the ever-growing high prices 
 for food adulterated at that and coal, 
 and shoddy clothing cannot do it. I will 
 tell you why the young couple with a fairly 
 decent salary 
 
 ' ' Stop, stop ! I 've hear 'n enough ! ' ' inter- 
 rupted the other, "I was to Boston once, 
 a good many years ago, and things looked 
 bad enough to me then. I guess they're 
 wus now. God help 'em. I tell ye they're 
 lost! All I can think on is another rebel- 
 lion, or suthin' but I hope I'll be gone afore 
 it gets here. It's beyend me, I swaw!" 
 
 "I don't guess it will be merely a rebel- 
 lion, Comrade, it will be a revolution," 
 sweetly corrected the Texas giant, his hand 
 on the other's shoulder, and with eyes ablur 
 with emotion. "Not a rebellion, but a 
 Revolution! A peaceful, and bloodless Rev- 
 olution/ ' 
 
 "I tell ye it's beyend me; but if you fel- 
 lers has got the remedy I'll jine hands 
 with ye and do my part, and thet's all the 
 best on us can promise." The discussion 
 thus ended, and as the hour for supper
 
 142 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 was approaching, with eight miles to drive 
 back to town to hear his first Socialist lec- 
 ture, Leland hitched up Black Kaven, and 
 with the golden purple glory of the autumn 
 verdure painted on the forest hillsides, a 
 divine splendor in the velvet twilight, the 
 two men rode together in silent admiration 
 and the drive was all too short. 
 
 Upon entering the buggy the Yankee 
 passed the reins over to his Southern friend, 
 and when at the end of thirty minutes' 
 driving they were seated in the dining room 
 of the Holiness Tavern, the plainsman said : 
 "That colt of yours has a future, Comrade, 
 if you want to get it out of him. He's 
 fast, brainy, and easy on the bit. Has he a 
 record ?" 
 
 "You bet he has, and a good record at 
 thet. He's done all my plowin' and hauled 
 all the hay, and done the other farm work 
 since he was two yearold. Hain't never 
 been hurt in the mouth, and was never 
 struck a blow. He don't know a whip from 
 a clothesline. Thet's the way he's been 
 brought up. Yes, he's blooded, though, a 
 son of old General Lion, and Scott Rogers 
 says he'd make a trotter." 
 
 "He is certainly a fine animal, and adver- 
 tises his early training in his every move- 
 ment. Early training, you know, is every- 
 thing with animals, as with men, Comrade 
 Tannerhill. The love of things that are 
 real is bred on the farm, mark that. I am
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 143 
 
 glad that I met you, for you are an ideal- 
 ist." 
 
 As the hour approached for the lecture, 
 the hotel office began to fill up with the 
 town boys and nearby farmers. Ed Horri- 
 gan and Babe Merchant started a hot discus- 
 sion over baseball, and were joined imme- 
 diately by barber Brooks and Fred Brown. 
 Leland and his companion seated themselves 
 at a small table and commenced a game of 
 checkers, the interest in which terminated 
 the baseball question, and the affable Texan 
 saw to it that there were no dull drags for 
 lack of good story-telling. When the hour 
 arrived for the doors to open for the speech, 
 they all marched to the Town Hall, Rec 
 Cotton and Will Huckins in the lead, with 
 Mina Blake, the "hen" man, Harry Porter 
 and Frank Hughes plying questions thick 
 and fast to the Texan as they walked to- 
 gether under the rising autumn moon. 
 When the hall was reached Leland was in- 
 vited to a seat by the side of the speaker 
 on the stage, and after a brief introduction 
 by the local secretary, Jennie Drew, the 
 stranger from the Southwest walked for- 
 ward to the footlights and began to speak.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SON or JASON SANDS. 
 
 Stood one like the Roman soldier 
 
 With ashes in his hair ; 
 Radiant buoyant the other, 
 
 "With his sun-kissed locks and fair. 
 
 'Twere frost and the summer sunshine 
 
 The vernal and the sear; 
 The song of the beryl springtime 
 
 The dirge of the dying year. 
 
 The Aurora was in the hands of robbers ! 
 Aye, worse than robbers; they were des- 
 perate men yeggmen were they! The 
 mining of gold was not their -profession. 
 Thev were disciples of the philosophy of 
 death. There were six of them, the six who 
 came aboard at Fort Yukon. They had 
 planned the robbery well, timing it to come 
 off at dusk, and near the north bank in 
 shallow water. Taking advantage of their 
 opportunity when all hands were huddled 
 aft on the starboard quarter, and while the 
 Socialists were vying with one another to 
 the delight of all, they had slipped forward, 
 one-by-one, to consummate their diabolical 
 plot. 
 
 (144)
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 145 
 
 Gold they had come for the gold that 
 was shipped aboard at the Fort. The lives 
 of men were scant consideration and not to 
 be reckoned in save as a menace. They 
 had brought "p^p," and the boat was to 
 be run on a sandbar and blown up as she 
 struck. This would cause a panic and add 
 to the general confusion, and the killing 
 would be easier and less cold-blooded. At 
 least, it would have that appearance. 
 
 They were in the North country for the 
 same purpose that other men were there; 
 for the same purpose that Jason Sands, the 
 Mexican, Toy, Jack Philips, and the rest 
 were there; they were there for gold. It 
 was an individual, free-for-all scramble, 
 without order, without system, without or- 
 ganization and without principle. To win 
 meant life, and the luxuries of life; but to 
 lose meant starvation, frost and death. In 
 earlv life they had begun the competitive 
 strife in earnest and with honestv of pur- 
 pose. Thev had failed. They had been 
 victims of the dishonest, and now they re- 
 solved to become the victors. 
 
 The initial opening of the drama of 
 death, was the killing of Capt. Anderson 
 in the wheel-house and the placing of one 
 of the gansf at the helm. This was accom- 
 plished without commotion, as was the cor- 
 ralling of the crew in the engine room, 
 where they were held at pistol's point while 
 the old tub was being run aground, when,
 
 146 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 unarmed as they were, they could be easily 
 shot in the general mixup of the wreck. 
 Luck favored them, it would seem, up to 
 the point where Toy ran forward and en- 
 tered the pilot-house where she expected to 
 find Captain Anderson, and did a dead 
 man! 
 
 It was an inopportune moment. The 
 wires had been strung and the sack of 
 explosive lowered in place over the bow by 
 two of the gang when the job was bungled. 
 The man at the battery had just received 
 orders from " Bluebeard," the leader, not 
 to open the current until she struck, unless 
 in case of discovery, when at the first alarm 
 he was to " touch her off" without warning. 
 Quick as the agile Indian had been seized 
 by the brute in the pilot-house, she had 
 been quicker; and as he thrust her over the 
 rail her right hand flashed out, then came 
 the scream and the explosion. The two 
 men at the bow were blown to atoms, Toy 
 thrown overboard, and the robber who had 
 thrown her overboard had sheathed the 
 slender blade of her poniard in his cruel 
 heart. 
 
 With the killing of Capt. Anderson, this 
 made five persons dead, and only three of 
 the six desperadoes left to deal with. The 
 nose of the ship was on the bar, everything 
 was confusion aboard, and then the firing 
 began !
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 147 
 
 When the passengers fell in a heap from 
 the shock of the explosion, it was just at the 
 parting of day and the beginning of night. 
 It was not dark, but the murk of approach- 
 ing darkness lowering gloomily over the 
 river, palled misshapen shadows through 
 the uneven landscape, Hke the prowling 
 ghosts of graveyard lore that nightmare 
 through our dreams, as we roam again with 
 the hairy men of yesterday in the mystic 
 caverns of our slumber horror-lands. 
 
 The doctor was the first to his feet 
 quickly followed by Jack Philips in a mad 
 rush for the pilot-house whence had come 
 the shriek of Toy, when, almost instantly 
 and without warning, a strange, great light 
 came over the land. Far to the northwest 
 a giant pillar of white fire streamed 
 straight up into the heavens, then at a point 
 that seemed hundreds of miles from earth, 
 shot down a shaft of the same white fire 
 from the very summit on an angle of 45 
 degrees to the earth. It was a marvelous 
 sight and one never to be forgotten. It 
 was so instantaneous and unearthly that all 
 on board were blinded temporarily so 
 white with daylight had everything become. 
 It was pure daylight no! that don't ex- 
 press it. Whiter than daylight; that's it. 
 It was whiter than the whitest thing in the 
 world. If daylight is white light, this light 
 was whiter than all the daylight that had 
 ever been in all the ages of the world rolled
 
 148 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 into one day. Nothing like it had ever 
 been; and it came and rested on the wreck 
 in the river and the whole country for miles 
 around was lighted with its unearthly bril- 
 liancy. At sight of it there was a lull in 
 the carnival of destruction ; but it was only 
 for a moment, and then the slaughter was 
 resumed. 
 
 The three pirates still living unapprised 
 of the fate of their mates, rushed among 
 the unarmed passengers firing off their pis- 
 tols, spreading death and terror in their 
 wake and sparing none ; but their reign was 
 destined to be of short duration. With the 
 coming of the new strange light was re- 
 vealed the secret of the supposed accident. 
 The truth was not recognized immeditely 
 by all, but Jason Sands knew. And when 
 the Mexican, Spanto, who had rushed after 
 his young bride at her cry of distress drew 
 her tiny dagger from the breast of the vil- 
 lain who had drowned her, he, also, knew. 
 Jack Philips was made to realize it a mo- 
 ment later when he looked down the barrel 
 of an eighteen-inch Colt. It was Jason 
 Sands who saved his life. Jason had seen 
 the movement and interpreted its meaning 
 in the eye of the black-bearded hercules 
 just as the smoking revolver left the level 
 of its latest victim's heart. That was 
 enough for Jason. He did something. 
 Though with only one leg and both his 
 crutches lost in the melee, he sprang a full
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 149 
 
 six feet and drove his huge right fist half- 
 way to the elbow into the thick chest of the 
 bearded devil just as he pulled the trigger. 
 There was a crunch of bones, a loud report, 
 and then a splash in the river thirty feet 
 distant on the port quarter. 
 
 Jason fell on his face against the ship's 
 rail from his own momentum, but was 
 quickly up again. Jack Philips was stag- 
 gering from the shot that plowed a furrow 
 from brow to crown through the scalp and 
 just grazing the skull. He was drenched 
 in blood, a thin stream still cataracting 
 down over his face, he presented the ap- 
 pearance of having been struck between 
 the eyes with a huge cleaver. On the deck 
 lay the doctor, face downward. The two 
 remaining assassins, their guns clubbed, 
 were maneuvering to brain the optimistic 
 Jack, when, of a sudden, his whole de- 
 meanor changed. There was a flash of the 
 arms, the two robbers dropped their guns 
 and crumpled up limp with eyes and 
 tongues protruding as the powerful fingers 
 of Jack's calloused hands sunk deep into 
 their throats. The fight was over. When 
 their faces purpled he let go of them, and 
 they clattered down on the deck among the 
 victims of their frightful butchery. This 
 completed the last act in the unspeakable 
 tragedy. With hands clutching at his 
 bloody forehead, his face blanched with 
 ashen pallor, the big, soft-hearted boy-man
 
 150 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 who had obeyed the Great Law at last and 
 fought for his life, pitched forward and 
 fell at full length topmost of the heap of 
 dead! 
 
 Among all the erstwhile peaceful com- 
 pany but one remained standing. Jason, it 
 was, and he felt a great sickness coming 
 over him. He was weak and faint ; for, had 
 he not killed a man? He had hoped never 
 to be guilty of such as this. That he had 
 done it in self-defense, and in defense of 
 his comrade's life were no apology. "I 
 have killed a man," he cried aloud, "and 
 he is down there in the water with poor 
 Toy." Then he contemplated the bloody 
 havoc of the evening with thoughts that 
 may not be told of human tongue! 
 
 The blood stood in jelly-like pools around 
 the dead. The deck was a shambles,- 
 shambles is no name for it. It was a satur- 
 nalian murder f est ! But the radiant angu- 
 lar light through the gathering darkness 
 persisted, looking down in a soft, silent 
 flood like the tail of a comet roosting high 
 up on a column of pure radium. 
 
 There was a movement at the base of the 
 pyre of mangled humanity, and Jason 
 leaped to the spot and was bending over 
 the doctor, when a great hissing noise got 
 in his ears a sound like escaping steam. 
 Before he could turn round it was over- 
 head, and as he looked his eyes met the 
 blinding glare of a winged meteor, huge
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 151 
 
 and white, and as hot as it was white. It 
 stopped immediately above the wreck and 
 beat its bat-like wings against the air like 
 some antediluvian monster poised to dive 
 for its living prey. Then the white light 
 and heat went out, and in the ray of the 
 other light he could make out a gigantic 
 bird of metal. There it hung, flapping its 
 terrible wings, its long, slim body station- 
 ary as if depended by an invisible cable 
 from above. 
 
 At this point a powerful voice sang out 
 as with authority. A long, door-like plate 
 on the underside of the monster which 
 looked like the chutes coal teams carry 
 opened, and a man in black tights slid down 
 the chute and into the river. Then the 
 iron bird fell back a few yards down stream 
 with the current and hovered nearer the 
 water. From the opening in the belly a 
 rope was lowered, just as the man in the 
 black tights came to the surface bearing a 
 heavy burden in his arms. It could be 
 seen that he wore a heavy belt and that the 
 rope had a bright hook dangling at the 
 end. But the man fastened the hook in the 
 belt of the body he bore, then sank back 
 into the water again. Up the body was 
 jerked, and Jason could see it was that of 
 the black-bearded hercules he had knocked 
 overboard. Again the rope dropped, still 
 farther down stream fell the winged mon- 
 ster, and again the man in the black tights
 
 152 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 came up. This time he also had a burden 
 but it was not so big, and around the 
 shapely figure clung the wet, feminine at- 
 tire of the pretty Indian bride. Up the 
 diver was jerked, the dripping bundle in 
 his arms; then the mysterious thing of the 
 air came and stood by the side of the wreck. 
 At this point, to Jason, the world faded 
 into space; everything got black, and he 
 knew no more. 
 
 One hour later, Jason Sands, Jack Phil- 
 ips and Juarez Spanto slid down the chute 
 of the Comet to the life-net of the Agitator 
 anchored in Norton Sound, five hundred 
 miles away. 
 
 Jason opened his eyes for the first time 
 since his collapse on the Aurora. He was 
 lying on thistle-down. ! He knew it was 
 thistle-down, for he could sense the furry 
 fibers tickling his cheek and the giant thistle 
 upon which he rested was nodding gently 
 in the breezes and the morning sunshine! 
 As further proof that he was in fairyland, 
 he toyed with the elusive stuff which por- 
 ridged through his fingers like soap lather 
 on his shaving brush. He was in a strange 
 and wonderful place ; he knew that, for out 
 of the heavens glowed a blended, garnet- 
 emerald light that seemed to be the very 
 walls of his new world. At first he thought 
 he was dead and that his spirit was being 
 wafted among the planets and into Para- 
 dise. He was lying in a hospital hammock
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 153 
 
 on the Agitator, the most wonderful ship 
 ever conceived in the fertile brain of man. 
 
 For some moments the puzzled man lay 
 still on his back and stared at the strange 
 liquid glow that came from nowhere and 
 yet from everywhere. He dared not 
 move or speak for fear of waking up 
 to find it all a dream. But men were 
 speaking. He could hear voices, and such 
 voices he had never heard before. They 
 were surely the voices of men, and in that 
 they were merely human voices was not the 
 marvel ; but that there was a quality of tone 
 about their manner of speech belonging not 
 to human tongue. They were the voices of 
 men, he knew that, but never of mere earth- 
 men! Mellow, they were, and musically 
 sweet, like the tuned reeds of some perfect 
 musical instrument muted with a mute of 
 silver. Jason moved his hands just to make 
 sure he really lived, and a voice at his 
 pillow a voice that had all the elements 
 of a suppressed laugh in it called out, en- 
 couragingly, "Professor, this comrade will 
 live."' 
 
 "Of course he will live, Captain/' came 
 the positive re joiner. Then Jason felt a 
 hand grip his own, and raising his eyes he 
 beheld, though indistinctly, a tall, hand- 
 some youth of perhaps twenty, smiling 
 down at him from eyes that were wide apart 
 and full of warmth and love. 
 
 " Where am I?" queried the perplexed
 
 154 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Jason. "I am not a sick man, what does it 
 all mean?" 
 
 "It means that you and your comrades 
 have had a very tight squeeze, and that you 
 are now safe among comrades and friends; 
 and if you will wait and rest I will tell you 
 all about it. And now, here is a drink of 
 cold water. Take this, and then we will all 
 turn in and have a good night's sleep." 
 
 Jason looked at the young man at his 
 side and wanted to protest and insist that 
 there was nothing really serious the matter 
 with him; but there was something in the 
 manner and voice of the frank, calm boy 
 that forbade the rebellion. Besides, there 
 was the goblet of sparkling cold water, and 
 he wanted it. 
 
 The heavy head sank back on its pillow. 
 The youth touched a button in the wall, 
 and softly the tinted glow melted away 
 through a mellow twilight and into a sky 
 of inky blackness. Almost simultaneously 
 with the fading of the tinted light there 
 came over him a sense of sweetest rest 
 such as he had never known in all his life 
 before. The quiet was so intense as to 
 produce a psychic musical harmony of the 
 inert molecules of the very etherical silence. 
 He knew he could hear the music, but it 
 was so infinitely delicate and fine that with 
 abated breath and ears straining he was 
 barely able to sense it. It was like water 
 dropping among musical combs far on the
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 155 
 
 mountain side. Or was it seraph hands 
 playing some heavenly authem on musical 
 glasses of rarest crystal? It came into his 
 ears at times like the fuzzy tones of the 
 horse hair reeds he used to fix between the 
 window sashes when a hoy, and that no one 
 could acount for save himself. Then it would 
 tinkle merrily for a space, like midget 
 gnomes dancing their fantastic pirou- 
 ettes in tiptoe twirls along fiddle-strings. 
 And finally, it rippled away into space like 
 the silvery waters of a peaceful woodland 
 lake, nimbly nibbling along the pebbly 
 shores of its wild abode. All the world was 
 in tune. He smiled happily as he contem- 
 plated it; then he closed his eyes and in- 
 vited sleep. 
 
 At daybreak next morning, Jason awoke 
 to find himself swinging gently in a bed 
 hanging from above. The ship was roll- 
 ing lazily to the even swell of the green 
 waters of Behring Sea. Dimly he could 
 hear the breaking billows spraying on the 
 rugged shores of the Sound. Also, the wild, 
 ricketting notes of sea-birds reached his 
 ears, mingled with the voices of men on 
 the strange ship. He rocked his head, and 
 from either side of the space he rested in 
 he could look far out through the fine 
 meshes of screens that seemed made of 
 white silk thread, and he could see the vast 
 expanse of ocean as the ship rose and fell 
 with the rising and falling of each rolling
 
 156 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 wave. He was practically out of doors. 
 But there was no uncomfortable chill in the 
 air, though he knew the degree of tem- 
 perature out there must be low. Moreover, 
 the air that came to him through the white 
 silk screens was deliciously blent with the 
 salten odors of the sea, odors such as only 
 those who fare the mighty ocean know. 
 He felt no pain, but was conscious of a 
 great hunger; and in reply to a jovial 
 "Good morning, Comrade," that came from 
 somewhere in that same laugh-suppressing 
 voice he had heard in the evening, he sat 
 bolt upright and replied: "I don't know 
 who you are, nor where I am; but I'm 
 hungrier than a graven image." 
 
 "My name is Hautier, Comrade, and you 
 are on board the Agitator, a ship belong- 
 ing to the Socialist party, which party is 
 the political expression of the great Inter- 
 national Co-operative Democracy, or Inter- 
 national Socialist party. I am the captain 
 of this ship, and of course, I am a Social- 
 ist. We are comrades. You shall know 
 more of us for we are cruising the world 
 in the interest of the new science and I 
 learn from the professor that you are to 
 accompany us if you so desire. And now 
 you may prepare for breakfast, for I un- 
 derstand you slept well through the night 
 and that you are able to go on deck." 
 
 With this the captain touched a red spot 
 on the wall and the swinging bed sank -until
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 157 
 
 it rested on the floor. Ten minutes later 
 Jason Sands was on the open deck where 
 he found the doctor and Jack Philips had 
 preceded him. 
 
 Captain Hautier, a stocky blonde French- 
 man and the son of a Communard, was 
 speaking, while Jack and the Aztec ap- 
 peared fairly beside themselves with ex- 
 citement. 
 
 "No, no, they are alive I tell you," the 
 captain was saying. And Jack was pro- 
 testing: "But he killed him I tell you, and 
 I choked two of them to death!" At 
 the same time the doctor was almost 
 screeching: "They drowned her, sir; did 
 they not throw her overboard?" 
 
 Speechless, Jason rushed forward to 
 learn that the Aztec's young bride was alive, 
 that the two men Jack had strangled were 
 alive, and that the robber chief he had 
 knocked overboard was alive and were all 
 on board and doing as well as could be 
 expected under the circumstances! 
 
 It was no easy task to quiet the joy- 
 crazed Spanto. He wanted to be rushed at 
 once to the bedside of his young wife; for 
 was he not a physician? But the captain 
 persuaded him that it would be best to 
 wait. The child was sleeping, he told him, 
 and besides, she was very low, life hanging 
 by a mere thread which any sudden excite- 
 ment might be the means of snapping. 
 
 "Listen here," he said, "and I will try
 
 158 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 to make it all clear but wait! here comes 
 Symbols to tell us breakfast is waiting be- 
 low." (Symbols was the Japanese cabin 
 boy, whose right name was Yama Yama. 
 Captain Hautier had nicknamed him 
 "Symbols" because the silk costumes he al- 
 ways wore were embroidered with green 
 dragons.) The little Jap led the way to the 
 long mess-room, his baggy pa jama trousers 
 fluttering around his bare ankles like spit- 
 sheets in a hurricane. 
 
 Introductions and handshakes were the 
 order of the moment and they were both 
 abundant and generous. There were glad- 
 some greetings from twenty robust sailor 
 lads garbed in white linen, who grinned 
 like happy children when Captain Hautier 
 promised Jason Sands the surprise of his 
 life when the professor should appear. 
 With this, Symbols whirled and shot 
 through the door, to plunge headlong into 
 the young scientist who caught him up and 
 spanked him playfully as he entered the 
 mess-room. Swiftly the lithe figure of the 
 rose-cheeked prodigy glided forward to the 
 long table, the entire ship's company sa- 
 luting him in chorus with : ' ' Good morning, 
 Comrade Sands." The almost feminine 
 features flushed with the glow of perfect 
 health and rampant vigor, and the clear 
 eyes sparkled childishly as he bent a rapid 
 succession of responsive smiles on all, and 
 in a voice vibrant with virility and cultured
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 159 
 
 excellence lie greeted them with cordial so- 
 licitations for their good health. 
 
 Captain Hautier arose, a grotesque grin 
 stretching from ear to ear across his broad 
 face. The boy scientist was in the act of 
 taking his seat at the table when the stocky 
 navigator raised his hand and stayed him. 
 Then waving Jason to his feet with great 
 pseudo-solemnity after the manner of the 
 jester that he was, proceeded to introduce 
 the two men, thus: ''Professor Sands, 
 shake hands with Comrade Jason Sands of 
 New Hampshire." Then turning to Jason 
 he continued: "This young man is Com- 
 rade Professor Quimby Sands, also from 
 New Hampshire. He is the inventor of 
 this wonderful ship with all of its ma- 
 chinery and devices for life-saving and life- 
 giving, as well as the airship that rescued 
 you and your party last night, and the 
 great optiscopo graph, or right-angle-tri- 
 angle radium ray. Who knows but that 
 you two boys may be related?" 
 
 The two men were facing each other. 
 The one huge, and broad and grey, the 
 other young, fully as tall but less broad, 
 and possessing a gorgeous wealth of curly 
 auburn hair. Suddenly the battered patri- 
 arch leaned forward, his face the color of 
 chalk! He was staring at a small peculiar 
 scar over the other's left eye. No man 
 spoke but every breath was stayed. It was 
 a pregnant moment! All eyes were on
 
 160 THE TORCH OP REASON. 
 
 Jason Sands, who was shaking as with a 
 palsy. Into his sad, far-gazing eyes, a new 
 light appeared. They were riveted on the 
 prototype of his erstwhile self before him. 
 The other seemed to have turned to marble. 
 It was a magnificent sight, this picture of 
 vigorous youth and hoary age. Presently 
 two pairs of pale lips parted. Four hands 
 shot out to embrace as with a single im- 
 pulse. Four eyes filled with tears tears of 
 joy and victory, as two voices cried out in 
 unison : 
 
 "My father!" 
 
 "My boy!" 
 
 A scene for the gods was this! There 
 was not a dry eye at that moment. Even 
 Jocular Joe, the blithe salt-dog of the sea, 
 fell a victim of his own buffoonery, and 
 laughed acrying as father and son, arm-in- 
 arm, headed for the private den of the 
 wizard prince. Neither man spoke, but the 
 younger waved a hand as they passed from 
 view and all understood. Also Symbols 
 knew, and flew to give orders for a lunch 
 for two to be served, for the first time, in 
 the wonderous muted "tune" room which 
 his beloved "Fessor," as he called him, 
 termed his "Laboratory." 
 
 Jason Sands had found his long lost son. 
 He had found him in the most marvelous 
 manner and under circumstances rivaling 
 in their startling character the fabled ro- 
 mances of the Arabian Nights. Strangely
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 161 
 
 enough the father and son were the first 
 on deck after the morning meal. What 
 with the rapid turn of rapidly occurring 
 events, the rest were prone to long-drawn- 
 out discussions and much merrymaking. 
 
 With the beautiful silver-like vessel rid- 
 ing at anchor on the peaceful waters of the 
 Sound, they sat in the August sunshine of 
 that north latitude and listened, each to the 
 other's story of the separation that had 
 been so cruel and so long. Who in The Image 
 shall come to paint the picture of that 
 grand reunion? Who of tongue or pen the 
 yearning of their souls may tell? Many 
 partings there have been, but reunions such 
 as this had seldom come. Who but loved 
 ones that have parted can ever understand ? 
 Men in human form there be who never 
 understand, and they are not all men who 
 wear the human form: the mental helots 
 at the two poles of society the brutalized 
 rich and the brutalized poor both human 
 infusoria! These can never understand. 
 The subservient hireling can never know. 
 O shame on him who knows not he is a 
 slave! Shame on him who cannot shed a 
 tear! Shame on him who fears a healthy 
 dream ; who dare not think a rebel thought ; 
 who will not read the printed page! How 
 hardly may such ever know, or feel, or 
 come to understand? 
 
 Joe Hautier, the big, jolly captain (and 
 a bigger "jolly" than he was a captain),
 
 162 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 came suddenly upon little Yama Yama 
 hiding near, and listening eagerly to the 
 fervored conversation of father and son, 
 as they reviewed each his futile efforts of 
 the past to find each other. It was evident, 
 though he had been among the Americans 
 less than a month, that the chubby Jap- 
 anese understood the new, strange compan- 
 ionship of his dearly loved rescuer and the 
 older man with only one leg, for he was 
 clearly weeping. The boy was an orphan. 
 His father and two brothers had bought the 
 badge of " patriotism " dearly with their 
 blood at Port Arthur. When the news 
 came home to the little mother, she was 
 lying on a sick bed. She had been taught, 
 and likewise she had taught her sons, that 
 it was noble and glorious to both kill and 
 be killed in battle! The very foundation 
 of all religions is cemented to "civiliza- 
 tion" with the blood of wars. She called 
 little Yama Yama to her side and told him 
 she was going to die. "My son," she said, 
 "it is good to die." "Harken, my son, for 
 I, your mother, am dying. The Russians 
 killed your father who built our little home 
 here among the flowers. They killed your 
 brothers who taught you to build temples 
 to Buddha in the soft sands of the seashore. 
 It is glorious! Would that you, too, my 
 son, had been older. Grow strong and 
 brave, my son, that thy blow may fall hard 
 upon a beating heart, and thy red blood
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 163 
 
 splash hot on the face of thy, perchance, 
 more powerful adversary. " 
 
 The babe had listened to her dying words, 
 and his every wakeful moment he dreamed 
 of the flashing sword and the crackle of 
 musketry, and of the hot blood-splashings, 
 and of the day when he, too, might become 
 a brave soldier, to feel the hot splash upon 
 his own cheek as he vanquished a less for- 
 tunate fellow in battle, or yielding up his 
 own, as the Great Mikado should direct. 
 No amount of influence aboard the Agita- 
 tor had, as yet, sufficed to change him, 
 although he loved, and was in turn loved 
 by all; for these teachings were the last 
 words of his mother, and "was she not his 
 mother?" 
 
 The Agitator had found the boy starving 
 while cruising the western waters for pic- 
 tures. Her regal spirit, the young scientist, 
 picked him up and made him cabin boy 
 if cabin boy on board the Agitator that 
 service may be called. Captain Joe loved 
 the bright lad with all his great, fond heart ; 
 for Joe had none to call him sire, and like 
 all who near the Summit where no flowers 
 grow to bless their coming, he was begin- 
 ning to starve for children. But he liked 
 to tease the little cherub, and to startle him 
 with his clown-like frown; for Joe Hautier 
 had never been tried for bein^r a handsomp 
 man!
 
 164 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "Here, you young tadpole," he snapped 
 in mimic anger, "I caught you that time! 
 Spying on shipboard, 'eh?" Down went 
 the innocent Jap on knees and face, his 
 tiny hands clasped above his head, as he 
 implored his holy commander not to chop 
 off. his miserable head, a punishment he 
 firmly believed his awful offense warranted. 
 Back and forth he groveled, his little black 
 eyes fairly hanging from the bias slits in 
 his yellow cheeks. The poor waif prom- 
 ised by all the gods and Buddha, and all 
 the snakes, frogs, and dragons, and a whole 
 lot of other things of which the droll 
 Frenchman was unfamiliar, that never 
 would he do it again, never, never! if only 
 his worthless head might be spared. 
 
 "Yama Yama Symbolee, la lo lee Jap!" 
 wailed the simple heathen. "Him falla 
 Lushian killela ! Poor Yama Yama ! Him 
 twola bloula samee Lussian warlee killela! 
 Poorlee Symbolee Yama Yama ! O Capta 
 Ota, gomen! gomen!" 
 
 "Sure little hun, I will forgive you," 
 soothingly the bluff seaman cried; "and 
 now forget it and climb up here and get 
 in your old 'Capta Ota's' vest pocket and 
 sing me a heathen song all in that monkey 
 tongue of yours." And stooping to the 
 sobbing child the bronzed sailor gathered 
 up the little lump of foreign drift-wood 
 and tenderly caressed away the penitent 
 tears.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 165 
 
 "I hope that will teach you a lesson," 
 he chided himself when it was all over and 
 he was alone. "Poor kid! And to think 
 that I once was that innocent and ignorant 
 myself! Who have I to thank that I did 
 not stay that way? There are millions of 
 them millions of them, poor little orphans 
 -victims of capitalistic butchery," he 
 added sorrowfully. 
 
 Ere the water had dried from Toy's 
 dusky tresses subsequent to her rescue from 
 the Yukon River, she was breathing easily 
 and resting painlessly on a swinging cot in 
 the Agitator's hospital. When taken from 
 the water the girl was dead. She had been 
 drowned! but the modern methods of ex- 
 tracting water from the lungs, together 
 with the Sands method of acceleratory cir- 
 culation and forced respiration, had never 
 failed where positive death of the blood 
 corpuscles from coagulation in the heart 
 had not already taken place. It did not 
 fail now. A human life in perfect health 
 had been snatched from the red fangs of 
 death; but the good priest said it was the 
 works of the Devil, and that God's law had 
 been confounded and His will defied! 
 
 It was while seated in his laboratory test- 
 ing the temperature and adjusting the sen- 
 sitive electrical machinery to the Cosmic 
 Tune, that young Sands had noticed a 
 slight disturbance of the seism ographic 
 needle, followed by the report of the ex-
 
 166 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 plosion recorded on the sounding board of 
 the oscillophone. With a swift movement 
 he opened the shutter, and the wonderful 
 ray of white light that had given the na- 
 tives such a needless scare, was playing 
 on the wreck ere the smoke lifted. 
 
 It came to him while reading Spencer, 
 wherein he says: "Life is the continuous 
 adjustment of internal relations with ex- 
 ternal relations," that, Life is simply a 
 chemical tune played upon the Great Harp 
 Change. All things in the Universe were 
 so much chemical substance, animated into 
 cellular activity and correlated, specialized 
 and united in organisms according to tem- 
 perature and environment from within and 
 from without. Nothing was "made," and 
 fixed, and set up to be, but everything 
 was a growth, an evolution, a transforma- 
 tion a change. Man was simply one note 
 in the Great Tune, Life. And to be a per- 
 fect note he must be in perfect tune with 
 the Great Law Change. 
 
 The planets are in tune, was his theory, 
 and the planets are at peace with each 
 other. "Man," he replied to the good 
 priest, "is sadly out of tune with Life. 
 This is why he withers, sickens, weakens, 
 fails and dies. I have given this girl back 
 her life only by restoring her to tune with 
 Life, and you tell me I have beaten down 
 the parapets of Heaven, overthrown the 
 authority and destroyed the law of God!
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 167 
 
 Well, then, if it is God's will that the 
 innocent become victims of cold-blooded 
 murder for profit, and further, if it be 
 true that I have overruled the Supreme 
 Court of Heaven, blasted the mandates of 
 its saintly congress and vetoed the dictum 
 of such a god, then I am greater than he, 
 and henceforth he will have to show me, 
 as they say in Missouri. I am highly 
 delighted to become a rebel under such cir- 
 cumstances, and I have only love and pity 
 for the dumb dupes who will meekly tol- 
 erate such a deadly invasion of their rights 
 without resenting the bald insult to their 
 intelligence. " 
 
 Now in the case of " Bluebeard" it was 
 different. There was neither air nor water 
 in his lungs, but they were full of bones 
 instead. The bones Jason had broken were 
 turned in, piercing the lungs and inflicting 
 ample wounds to cause death in the ordi- 
 nary man; but this was no ordinary indi- 
 vidual. Jason's blow had wrought a 
 complete disarrangement of the functional 
 organisms, and caused a discordant panic 
 to take place among the cell life which 
 rendered the big man temporarily helpless. 
 But with the broken bones quickly re- 
 placed, the lungs freed of dead blood, and 
 with the scientific treatment he received at 
 the hands of the Agitator's surgical me- 
 chanics, the big beast refused to lay quiet, 
 and when the other two robbers were
 
 168 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 turned over to the authorities the following 
 afternoon he went with them to answer, 
 unjustly, for one more of Capitalism's so- 
 cial crimes. The three repentent men made 
 full confessions to the officers in the pres- 
 ence of the good priest, thus obviating the 
 annoyance of detaining the Comet's crew 
 as witnesses at the trial. 
 
 "It is with deepest regret that we are 
 compelled to turn these poor hoys over to 
 you to have their wretched lives jerked out 
 at the end of a rope," the scientist said, as 
 the pudgy commander of the Revenue Cut- 
 ter blustered authoritatively up and down 
 the Agitator's deck. 
 
 "It is the law, sir; it is the law, and these 
 murderers must pay the penalty as they 
 justly deserve. They must be punished, 
 sir; and they'll get what's coming to them, 
 sir, and don't you forget it, sir," thundered 
 the red-faced thug in water-cop uniform. 
 
 "Yes, it is the law!" sadly reflected the 
 other, "the law that sees only effect, and 
 never concerns itself with cause. It is the 
 law of self-interest. The law of ' might 
 makes right' the law of the strong ruling 
 the weak with an iron hand! It is the 
 law which punishes 'crime' with more 
 crime, aggravating rather than lessening 
 the disease it pretends to cure. It belongs 
 to the Dark Ages, and has no place among 
 civilized men of this progressive period."
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 169 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me, sir," exploded 
 the United States authority on contraband 
 rum, "fur-fishes" and opium smuggling, 
 "that you milk-and-water mollycoddles 
 would abolish all law, insult the dignity of 
 Uncle Sam, and turn the country over to 
 thieves, murderers and scoundrels and let 
 them go unpunished? That's Socialism, is 
 it?" he stormed on, "if I had my way I 
 would plant a mine under you anarchists 
 and blow you all to kingdom come. So 
 that's your game, 'er?" 
 
 Jason Sands, who, a moment ago, was 
 seated gazing disinterestedly far out to 
 sea, drew up and eyed the squat boss of 
 the North Pacific through narrowed lids 
 from which a strange light gleamed! He 
 had noticed a slight curling of his son's 
 lip as that young man turned to flash a 
 silent signal to Capt. Hautier, while the 
 bland Father Munne rubbed his fat hands 
 gleefully, and it could be seen where his 
 economic interests blended. 
 
 "Why don't you answer the Government 
 Officer, sir?" the good priest challenged. 
 "Are you afraid to reply to the honorable 
 commander's most pertinent question, sir?" 
 
 "No. I am not afraid to speak," re- 
 sponded the Agitator's inventor, still sadly. 
 "Among other things, my early teaching 
 was to the effect that God favored some 
 men with more brains than others, and that 
 those so favored were his chosen people,
 
 170 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 who should always look with tolerance and 
 due consideration on the feeble-minded. 
 My heart suddenly overflowed with a great 
 pity; for the moment, my tongue was en- 
 gulfed and in pure charity my speech was 
 drowned. How may the tongue of reason 
 answer to the logic of fools? Men who 
 absorb their ideas from the same source 
 from which their cheques are drawn may 
 not be expected to pose as paragons of jus- 
 tice and virtue. And if it were true that 
 the Socialists propose to turn the country 
 with its 100,000,000 souls over to a worse 
 gang of 'robbers, murderers and scoun- 
 drels' than which at present have the na- 
 tion and its people by the throat, I confess 
 I am at a loss to know where this side of 
 Hell they are to be found." 
 
 "And now you, Captain Mullock," Jason 
 volunteered, stepping close beside that irate 
 functionary, "are but a creature a uni- 
 formed watchdog of a robber plutocracy 
 which makes criminals out of honest men 
 and the children of honest parents, then 
 turns around and jails or hangs them to 
 hide its own guilt, distracting, thereby, the 
 wrath of the ignorant populace from the 
 real offenders while it piously soaks the 
 crimson stains from its taloned claws with 
 the crocodile tears of religious hypocrisy." 
 
 As he departed with his three hapless 
 prisoners, Capt. Mullock indulged in a 
 hasty brain-storm of eagle-scream patriot-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 171 
 
 isin, furiously swearing he would blow all 
 kinds of hell out of the Agitator and her 
 whole " red- throated "outfit if they were 
 anywhere on the horizon at sunrise. 
 
 "We will not be here, Captain Mullock," 
 the boy assured him, "for," said he, "we 
 are billed to exhibit our horns to the graft- 
 ers of Victoria, British Columbia, and 
 Seattle, Washington, to-morrow night, and 
 as it is a stroll of some four thousand miles 
 we shall have to get an early start this very 
 evening in order to visit along the way and 
 make it a pleasure trip for our new-found 
 friends. But perhaps we shall meet again, 
 so cheer up, the worst is yet to come." 
 
 "And now you get back to your old 
 booze tub and don't let's hear another yip 
 out o' you, or I'll boil you like a lobster 
 in a pot," Captain Hautier commanded. 
 And with this he pressed his hand inside his 
 spotless linen coat, and up shot the mighty 
 white pillar of flame for a space, then down 
 came the angular pillar like a white sun- 
 beam and played upon the other craft, re- 
 vealing its black hulk through the darkness 
 like a phantom ship on a desert sea. 
 
 As the brass-buttoned giver of orders 
 (taken from higher up) pushed off from the 
 Agitator, her grinning commander gave 
 another signal, and the angular ray was 
 joined by another electro-radium shaft shot 
 straight out from the ship like the boom 
 of a mainsail. With this the ray began to
 
 172 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 spin around the government cutter like 
 skip-waters around the head of an adder. 
 At the first impact there shot up a gigantic 
 water-spout hundreds of feet in height. 
 Added to this came a hissing and sizzling 
 noise like boiling water mingled with es- 
 caping steam, or like cold water spilled on 
 a red-hot stove. Around and around the 
 fire-shaft flew, until it resembled a great 
 cornucopia of daylight in the midst of 
 midnight. The water boiled, foamed and 
 leaped high up in the air, while the little 
 wooden craft rocked and pitched, rolled and 
 floundered, the crew wildly yelling the 
 while with fear. 
 
 Captain Mullock shook his fat fist back 
 at the Agitator, and fumed, swore and 
 snarled in a loud voice that nobody could 
 hear or understand. 
 
 Having thus amused himself to his 
 heart's content, Captain Hautier once 
 more pressed his hand inside his coat and 
 the boom-like ray was cut off and the 
 boiling ceased, though clouds of steam con- 
 tinued to rise for many minutes there- 
 after. Once on board his ship, Captain 
 Mullock was seen to rush madly among his 
 crew shouting orders and waving his short, 
 fat arms like a bear in a bee's nest. Plac- 
 ing a small disk-shaped affair to his lips, 
 Joker Joe called out to him: "I say, 
 'Dewey,' when is the firing to begin?" But 
 the only reply that came back was the un-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 173 
 
 mistakable rumble of anchor heaving, and 
 in a remarkably short space of time the 
 "Terror" was under way and rapidly dis- 
 appearing into the darkness down the 
 Sound. 
 
 A reception and entertainment on board 
 the Agitator had been announced for that 
 very evening, and boat after boat from the 
 shore had already pulled along side with 
 its load of wonder- wrought humanity. 
 The performance with the triangle ray was 
 resumed, and many marvelous and beauti- 
 ful colorings were added to the radio- 
 activity. Then came the electro-magnetic 
 currents, which vitalized the radium pillar 
 and its auxiliary triangle, causing it to 
 spread out into a perfect figure four, not 
 unlike in appearance an enormous sail of 
 white fire, reaching into the very heavens 
 and stretching far out over the sea and 
 land. Without the electro-magnetic cur- 
 rents the light was perfectly cold and harm- 
 less; but with this well-known power as an 
 accompaniment, a terrific heat was gen- 
 erated that nothing on earth or in earth 
 could withstand. Also a splendid thunder 
 and lightning display was as simple and 
 easy of manipulation as the turning of a 
 switch or the pressing of an electric but- 
 ton. And the wonders of this new dis- 
 covery did not stop here. In fact its uses 
 were almost limitless ; and among the many 
 benefits with which it was come to bless
 
 174 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 mankind, were the creating of a cool, vital- 
 izing shower of rain in the brightest and 
 hottest day in summer, or the coldest day 
 in winter. It could dispel the darkness 
 and cold of a winter 's night, turning it 
 into a warm and perfect day; and when 
 young Sands first conceived of it, it had 
 been simply his intention to create a better 
 means of lighting for great cities. But in 
 this hope he had met with only partial 
 success, for, as yet, he had not perfected 
 the tMnbreUa ray upon which he still exper- 
 imented all of his spare time. 
 
 The night was now dark, and the next 
 number on the program was the Comet. 
 'Twas this the natives had come to see. 
 There was a bustle of excitement amid- 
 ships when a small aluminum tube pushed 
 itself up through the center of the whale- 
 back deck and announced in a loud voice, a 
 thousand times clearer than ever came 
 from the throat of man, that the Comet 
 was about to appear, and for all hands to 
 crowd aft and stand still. 
 
 The adjustable observatory or "crow's 
 nest," was occupied by the two Sands', 
 Jack Philips, the Mexican and his young 
 bride, and little Symbols, who clung close 
 to the wizard, that he might be safe while 
 missing nothing of the performance. Pres- 
 ently came the sound of slipping bolts, then 
 the whole fore half of the long, narrow 
 deck opened in a scalloped, or saw-tooth
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 175 
 
 line in the center, the two forward quarters 
 sliding back and down inside the hull. In 
 less time than it can be told a huge black 
 thing of metal that looked like a giant gnat, 
 pushed up through the opening and leaped 
 into the air like a kangaroo. With the 
 leap into the air came the spreading of a 
 pair of great, bat-like wings, and in the 
 same instant the whole frightful thing from 
 nose to tail, became a living streak of bind- 
 ing flame and was gone! 
 
 Nothing like the speed of that meteor- 
 bird is possible of description. In an in- 
 finitesimal fraction of a second, and with 
 a whistling hiss that almost paralyzed the 
 hearing, it was far out over the rolling 
 sea. Up it shot into the sky, up and up. 
 and still up! Rocket is no name for it. 
 There is no name for it! Its course was 
 marked by a mile of crooked lightning. 
 Then at a dizzy height, miles above the 
 ocean and miles to the westward of the 
 ship, it righted, toned down its radiance 
 to a mere glow of red, beat its wings for a 
 few moments against the night and dived 
 straight down like a falling star and 
 plunged head-on into the black billows of 
 Behring Sea! 
 
 Breathless silence, then the screams of 
 women mingled with hoarse outbursts of 
 terror and monstrous oaths from the toil- 
 hardened men arose from the appalled 
 spectators in a discordant explosion of
 
 176 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 heart-felt fear. Up to the point where the 
 infernal thing dived for the water, the 
 Agitator had remained wrapped in dark- 
 ness; but when the Comet disappeared 
 below the waves, the exact spot was marked 
 with the index point of the great finder ray, 
 which had been manipulated from the ship 
 with the unison and accuracy of a trained 
 marksman. There on the Agitator stood 
 the pillar of radium, and from its topmost 
 apex and hinged like a jackknife blade, as 
 it were, with the " blade" rapidly shutting 
 up into the radium handle, streamed down 
 the angular -finder the same ray that had 
 anticipated the wreck of the Aurora, and 
 saved the lives of her survivors in the 
 Yukon River. This done, and quicker than 
 thought, the pillar was cut off, as the " knife 
 blade" of light shut up. Then up from the 
 very bowels of the Deep rose the Comet, all 
 her lean length aflame. Over the ship it 
 flew, dived again into the water, rose and 
 circled and cut and dodged, like the hissing 
 lash of a whip of fire in the hands of some 
 mighty giant, madly flogging the earth and 
 sky, so swiftly and terribly did it cut the 
 Northern night. 
 
 Of a sudden the thing came from some- 
 where out of the darkness with all her 
 lights out, and there she stood, flapping her 
 thin wings above the deck, a moment later 
 to settle down on her supports, finally to 
 disappear into the maw of the Agitator,
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 177 
 
 from whence she came. Of course the 
 crowd clamored for a look at close range; 
 but there was a long programme, and in 
 five minutes all hands were seated in the 
 long auditorium of the little theater, in- 
 cluding the good priest from up the Sound. 
 
 "My remarks will be brief," the speaker 
 was saying. "But you want to know who 
 we are and why we have come among you 
 with our strange ways and our stranger 
 ships and philosophies. We are but men. 
 We are Socialists agents of the Co-opera- 
 tive Commonwealth. That is an economic 
 and political system opposed to Capitalism, 
 and we are agitating for the purpose of 
 enlightening men that they may help 
 Progress to dig a grave for that rotting old 
 carcass. We are presenting you with this 
 free entertainment on our ship for the pur- 
 pose of showing you that there is something 
 better in this world than frost and gold. 
 We are come to bring you good news. In 
 the literature that you will receive free at 
 the door in passing out, you will find 
 mapped out a plan whereby man may 
 safely live among his fellows without the 
 haunting fear of being eaten by his more 
 powerful brother. 
 
 Under Socialism, the cost of living will 
 never rise, compelling those whose scarred 
 hands have created all the wealth of the 
 world to eat garbage.
 
 178 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "I read about a fellow here in this north 
 country one time, who had to eat his moc- 
 casins when game got scarce, and finally he 
 had to fall back on his leather suspenders. 
 I bet that when he was scabbing the job on 
 an overtime shift trying to masticate that 
 dainty repast, he thought of what 'Honest 
 Abe' said about men eating their bread in 
 the sweat of other men's faces. Abe might 
 have said ' backs' instead of ' faces,' but he 
 didn't, and if those suspenders were good 
 ones the rail splitter had one on that guy 
 all right! 
 
 "But game won't be scarce under Social- 
 ism only the skin game. That's the only 
 game that pays under Capitalism. That's 
 the reason capitalists are always rich and 
 you always poor. You raise all the skin 
 and then hand the knife over to the capi- 
 talist. He takes your pelt off at every 
 skinning time every election and then 
 you settle right down to hard work again 
 growing another hide. You do this 
 every four years, and the only thing you 
 ever kick about is when some one touches 
 you on the sore spot where your scalp comes 
 off. 
 
 "There is a certain tree growing in 
 South Africa, the bark of which is a 
 valuable commercial commodity. Each year 
 the corporations dealing in this commodity 
 hire the natives to peel the bark off, and 
 the tree immediately proceeds to grow a 
 new bark, which is again taken off the next
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 179 
 
 year. Now the amount of bark a native can 
 peel in a day is worth to the company one 
 thousand dollars; and for performing; this 
 slight daily service the God-ordained cor- 
 poration generously gives the "free born" 
 native thirteen cents. 
 
 "Problem No. 1. Which gets the worst 
 skinning, the tree or the native. (Silence, 
 protracted and almost uncanny silence.") 
 
 "Problem No. 2. Which do you think 
 is the first to tumble to the racket, the 'free 
 born' native or the tree. (More of the 
 same.) 
 
 "I will tell you who gets the worst of it, 
 and you will be surprised to learn that it 
 is the 'free born' native. And it is the 
 tree which first wakes up, for, after seven 
 vears of this kind of 'thrift and industrv' 
 it refuses to grow another bark. But do 
 vou think that big, husky, 'free born,' 
 living, breathing man ever gets tired of giv- 
 ing his pretty master nine hundred and 
 ninety-nine dollars and eighty-seven cents 
 everv blessed twenty-four hours for the 
 'inalienable right' to slave ten hours of it 
 for thirteen cents'? Never! No 'dividing 
 up' for him! To abolish his master and 
 turn the whole forest over to himself would 
 be 'free love' and the 'destruction of the 
 home!' They have worked this old gag on 
 him so long one would think he would begin 
 to tumble; but then, they have been throw- 
 ing the same hooks into you fellows for lo,
 
 180 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 these many moons, and you have not 
 awakened!" 
 
 "Some on us is beginnin' tue, by cat, 
 and don't you forget it!" drawled out an 
 old Forty-niner, and the larger half of the 
 grizzled miners applauded and laughed. 
 
 "Read our literature. It will help you 
 out of poverty. It will tell you how that 
 every human creature shall have a home. 
 It will tell you how that every love shall 
 find a lover's mate; how that every life 
 shall be secure in peace and plenty, and 
 how that happiness shall reign throughout 
 the earth for all mankind. 
 
 "The day is at hand when you people 
 who brave the Northland won't have to live 
 out all your lives trying to get warm. It 
 strikes me that if I had to freeze to death 
 I would hate to be a whole life time doing 
 it. Down on the Gulf Coast, where I have 
 a ranch, the only thing we have to look out 
 for is wind. It blows so hard down there 
 out of the Gulf that the farmers have to 
 shingle their cows to keep the salt water 
 out of the milk. The crops, you know, all 
 grow on a slant inland, and we build our 
 houses that way, on a bias, so the chamber 
 windows will be on the ground floor, and 
 so the children won't have so far to fall 
 when the houses blow away, you see," per- 
 sisted the jesting Joe. 
 
 "Yaw, haw, haw! Ah don't guess you're 
 overshootin' a whole lot, stranger. Ah'm
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 181 
 
 f'm Corpus Christ! myself; wow!" bawled 
 out a lank individual with an aquiline nose 
 and a wash smile. When the rest of the 
 Texans had sufficiently subsided, the fun 
 flowed on, with everybody in good spirits 
 and perfectly at ease. 
 
 "The reason I am telling you all these 
 things is just to show you the difference 
 between the place where I sometimes live, 
 and this graveyard where you people come 
 to die while trying to get a little something 
 to live on. You miners burn holes in the 
 earth here in Alaska, but we don't do that 
 in Texas. The sun does that for us. But 
 we do have to break out the roads every day 
 there, the same as you do here; only it's 
 sand and alkali instead of snow, and our 
 forests are all found under ground, like 
 "good" Indians. But we never eat our 
 boots in Texas, for to die without our boots 
 on is the worst disgrace a Texan can 
 suffer," he said. 
 
 The assemblage comprised a curious 
 heterogeny of impatient humanity, whose 
 applause at the captain's spicy remarks was 
 loud and genuine. There were both men 
 and women, yes, and many little children 
 of all ages and sizes. Men with bearded 
 faces, and faces red, brown, black and yel- 
 low. Top boots, moccasins and stockinged 
 feet. Wool suits, skin suits, fur suits and 
 calico; and some wrapped in blankets. 
 
 Then on came the pictures 1
 
 182 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 There were the contrasted rich and poor, 
 to show the wide economic and social gulf 
 between these two classes of capitalistic 
 society. These colored slides were made 
 from photographs taken in St. Louis (the 
 city that has to be " boosted"), where dead 
 horses lay for weeks in the streets, both 
 summer and winter; and where dead men 
 lay where they meet death until they freeze, 
 between the rails of trolley lines. Here 
 were scenes from the wretchedest slums 
 anywhere to be found in the "Land of the 
 Free and Home of the Brave!" 
 
 First came a West End mansion costing 
 $3,000,000, and owned by an ex-gambler, 
 now a corporation judge. 
 
 Out in front stood a fine $15,000 auto- 
 mobile, and happy children played games 
 on a beautifully kept lawn among the 
 flowers and fountains, and all around were 
 nice graveled walks and many shade trees. 
 The next was a scene from the East Side 
 slums in the city of New York. A tenement 
 house of crumbling red brick, one of a 
 single block in which were herded twenty 
 thousand starved souls. Children of all 
 ages, and in great numbers, swarmed the 
 festering, narrow streets like rats; some in 
 rags, and some without even these to cover 
 their pitiful nakedness. Ash barrels and 
 barrels of swill littered the three-foot side- 
 walk. Into these swill barrels the arms of 
 snotty urchins were being thrust to the
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 183 
 
 elbows for food, while hundreds were madly 
 fighting each other for a grab at the rotting 
 garbage. Dead cats and dead rats, mingled 
 with heaps of accumulated pollution, 
 clogged the narrow alleys, and from every 
 window sweltered bedraggled, half-starved 
 mothers holding bat-faced, naked babes 
 which looked like ventriloqual figures, save 
 for the gaudy raiment of which they had 
 none. 
 
 Following this frightful scene the opera- 
 tor showed the interior of another mansion 
 the home of a society queen! 
 
 In a gorgeous dining room, seated at a 
 sumptuous feast, with butler and many 
 servants standing at attention, the bawd- 
 attired mistress of a screw-tail terrier fed 
 that ten-thousand-dollar beast sponge cake 
 and cream from her own plate, while her 
 shrimp of a husband dabbled mincingly in 
 venial acquiescence over his squab on toast 
 at the foot of the table. 
 
 In the wake of this social example of 
 twentieth century Gomorrahism came the 
 vivid picture of a garret abode up under 
 the skylight in a squalid hive down in the 
 Ghetto. Lying there on a heap of soiled 
 rags in the corner, gasped the emaciated 
 wreck of a starving washerwoman dying 
 from the white plague! In her bony arms 
 was clasped the nude body of her dead 
 baby, whose thin, white lips still clung to 
 a dry .nipple on her flabby breast !
 
 184 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 At the sight of these horrors of Christian 
 civilization the audience of honest work- 
 folk shuddered and groaned, audibly cursed 
 and tearfully wept! 
 
 It was at this point that the good priest 
 from up the Sound sprang to his feet and 
 wildly gesticulating, demanded that these 
 " scurrilous and defamatory" pictures be 
 stopped. Waving his arms and angrily 
 shouting from his seat among his par- 
 ishioners, he screamed: "You are a gang 
 of devils and are disturbing the public con- 
 fidence! The government ought to adopt 
 positive measures if need be to have you 
 and your seditious practices suppressed." 
 And as he was not ejected for this he cour- 
 ageously ranted on: "You're a menace to 
 the foundations of society! The conditions 
 are as they are because it is God's will! 
 When he wants them changed he will come 
 in his wrath amid fire and thunder, wield- 
 ing a two-edged sword! The wicked shall 
 be judged and 
 
 "A men!" squeaked a wheezy old geezer 
 of perhaps ninety. Thus reinforced, the 
 Godly hierarch victoriously climaxed: "The 
 ways of the Lord are not of our inferior 
 understanding! Verily, he worketh strange 
 miracles among his children, that they may 
 know he is a jealous God, whom all must 
 both love and fear! Kemember this and 
 bow submissively to your burdens, arduous
 
 The bawd-attired mistress of a screw-tailed terrier fed that 
 $10,000 beast sponge cake and cream from her own plate."
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 185 
 
 though they be and unending: 'The poor 
 ye have with you always.' 
 
 "Dos vos no lie, mein schguy pilot 
 friendt. Ve vill haf poor deffls mit uz 
 alvays schoost so long as ve let you schleek 
 deffls shdeer oor eyes up ud ver schtars vile 
 you pig oor poggets und schdeal oor dusd, 
 und vile der vrrrrich deffls vrrrride on oor 
 backs," clanged out a fat Dutchman, stand- 
 ing the while and shaking a ham-like fist 
 in the bloated face of the well-nourished 
 priest. 
 
 Symbols peaked out from behind the 
 wings and grinned, and the orchestra struck 
 up the Marseillaise, and from the boxes on 
 either side of the stage went up a subdued 
 chuckle. 
 
 The operator, at a signal from the pro- 
 fessor, started the motion pictures, and if 
 the Romist was stirred at the colored slides, 
 he was desperately mad now. The films were 
 ten times worse than the stereopticon views, 
 and showed the frightful hells of child 
 slavery in the cities. The maimed and dead 
 on the unspeakable battlefield. The pov- 
 erty-stricken miners up from the depths 
 of the cold, wet earth. And finally, a long 
 line of "chesty" workingmen, dressed in 
 their Sunday best, each smoking an " elec- 
 tion" cigar and voting still once more for 
 the very system by which they are per- 
 petually, legally and systematically robbed.
 
 186 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 But the holy man made no further outbreak 
 and the pictures continued. 
 
 "We will show you how the ill-fated 
 Aurora looked ten seconds after she was 
 blown up," Captain Joe was promising. 
 "You see, the optiscopo graph is not only 
 almost everything else, but it is also a de- 
 vice for the taking of motion pictures. It 
 is always loaded, and we never leave it for 
 a moment without an operator." All the 
 horrors of that aw'ful ride to death, the 
 fight with the robbers when Jack Philips 
 choked two of them into insensibility after 
 Jason had knocked the chief overboard, and 
 then the rescue was run off. But the sur- 
 prise of all came when the exact reproduc- 
 tion of the recent exhibition of the Comet 
 was thrown on the screen of the little float- 
 ing theater. Also there was the captain of 
 the Terror, pulling for dear life for his 
 government ship, while the water leaped 
 and boiled around her, just as it had all 
 occurred only an hour since. It was all so 
 wonderful that the crowd sat, for the most 
 part, motionless and speechless with awe. 
 
 As the astonished and delighted natives 
 filed out upon the deck, each was presented 
 with the classified literature of the new De- 
 mocracy together with a copy of the Appeal 
 to Reason, a red-hot Socialist paper pub- 
 lished at Girard, Kansas, and enjoying the 
 modest circulation of a million. This was 
 the paper whose editor, Fred. D. Warren.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 187 
 
 had been sentenced to serve six months in 
 jail and to pay a heavy fine for two specific 
 reasons, viz. : First, because he was a man, 
 and second, because he dared to stand face 
 to face against the Beast and fight for the 
 rights of the disinherited workers of the 
 world, hurling defiance in the teeth of the 
 most corrupt, but withal, the most powerful 
 government on earth. 
 
 The good priest from up the Sound was 
 the last over the rail, and as the ray went 
 up to light the boats ashore, he was seen to 
 gesticulate wildly as he harangued his 
 rapidly diminishing followers, and what he 
 promised to have done to the Agitator when 
 she should arrive at Victoria, as recorded 
 on the registers of her wireless telephones, 
 may be more lawfully imagined than said!
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 BEASON AND A STONE. 
 
 Through midnight murk the craven coward crept 
 With Judas mien to shame the graveyard ghoul ; 
 Nor warning gave; but e'en as jackals prowl, 
 Or dastard Tarquin slunk to couch befoul 
 
 And ravage virtue while the household slept, 
 He struck with unseen hand his brother down ! 
 And in night's shroud of gloom and Stygian gown, 
 Apostate to his soul, the scurvy lown 
 
 Fled stealthily, the while a people wept! 
 
 "You tell us Socialism is against the 
 Church, " the speaker was saying. "When 
 cornered, you admit that you know nothing 
 about Socialism. And this is your idea of 
 knowledge and philosophy! But I say to 
 you here tonight, that Socialism is against 
 everything that interferes with religious 
 liberty. 
 
 "Socialism is opposed to everything that 
 fetters intelligence with the shackles of su- 
 perstition and fear. 
 
 "Socialism is at war with ignorance, 
 falsehood and slavery, and everything that 
 hangs like mill-stones around the neck of 
 Progress. 
 
 "Socialism is opposed to the sword and 
 the Gatling gun. It is opposed to war, and 
 the spilling of blood. It strikes at poverty 
 and drunkenness, and the hangman's noose. 
 
 (188)
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 189 
 
 It seeks to abolish crime and the causes of 
 crime. It will do away with profit and pull 
 down the Golden Calf of Mammon. It will 
 make child slavery impossible. It will make 
 poverty impossible. It will make ignorance 
 impossible, and it will banish the ghosts 
 of danger and insecurity forever from hu- 
 man society. 
 
 "If the Church is in favor of any of 
 these it is against Progress and humanity. 
 
 "If the Church is in favor of the few 
 rioting in idle luxury off the toil of the 
 many it stands for an exalted parasitism 
 on the one hand and slavish pauperism on 
 the other. 
 
 "If the Church stands for an idle class of 
 gold-spurred vermin riding on the backs of 
 the masses of starving poor, it is at war 
 with liberty. It is against peace and the 
 security of the home. It is arrayed in 
 battle royal against Progress and human 
 justice, and, I say, if such be true, Social- 
 ism will hit it one everlasting swat ! 
 
 "I am ashamed of you hypocrites who 
 parrot the sayings of the Galilean. I am 
 ashamed of my brother and my sister who 
 can read the story of one starving newsboy 
 and excuse their complicity in the crime by 
 blaming the outrage onto God. It may be 
 God's will that there are ten millions of 
 hungry half-naked children in these glorious 
 United States tonight; but if it is, then I
 
 190 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 am proud to announce that I deny and re- 
 pudiate that kind of a god. 
 
 "The god you worship and the church 
 you are afraid Socialism will pull down, 
 may stand for seven millions of starving 
 unemployed workingmen continually tramp- 
 ing the streets of the great cities under the 
 starry folds of Old Glory ; but the god with 
 whom Socialists are chummy doesn't spell 
 his name with the same number of letters. 
 The god of Socialism is the God of 
 Humanity. 
 
 " Socialism will not interfere with any 
 man's religion. It will not demand that a 
 man be soused in ice-water to the danger 
 of his life that his soul may legally under- 
 take to sprout a crop of pin-feathers. But 
 it will make it intellectually possible for 
 him to get next to the raw deal that is being 
 pulled off on him, and then if he still pre- 
 fers the deception to what he knows to be 
 the truth, why, no one will be to blame but 
 himself. 
 
 "Socialism will not oppose any man's 
 faith. He may believe what he pleases so 
 long as he is satisfied to enslave only him- 
 self with such belief. Pretty much all the 
 Socialists with whom I am accquainted are 
 slow to make believe a thing they have 
 found to be a lie. This may seem like in- 
 sanity to the orthodox mind; but then, the 
 orthodox mind is to progress what lead is
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 191 
 
 to a life-preserver. It is belief, belief, and 
 still more belief! 
 
 " Belief has been the miasma of deca- 
 dence polluting the social atmosphere for 
 forty thousand years. Socialists seek not 
 belief but knowledge! Belief is uncertainty, 
 knowledge is reality. If I know a thing 
 I do not have to believe it. It has then 
 become fact and requires not belief, but 
 knowledge to sustain it. 
 
 "A theory may look like truth, but no 
 scientist will accept it as such without a 
 thorough scientific investigation and analyt- 
 ical test; if it stands the test of a scientific 
 analysis, it becomes known and classified, 
 and is a reality. If, on the other hand, 
 it fails to make good under the searching 
 light of reason, it will be relegated to ob- 
 livion by thinking people, and only the faith 
 of fools will be pinned to its shoddy sham. 
 
 "The science of the future will be the 
 science of Self. And that which will not 
 stand the test of a scientific analysis will 
 have to go. 
 
 "To believe a thing is to doubt it. To; 
 know a thing is to realize it.V If we did 
 first doubt it we would not and could not 
 believe it. Belief is one individual's guess 
 plagiarized by another individual who 
 hadn't enough brains to make a good, 
 healthy guess for himself. 
 
 "Of all the venial, garrot-eyed things 
 that crawl on belly through Capitalism's
 
 192 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 slimy social drain, the unblushing "saint" 
 who deceives an innocent child into believ- 
 ing a malevolent lie is the most despicable 
 of all the long list of sneak- thieves, -snatch- 
 baggers and false friends that ever attached 
 feed end to the economic larder of our 
 social structure. He is literally a social 
 barvel ! It is said that all things have their 
 double. If this be true, and if this con- 
 scienceless charlatan and depraved moral 
 papsucker can be matched anywhere among 
 the leeches, perverted pimps and reaction- 
 ary deadwood that clutters the path of 
 Progress, I can not think where, unless it 
 be with the brutal father who violates the 
 virginity of his own daughter; the un- 
 natural mother who deserts her helpless 
 offspring, or the savage beast that devours 
 its first-born young. 
 
 ' ' But, under Socialism, if a man wants to 
 believe he is a jackass he shall have that 
 privilege, and no one will make himself 
 ridiculous by criticizing the harmless bray- 
 ings of an honest ass. 
 
 "If you want to believe you are the rein- 
 carnated spirit of a devil-fish you will be 
 protected in that right, so long as you don't 
 try to get some of the same superstitious 
 soup into me, otherwise you will quickly be 
 shown to a padded cell as a means of public 
 safety. 
 
 "If you want to imagine that you are 
 better than I am, and that you are bound
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 193 
 
 to grow a pair of immaculate wings while 1 
 am to be doomed, dammed and devoured in 
 red-hot brimstone, it won't get you very 
 far into trouble so long as you keep your 
 feet out of my trough. But if you insist 
 on me agreeing with you before I could 
 have a job of useful work, I shall see to it 
 that you are straightway apprehended and 
 suppressed as a public nuisance. 
 
 "Under Socialism a man may know a 
 great deal provided he possesses the mental 
 capacity for thought; if not, then he may 
 still believe a great deal! He may believe 
 there is a god and six devils on every street 
 corner. He may believe that souls are 
 feathered things, and that God don't con- 
 sider the body worth a damn! If you want 
 to believe there is a (rod who demands that 
 you both fear and love him, you may under- 
 take the paradoxical gymnastics of such a 
 mental performance, and contort your cer- 
 ebral machinery until the safety valve blows 
 out. You may believe there is a heaven and 
 a hell, or as many as you like; and if you 
 believe you are going to Heaven and want 
 to go there, you may go to Heaven a.nd take 
 your trunk, or you may go to Hell if you 
 want to. But you won't have any right to 
 take me with you if I am satisfied to stay 
 here." 
 
 Ashworth was a small place, a manu- 
 facturing town built on a small stream 
 among the hills. There were saw mills and
 
 194 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 tanneries and a glove factory there. Also 
 there were cotton mills, hosiery mills, a 
 grist mill and a woolen mill; and it was in 
 this latter roaring slave pen that Jason 
 Sands had worked eleven hours a day when 
 a mere lad, "twisting in" warp for twenty- 
 seven looms. He had not been there very 
 long when he invented a new process, which 
 process was promptly stolen from him. And 
 then he was discharged for having the 
 audacity to protest. It was said to be a 
 "hot" town ! That is to say, it encompassed 
 more crime, vice and drunkenness to the 
 square inch than other towns of its size 
 which were considered less "hot." 
 
 Canadian-French were given the prefer- 
 ence over the natives in the mills, for, hav- 
 ing no ideas of free government, they could 
 be depended upon to vote as told and they 
 would not join a union. Moreover, they 
 would work for anything offered them and 
 no thought of dissatisfaction ever crept 
 into their skulls; for they were, every 
 mother's son of them, good and devout 
 Catholics. 
 
 And so, while the soil was fertile enough, 
 it was so choked with inherited ignorance 
 and intellectual weeds that Socialism had 
 taken root very slowly, and then only after 
 a long and tedious uphill propaganda by a 
 handful of courageous comrades. The lec- 
 ture which Leland Tannerhill had come to 
 attend was the first of its kind ever ad-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 195 
 
 vertised in the community, and the task our 
 friend from the Southwest was up against 
 was not an envious one. 
 
 "I opened this discourse with the state- 
 ment that Socialism is an economic and 
 political question," the big Texan resumed, 
 "and you leap to your feet and demand to 
 know what the Socialist position is con- 
 cerning religion. Did you ever ask any of 
 the bell-weathered flock of the Republican 
 or Democrat parties a question like that? 
 No! That question has never been trotted 
 out for the purpose of combating the poli- 
 tics of any but the Socialist. You know 
 better than to interrogate any of the old 
 partyites on this ticklish point. You know, 
 only too well, their position on the Church. 
 They stand for it, and they stand on itl 
 And when its morals become too slippery 
 for firm footing, as is frequently the case, 
 they proceed in self -protection to clap on 
 the lid and sit on it. 
 
 "The Church has always been found on 
 the side of Capitalism; and Capitalism has 
 ever been found on the backs of the 
 workers. 
 
 "It is none of your business what I be- 
 lieve regarding religion. That is my own 
 private affair. If your church is what is 
 claimed for it, i. e., 'builded on the solid 
 rock of righteousness, ' it is in no fear from 
 evil influences surely not from the peace- 
 ful Brotherhood of Man. 'The works of a
 
 196 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 just God cannot be destroyed.' It is only 
 the sham that fears the light of reason. 
 Does your church fear the light? If you 
 want to enrage a beast show it red. If you 
 would discomfort a fakir uncover his fraud. 
 If you wish to frighten a murderer let him 
 see blood LOOK AT YOUR HANDS!" 
 
 The gentleman who had croaked out the 
 old familiar "Socialism will destroy re- 
 ligion" bug, was seated away back in the 
 rear of the hall where the light was dim; 
 but Stanley could see that he wore a seedy 
 old broadcloth coat of the ancient orthodox 
 country preacher cut, that he was old, and 
 all hunched up in a heap like a hermit crab 
 in a hank of wet kelp. With his last re- 
 mark the speaker had reached far out over 
 the audience to shake an accusing finger at 
 him, and the crowd, which up to this point 
 had remained deathly still, broke out in ap- 
 plause and every one turned to see what 
 the "Old Scorpion," as he was called, would 
 reply. 
 
 For forty years the old Shylock had kept 
 a country store at Merrydeath Crossroads, 
 and it was while engaged in the traffic of 
 human necessities that he had acquired the 
 additional nom de nique of "Margin Bead- 
 eye." This was for the double reason that 
 first, his little round eyes retired far up 
 near the timber line of his rennet-bag face, 
 where they looked for all the world like 
 two black beads just showing through their
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 197 
 
 pus-dripping lids. And secondly, because 
 lie was always whining to his customers 
 that there was no " margin" (of profit) on 
 the goods be sold them on credit at five 
 times their actual value. The " scorpion" 
 part was of more recent origin, and had 
 been honestly earned by him in payment for 
 his hatred of children and the eagerness 
 with which he would "sting" every one 
 with insult and abuse with whom he did 
 not agree. Nevertheless, he was the main 
 pillar of the richest church in the town, 
 and while he still wore the same old 
 clerical coat for best that he appeared 
 in on the first Sunday of his arrival 
 from God only knows where he was re- 
 puted to be the owner of more rents than 
 all the rest of the community put together. 
 But the eminently respectable gentleman- 
 retired, had evidently had enough, for he 
 did not reply. On the other hand, he sought 
 the first opportunity when the house was 
 engaged in an outburst of enthusiasm, to 
 slink out into the autumn night. 
 
 Stanley Lark was at his best. He had 
 heard the pathetic story of Tannerhill that 
 afternoon, and if ever orator were in- 
 spired it was he. He drew a parallel of 
 the Sands-Tann'erhill case, staging it in a 
 western town and using no names, but the 
 audience understood ; and as his voice rang 
 out clear and powerful with the terrible in- 
 dictment of the capitalist system, which
 
 198 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 system he showed to be the cause of those 
 two broken homes, his audience swayed and 
 reeled in sympathy with his emotional elo- 
 quence, and many a tear of pity and shame 
 was seen to fall as they gazed on the silvery 
 locks of the last of the Tannerhills and 
 realized the sorrow and hopelessness of his 
 empty years. 
 
 "I am going to tell you the true story 
 of the travels and adventures of a quart 
 of milk," he said. "It is the history of 
 all milk born in the country that gets 
 canned and finds its way into the big cities. 
 You farmers milk it from the cow fresh 
 and pure. You sell it here delivered at 
 the railroad station for three cents a quart. 
 It goes to Boston on the train, is separated 
 from its cream, dumped into a machine and 
 'raised' to two quarts, drugged with soda, 
 formaldehyde a deadly poison " weight- 
 ed,' colored and thinned with dirty water, 
 and then sold for twenty cents to working 
 people. But that is only a part of its his- 
 tory. It has now only just started on its 
 deadly career. A hollow-eyed wife and 
 mother finds it at five o'clock in the morn- 
 ing at the foot of a pair of rickety back- 
 stairs at the door of the rented shack. John 
 uses two teaspoonfuls in his cup of coffee. 
 Those two spoonfuls of 'milk' contain sev- 
 enty millions of deadly disease germs. And 
 John has stomach trouble! Another man
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 199 
 
 gets John's job, and the coffin trust gets 
 John. 
 
 "But even that isn't all. In a crib at the 
 bedside, the blue, birdlike hands of an in- 
 fantJohn's and Mary's clutch feebly at 
 the rubber nipple of a nursing-bottle. And 
 then it cries faintly, but with as much 
 strength as it possesses, and Mary conies 
 to bring some of the thin, blue stuff, some 
 of which ten days ago was being milked 
 from a real cow on a New Hampshire farm. 
 The hungry babe greedily devours the taxi- 
 dermized fluid, and with each swallow that 
 the tiny throat takes in, goes thirty mil- 
 lions of bacteria along with the rest of 
 the deadly dope. This is murder! But it 
 is Capitalism the profit system and you 
 voted for that system, and when you voted 
 for that system you became the accomplice 
 in crime, aiding and abetting in the annual 
 murder of three millions five hundred 
 thousand innocent babes in these United 
 States of America, through the sale of im- 
 pure milk alone. What will your children 
 think of their fathers who assisted in the 
 1 slaughter of the innocents?' 
 
 "In a few years Socialism will be here 
 to change all this, and then what shall be 
 said of men who voted for and placed the 
 seal of license and respectability upon every 
 crime known to mankind rather than ' shift 
 their politics!'
 
 200 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "I know a man out west on an Arkansas 
 ranch who is afraid that Socialism will 
 compel him to * divide up ! ' He told me so. 
 There are a lot of people haunted with the 
 same old familiar ghost. He showed me 
 over the farm, and presently we came to 
 a queer-looking iron machine, all painted 
 and striped red and blue. It was a beau- 
 tiful thing, and at first sight I thought it 
 was some kind of a musical instrument. 
 'That is a separator,' he explained. 'It 
 separates the cream from the blue milk.' 
 Why do you separate it? I asked. 'O, the 
 cream goes to Galveston and is sold to the 
 rich,' he answered. And the blue milk? 1 
 inquired. 'That stuff,' said he, jerking his 
 thumb in the direction of a large tank of 
 it, 'that ain't fit for sellin', I don't guess; 
 we eats that ourselves.' How much did 
 you pay for that machine? I next quizzed. 
 'Three hundred dollars,' was the answer. 
 Ladies and gentlemen, I stared at that man ; 
 and while he did not look it, I realized that 
 I had located a genuine, and very rare liv- 
 ing specimen of the now almost extinct 
 Anencephalious Cebine. 
 
 "Here was a man owning a splendid 
 farm of as fertile soil as ever lay out of 
 doors, Who had given Capitalism three hun- 
 dred dollars for a machine guaranteed to 
 separate him from the best his farm pro- 
 duced, the cream, as it were, while he and 
 his wife and little ones had to skimp along
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 201 
 
 on the blue milk! And this man, who as- 
 sured me he was a good Democrat, would 
 not vote for Socialism for fear he would 
 have to i divide up!' No wonder he was a 
 Democrat! Any one who knows as much 
 as that man knows can be a good Demo- 
 crat ! If he hadn't of known any more than 
 to want that good cream for himself and 
 family, he would have been fool enough 
 to be a Socialist. But he'll die that way. 
 The great and wise die young! He con- 
 vinced me that he was killing himself with 
 work, creating cream for his masters and 
 starving to death the while amid plenty on 
 a diet of whey. 
 
 " According to the figures of the United 
 States Statisticians on Agruculture, a forty- 
 acre farm in Arkansas will raise enough 
 per annum to keep in first class condition 
 three hundred healthy men. This man 
 owned one hundred and sixty acres of the 
 best land in the state. He had worked it 
 early and late for thirty years and was 
 poor. In the thirty years, according to the 
 aforesaid reliable statistics, he had pro- 
 duced enough with his labor, conservatively 
 speaking, to keep him comfortably for 
 three thousand and three hundred years in 
 abundance. And still this man didn't know 
 enough to know that he was being skinned. 
 Any person who knows as much as he does 
 knows almost enough to be a Republican! 
 Some of you people may know this mental
 
 202 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 prodigy, his name is E. Z. Mark, and speci- 
 mens of his kind may still be found 
 throughout the United States, especially in 
 the rural districts." 
 
 It was a good story, and well told; and it 
 was evident that the speaker from Texas 
 knew what he was talking about. He was 
 making a decided hit with the farmers in 
 his audience. 
 
 Leland was all attention. He liked 
 Stanley Lark, and knew he was a good man. 
 Also he knew he was speaking the truth, 
 and he resolved right then and there to 
 cast his lot with the Socialists and vote 
 with them from now on. Life had sud- 
 denly assumed a new aspect. There was 
 hope after all. These Socialists were dif- 
 ferent. They were not politicians, they 
 were idealists philosophers. In, and under 
 and beyond their politics there was a 
 greater thing than politics. There was a 
 goal, which goal was an Idealism. They 
 were a political party, but the political part 
 was simply the legal machinery to be oper- 
 ated for the purpose of constructing execu- 
 tive policies, and the ballot was the legal 
 instrument for capturing the powers of 
 government from the other political par- 
 ties, which parties simply changed works ru 
 the process of "separating" the wealth 
 from the workers. The political party, 
 then, was but a means a conveyance by 
 which the millions of disinherited workers
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 203 
 
 were to ride to victory in the possession 
 of the reins of government, and come into 
 their own. He had wondered how they 
 were going to do it, and now here was the 
 secret. The speaker had made it all clear 
 on that point when he said: "You desire 
 to know 'how we are to do it!' The ques- 
 tion is a remarkable one, and I must confess 
 that I am astounded. After voting, all your 
 lives, for political parties, you have to come 
 to a Socialist to inquire how political par- 
 ties get into power!" 
 
 The wit who had propounded this ar- 
 chaic, and time-worn socraticism, was the 
 shyster lawyer, Jibbs. The speaker had 
 gone to some length by way of making the 
 deep, dark secret clear to his musty, be- 
 sodden brain, and when he had finished 
 there was no mistaking his meaning. "I 
 will tell you how we are going to try to do 
 it," he said, "and unless we are prevented 
 by fraud, we will eventually win by this 
 peaceful method. We will establish the Co- 
 operative Commonwealth only after a ma- 
 jority of citizens have expressed their de- 
 sire for Socialism through having voted 
 the Socialist ticket at the ballot box. 
 
 "The Socialist party is a regularly or- 
 ganized political party with local head- 
 quarters in every city and town in the 
 country. The name of our party is in- 
 scribed on the national ballot beside that of 
 the Republicans and Democrats. Every
 
 204 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 voter who votes, sees our name before him, 
 and he can vote as easily for Eugene V. 
 Debs, as he can for continuous perf ormanoe 
 Bill Bryan, Rafty Taftus, or Titmouse 
 Ted, the man who thinks he is the rein- 
 carnated Caesar, and who believes he is 
 destined to be Emperor I. of America. But 
 Socialism appeals to intelligence, and no 
 one will vote the Socialist ticket who is too 
 ignorant to comprehend the principles of 
 the philosophy of Socialism. When these 
 principles are understood by the voters they 
 become Socialists. When once a man be- 
 comes a Socialist, he will vote the Socialist 
 ticket, first, last, and all the time ever after, 
 and never any other. 
 
 "You don't have to know very much to 
 be a Socialist. You don't have to know 
 who invented the hobble skirt for women, 
 nor why Jeffries chewed gum at Reno. 
 Neither is it necessary that you post up on 
 the science of Astronomy as practiced by 
 the tree people ten million years ago. But 
 you must know that you are being robbed 
 and that you want to stop the robbery. 
 You will surely have to pass that important 
 examination, and w r hen you have mastered 
 political and social economy to that extent, 
 you will know enough to vote with the 
 Socialists and your ultimate graduation is 
 as certain as that capitalist politicians will 
 steal. If you feel that you cannot qualify 
 under these circumstances, stick to the
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 205 
 
 Republicans and Democrats until you arc 
 sucked dry; for all you have to know to 
 be a good partisian of either of these is: 
 you must knoiv your master's voice! 
 
 "When more Republicans and Democrats 
 vote the Republican ticket than vote the 
 Democratic ticket, the Republicans win, 
 and go into power in the government. 
 When more Democrats and Republicans 
 vote the Democratic ticket than the Repub- 
 lican ticket, the Democrats win, and go into 
 power. When more voters learn what So- 
 cialism means than vote both the Repub- 
 lican and Democratic tickets the working 
 class will win and go into power in the 
 government, and on that day will end the 
 history of political corruption, otherwise 
 known as graft. 
 
 "The reason the Socialists will have to 
 have more votes to win than both the other 
 parties named, is, that they are both one 
 in interest, and will fuse at the last ditch 
 to beat their common foe the Socialist 
 Party. They are both capitalist parties, 
 the right and left wings of the same old 
 bird of prey Capitalism. The only reason 
 for their dual existence is that, they must 
 have some sensational means of fooling you 
 at each election, and in order to keep the 
 wool pulled over your eyes so that you can- 
 not see with which hand they pick your 
 pocket. They maintain a sham political 
 fight, knowing that you will be too deeply
 
 206 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 interested in watching the fun and choos- 
 ing imaginary sides to think of building up 
 a party of your own. Besides, at each elec- 
 tion they pull all the wool off your backs, 
 and, you know, you must have time for it 
 to grow out again, so as to be in trim for 
 another plucking." 
 
 Next he told them of governments, and 
 why they were instituted among men. "You 
 all know the popular theory," he said, 
 "that all governments are for the purpose 
 of 'securing the greatest good to the great- 
 est number/ 'the inalienable rights of life, 
 liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,' and 
 all that fine-sounding bunk? We've been 
 fed on that old warmed-over handout until 
 it reminds me of the story of the city guy 
 who went to the country to engage in the 
 poultry business. Of course he had never 
 seen a hen, but that didn't make any dif- 
 ference. Well, he was getting along all 
 right until the village fool paid him a visit 
 one day and advised him to mix sawdust 
 with the cornmeal for feed to cut expenses. 
 Then the village fool told a neighbor and 
 the neighbor called and volunteered the 
 same economic bill of fare. Also the neigh- 
 bor told another neighbor, and the other 
 neighbor called on the new hen man and 
 parroted the same dope, told another 
 neighbor, and so on until the excounter 
 jumper hen man laid in a goodly supply 
 of sawdust from the mill up the brook and
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 207 
 
 began feeding his flock the new diet, with 
 the result that, all the chickens hatched had 
 wooden legs. 
 
 "Now that's exactly what has happened 
 to you. Your fathers and mothers were 
 slaves, you were conceived on an empty 
 stomach, nurtured on a diet of political 
 whey, with the result, not that you have 
 wooden legs, but wooden heads." 
 
 Stanley was noted for his good stories, 
 and for the good-natured sarcasm with 
 which they were told. Everybody laughed 
 at this one, except those of the grim Re- 
 publican ring and a puny gentleman with 
 feminine shoulders and a receding chin, 
 and wearing a collar that buttoned in the 
 back. These soft-palmers seemed to grow 
 shorter in their seats, and it could be seen 
 that hatred, bitter and venene hatred, 
 gleamed from beneath their shadowy brows. 
 
 "We are regularly fed and fattened on 
 this cerebral embalming fluid by your lying 
 old-party press, just prior to each annual 
 killing at the polls. Moreover, the high- 
 salaried old-party spellbinders periodically 
 claw space and steer your eyes on the 'blue 
 dome of high Heaven,' holding up first the 
 'fool dinner pail,' then the 'tariff' bug, and 
 lastly, when all others fail, the bloody shirt 
 of war. 
 
 "Shame on you workingmen! You fall 
 for each and every one of these old empty 
 husks, year after year, while prices go up
 
 208 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 and your income goes down; and you 
 march to the mournful notes of the muted 
 funeral dirge to lay away your worn out 
 dear ones over yonder on the hill among 
 the white stones and the weeping willows. 
 
 "But you will not become Socialists, for 
 to be a Socialist, from your point of reason- 
 ing, is to be a 'turncoat!' Now you have 
 been educated to believe that a turncoat 
 was about the most disloyal and traitorous 
 slave in the whole yoked caravan of God- 
 fearing, hocus-pocus worshiping citizenry. 
 Your father on his deathbed told you that 
 a i turncoat' was a political backslider who 
 had sunk so low in the scale of stand-pat- 
 dom as to actually dare to change masters! 
 Such were treason indeed! 
 
 "When your Republican master has be- 
 come expert with the political knife in 
 taking your economic hide off, why take 
 the knife away from him and give it to the 
 Democratic master? If I have to be 
 skinned, I'd rather have the job done by 
 an expert than a bungler whose hand is 
 out and all atremble with stage-fright. 
 
 "The Socialist disclaims the honor of 
 being a 'turncoat.' He is one who, seeing 
 the old coat worn threadbare, discovers the 
 thing to be nothing but shoddy anyhow, and 
 so, instead of 'turning' the old coat for 
 another threadbare wearing on the wrong 
 side, flings the thing away bodily, and de- 
 mands a new garment out of whole cloth.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 209 
 
 He is not a 'turncoat/ but a rebel slave, 
 awakened from his long cataleptic inertia 
 to demand that a stop be put to the skin- 
 ning. He is no longer satisfied to be lulled 
 to sleep for the purpose of being legally 
 robbed. The rags of a political coat 
 fashioned to fit his dead progenitors do not 
 hang well on his broad shoulders. The 
 picture-hero, 'Toothy Ted,' glorifies a 'pros- 
 perity for the man with patches on his 
 pants!' Patches are not good enough for 
 Socialists. I am a Socialist, not because I 
 am a ' turncoat, ' nor because I want patches 
 on my pants; but because I want a whole 
 new suit of political clothes, made by the 
 scientific economic tailors of our twentieth 
 century needs, and not the ancient reform 
 patches of dead men who lived in the un- 
 citied and uncultured days of hand tools 
 and hand methods. 
 
 "Socialists are horrified at war and the 
 prospects of war, terming it murder and a 
 relic of barbarism. But these old boiler- 
 plate spielers these 'saviors' of the nation 
 grow purple in the face while 'viewing 
 with alarm' the 'dangerous' doctrines of us 
 human coral-workers, whom they are 
 pleased to term 'dreamers,' and 'visionary 
 impossibilists.!' How your manly chests 
 swell with an inherited family pride when 
 you listen to these old whiskey-logged pro- 
 curers lavishing their abundant praises on 
 this 'grand Rep(hic)ublican form o'
 
 210 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 gov'ment th' greatest, most glo (Me) rious, 
 most pow'ful 'n most prosp'rous (Me) 
 gov'ment under th' starry can(Mc)opy of 
 high (Me) Heaven!' " 
 
 While his masters were laying the wires 
 to buy Ms " election" to the Senate, Bol- 
 liver, of "Ahowa," was freighted through 
 that country on a speaking tour. Stand- 
 ing on an elaborate grandstand covered 
 with colored bunting and built for the oc- 
 casion in front of the Hilton Hotel, in 
 Madison, Maine, after delivering himself 
 of a vile tirade of vicious abuse of the 
 " dangerous and troublesome Socialists," 
 he raised both hands in reverence to a huge 
 American flag stretched clear across the 
 street, and with the yellow froth of un- 
 controlled anger spurting from his lying 
 lips, hysterically yelled: "I view with 
 alarm the seditious schemes of these dis- 
 satisfied traitors to our American institu- 
 tions. These hair-faced, wild-eyed, red- 
 throated Socialists- Anarchists, these flan- 
 nel-mouthed free-lovers and destroyers of 
 the home! And I point with pride to Old 
 -Glory, whose virtuous, star-spangled folds 
 wave triumphantly over the Land of the 
 Free and the Home of the Brave. I point 
 with pride to the fact that the sun never 
 sets where her heroic colors defiantly float; 
 and I point with pride still once again, to 
 the one million, five hundred thousand 
 graves in the South, as a result of the glori-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 211 
 
 ous victory of the 'Boys in Blue' when the 
 Republican party saved the nation in the 
 early sixties/' 
 
 Stanley knew the story, and he told them 
 some more just to show that he knew what 
 he was talking about. Bolliver followed 
 his Madison speech with a meeting in 
 Skowhegan the next night, where, as it so 
 happened, James P. Carey, Socialist, mem- 
 ber of the Massachusetts Legislature for 
 five consecutive terms, was speaking for 
 the Socialists on the streets. "I will tell 
 you this story precisely as they told it to 
 me," said Lark, "for 1 would not care to 
 lie about a dead man, especially when the 
 whole truth is too terrible to be told, and 
 too damning to be believed. 
 
 "The near-senator Bolliver advanced to 
 the footlights in the crowded Opera House, 
 heroically grabbed a couple of handfuls of 
 imaginary whiskers from the face of an 
 imaginary Socialist agitator immediately 
 in the imaginary front of him, and after 
 a magnificent display of physical dexterity 
 in demolishing the straw terror of his tem- 
 pestuous brain, he fairly shrieked: 'When 
 the Socialists get their little heads above 
 the grass we will find adequate means of 
 successfully dealing with them!' 
 
 "A runner reported this intelligence to 
 Comrade Carey on the Public Square, and 
 Carey rested from his speaking long 
 enough to dictate back the following reply:
 
 212 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 'Unfortunately for you and your adequate 
 means, Socialists cannot boast of kinship 
 with such as you who crawl on your bellies 
 through the grass. They are not serpents 
 hiding in the tall grasses to strike the 
 poison fang into the vitals of misled vic- 
 tims. When workingmen become enlight- 
 ened to their own interests, they will mow 
 down the swales of ignorance, uncovering 
 your foul nests of deceit and corruption. 
 But your heads will be in no immediate 
 danger! Whenever the pollypod of decep- 
 tion and false teaching has been leveled, the 
 only visible sign of you will be the pollu- 
 tion and bones you have left behind and 
 the holes where you will have burrowed in 
 to shed your scaley yellow skins.' 
 
 " Senator Bolliver is now peacefully rest- 
 ing from his fruitless labors, while the 
 grass grows rank and green above his 
 harmless clay, and the terrible Socialists 
 continue to spread their 'seditious' doc- 
 trines in increasing volume, and Jim Carey 
 is still on the job." 
 
 Then he told them more about govern- 
 ments, and how that every so-called Re- 
 public was only a Monarchy under another 
 name. "We have the American Au- 
 tocracy," he said, "the most absolute ty- 
 rannical monarchy that ever rode the backs 
 of a subjugated people. We are ruled not 
 by a king, but by the kings!" - the Kings 
 of Coin.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 213 
 
 From this lie took them all through the 
 long list of Monarchies, Republics, and re- 
 ligious dictatorships that had ruled the 
 world from the days of the Tree People 
 before Adam, to our present cliff-dwelling 
 civilization in our skyscraped and sewer- 
 slummed Injunction Republic. He told 
 them of the family groups, banded to- 
 gether for self-protection from wild ani- 
 mals; of the communal groups banded to- 
 gether for protection and self-interest 
 against the hostile groups of other tribes; 
 of the invention of fire, of money, religion, 
 and dictatorial power. Up over the long, 
 painful staircase of time he led them, 
 step by step, through every successive 
 stage of civilization, showing the many 
 changes and revolutions that had come and 
 gone in the slow process of evolutionary 
 progress. He told them that man had 
 progressed, not because, but in spite of, 
 his governments, his religions, and his 
 "friends." 
 
 "All governments were enforced forms 
 of slavery," he told them. "Government 
 began when the first male brute bit, clawed 
 and lorded it over his female mate. Then 
 came the battle against nature for food, 
 when the strong enslaved the weak as 
 burden bearers and tillers of the soil. The 
 biggest hairy brute in the group enslaved 
 all the lesser hairy brutes, weighting their 
 heads down with yokes of wood to keep
 
 214 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 them from running away, and clubbing 
 them to their tasks or to death as pleased 
 his savage fancy. 
 
 "But the colony grew and the slaves mul- 
 tiplied, and then came the subordinate of- 
 ficers the lesser chiefs appointed by the 
 greater the lieutenants, police, soldiers or 
 whatever you are pleased to call them. 
 Anyway, they had stayed with us, and the 
 system of slavery had stayed with us. The 
 difference between then and now being in 
 degree and method only. Then it was a 
 hairy beast-man, nude, going authorita- 
 tively among the workers with a rude club, 
 prodding here and braining there, and tak- 
 ing orders from a more fearful beast-man 
 higher up. 
 
 "Now it is a smooth-shaven man-beast, 
 garbed in a blue uniform, going among 
 workingmen with a neatly turned and nicely 
 polished l big-stick,' a tin label pinned 
 over his yellow heart to show that he car- 
 ries a license to kill, clubbing heads or 
 yoking the hands with iron handcuffs, 
 hanging them with ropes or shooting and 
 gutting them with muskets and bayonets 
 as the case may be. The former was a 
 crude, and wasteful barbarism crude be- 
 cause undeveloped, and wasteful because 
 slaves were few and hard to hold. The 
 present system being simply a more refined 
 and scientific barbarism, with thousands of 
 years of improvement in method, and a
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 215 
 
 thousand times more cruel than the old. 
 Then a rebellious slave was crashed to 
 earth, roasted and eaten; now he is i black- 
 listed,' discharged and turned loose to 
 starve. Then slaves were hunted and 
 driven into pitfalls, yoked and watched day 
 and night to prevent their escape ; now they 
 are advertised for in the newspapers and 
 often a riot call has to be rung in for the 
 police to keep them from mobbing their 
 masters for a job of work! 
 
 "And then money was invented. 
 
 "Beautiful shells and pretty pearls 
 these were the first 'medium of exchange/ 
 Added to which came horns, skins, bones 
 and a thousand devices and implements of 
 both use and beauty. Upon this coinage of 
 the realm were engraved the first images, 
 pictures and heiroglyphics, and thus 'Art' 
 was born. It was not Art for Art's sake, 
 for it was done by slaves who found favor 
 with the beast-man-higher-up, and so the 
 'government' stamp was placed on the 
 tribal specie. This form of human exploi- 
 tation is still in vogue, only in a more 
 fraudulent and intensified degree. In those 
 days a shell was a shell. Now, a dollar is 
 63 cents and they may not be scraped up 
 generously on the sea shores. 
 
 "Out of all this, stealing, and diverse 
 forms of grand and petty robbery legal 
 and illegal evolved, as a result of which 
 the land is filled today with those boasted
 
 216 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 'free institutions' of which we hear so 
 much the great American bull pen, or 
 penitentiary, the poorhouse, insane asy- 
 lum, the 'free lunch,' and the potter's field. 
 
 "On the heels of money came religion. 
 
 "Of course! Neither could have existed 
 long without the other, and so, when light- 
 ning accidentally struck among the slaves 
 one day killing the most unruly and rebel- 
 lious of them, God was invented. It was an 
 invention by man destined to serve the 
 double purpose of creating that time-hon- 
 ored institution known as the 'Divine 
 Right of Kings,' and to foster supersti- 
 tion and ignorance in the slave, through 
 fear of the Great Hot Noise, whose control, 
 through the benevolence of the Great Noise- 
 maker, henceforth was to reside in the 
 hands of the Big Chief, -Hairy Beast-Man! 
 
 "Governments have improved much since 
 the days of the wooden slave yoke," the big 
 Texan told them. "But they have ever 
 been governments by the masters for the 
 enslavement of the slaves. The masters 
 never needed any governing. They were 
 always above government they were the 
 government! Without masters there could 
 be no slaves, and without slaves the masters 
 would have to work and earn their own 
 living like honest people. The masters 
 were always agreed class-conscious, as it 
 were and never fell out except through 
 jealousy or greed, and then they proceeded
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 217 
 
 patriotically, to set their slaves to fighting 
 on the 'glorious field of battle!* 
 
 "The United States Government was 
 formed by plutocrats, ' ' he told them. ' * They 
 were the sporadic embryo of a multiplicity 
 of money-kings, which money-kings were 
 to rule this nation as no monarchy was ever 
 ruled before. There was not a working- 
 man among them. It was not a majority 
 rule, but a minority rule they established. 
 The Declaration of Independence was fine- 
 sounding phraseology; but the Constitution 
 was a document drawn up and signed by 
 pirates and smugglers, and the Supreme 
 Court was simply the kennel of Wall 
 Street, whose watch dogs were there to 
 guard stolen goods and growl back the 
 people from the gate whenever they men- 
 aced the Money-Bags. 
 
 Then he asked them if they had ever read 
 "The Spirit of the American Govern- 
 ment," by J. Allen Smith. Also he wanted 
 to know of them, if they had ever heard of 
 Kirkpatrick, and his "War What For?" 
 But, as nobody scratched, he kept firing 
 away until, finally, Bert Tarbarrel, the 
 Hinklyville bully and Democrat ward 
 heeler for Slab City, courageously chal- 
 lenged: "How about Thomas Jefferson 1 ? 
 Tell us about him. Wasn't he the greatest 
 Democratic statesman or any other states- 
 man for that matter that ever lived?"
 
 218 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 " Possibly," circumvented the wary 
 Texan, "and lie might easily have qualified 
 as a preacher, or even a priest/' he added, 
 naively. "Among the many great states- 
 manlike proclivities accredited to Jeffer- 
 son," he explained, "was his Platonic love 
 of the negro. Especially Platonic seems 
 to have been his avidity for the carbon- 
 skinned aboriginal of the feminine gender. 
 He so loved the odoriferous wench that he 
 wept regretfully on his deathbed that there 
 was no surety, under the Slave Code, that 
 his beautiful mulatto daughters would not 
 be 'coerced' and sold on the auction block 
 into the rice swamps, or at the 'harem 
 price!' Of course, Thomas Jefferson was 
 a white man. But the mother of his mu- 
 latto children was a negress, as black as the 
 ace of spades and as oily and effluvious as 
 a university donation from John D. Rocke- 
 feller. 
 
 "Yes, Jefferson was a great man," he 
 concurred. "He penned this declaration: 
 'All men are created equal.' Also, he seems 
 to have done all he could paternally to live 
 up to that declaration. As further evi- 
 dence if any were needed that Thomas 
 Jefferson was a great and good man, be- 
 sides being the common-law husband of a 
 negro slave and the father of a whole nest 
 of little black slavelings, he is still accred- 
 ited in some quarters with being the
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 219 
 
 illustrious sire of the Democratic jackass 
 and the despairing refuge of the few frag- 
 mentory derelicts of that decadent Jeffer- 
 sonian Democracy, whatever that may 
 mean. If this doesn't answer your ques- 
 tion/' tantalized the merciless iconoclast, 
 "dig up a copy of 'The American Slave 
 Code' (suppressed), by William Goodell, 
 turn to page 375 and read how this same 
 Thomas Jefferson waited until death-struck 
 to pen a clause in his last will and testa- 
 ment, conferring freedom on his own mu- 
 latto offspring Ms own flesh and blood 
 so far as the Slave Code permitted him to 
 do, and 'humbly' imploring the legislature 
 of Virginia to confirm the bequests, 'with 
 permission to remain in the state, where 
 their families and connections are' then 
 dying under such a cloud of shame and 
 uncertainty." 
 
 Ashworth was a Eepublican town. That 
 settled it ! Bert Tarbarrel, ex-factory slave 
 driver, gambler, town blaggard and beater- 
 up of defenseless country boys, had met his 
 Waterloo. The crowd hooted him out of 
 the hall, and when the "Shoofly" from 
 Boston slowed up at that place on its mid- 
 nightly run through the New Hampshire 
 hills to Canada, a dark form swung on to 
 the blind baggage and was pulled into the 
 night, never to return. 
 
 "Socialists are not necessarily better 
 men, but they know more. They know
 
 220 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 some of the vital things of life. Some of 
 the things they know are so! They know 
 what they want, and they are the only peo- 
 ple in the world who do. They know that 
 you want the same conditions that they 
 want; but you don't know that. They know 
 how to get the things for all men that they 
 know all men want; but your ignorance is 
 in the way, and they know they can accom- 
 plish the regeneration of the world only 
 after a majority have come to know what 
 they know. They know that they are slaves, 
 and that they are being 'divided up' from 
 the product of their labor. This knowledge 
 has resulted in their becoming unwilling 
 slaves. They are not 'satisfied with their 
 lot!' They haven't a lot. They have only 
 a little! That's because they belong to the 
 working class. The working class creates 
 a lot, but owns a little. It's only those 
 who create little that own a lot. The less 
 one creates under Capitalism, the more he 
 may own. The capitalist creates nothing 
 and owns everything. That's because you 
 believe something that isn't true. You 
 believe you are free and independent 
 citizens. 
 
 "You believe that you are all equal be- 
 fore the law, and that every boy born in 
 America has an equal chance to become 
 President of the United States (I suppose 
 all at the same time) ! You hear this from 
 the moment you are a pip in the shell to
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 221 
 
 the day when they fold your calloused 
 hands and send you back to the potato 
 patch for the count. It comes to us from 
 every point of the compass: the school- 
 room, the pulpit, the newspaper, the public 
 library, the courts and the fireside: 'This 
 is the greatest government that ever was, 
 ever ought to be, ever can be, anywhere at 
 any time for anybody!' That's what you 
 tell me when I come to you with the great 
 truths of Socialism, and as long as your 
 masters succeed in making you believe that 
 each of you is a sovereign individual, his 
 warm seat between your shoulders is se- 
 cure. He doesn't believe this, and that's 
 why he doesn't like a Socialist. 
 
 "You tell me the reason the capitalists 
 have all the money is because they have 
 the brains. That's right! That's the only 
 time you ever tell a Socialist the truth. 
 This is not because you are dishonest and 
 prefer to misrepresent the facts in the 
 case, but it's because you don't know any 
 better. The reason the capitalist has more 
 brains than the working man is because the 
 capitalist develops his own brains, and uses 
 them in his own interest. The capitalist 
 works with his brain! You workers spend 
 all your time developing your hands, and 
 when you need brains you use your mas- 
 ter's! If you used your own brains your 
 masters would have to use their hands.
 
 222 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 This would never do, for then, who would 
 there be to hire you?!!! 
 
 "Without some one to own our jobs and 
 to drive us to work, tell us when we are 
 so tired we cannot work any longer, and 
 to take away from us eighty-three dollars 
 out of every one hundred we have created, 
 we would all starve to death! That's clear 
 enough, isn't it? 
 
 "This earth was here when we came. 
 (We will not quarrel at this time over how 
 it came to be here, we will go to Science 
 for the answer to that question.) The 
 earth was of no value until man came out 
 of it to possess it. Values were created 
 when man saw that he had to exercise his 
 muscles or starve. Nothing was of value 
 in the earth until man fried his sweat 
 under the burning sun and maimed his 
 manly beauty in his crude efforts to stay 
 alive. In the early struggles of this bi- 
 pedaled god, when, with his big stick in 
 hand, he strode forth into the jungle for 
 food, it is not recorded that he encountered 
 signs reading: 'Keep off the grass, private 
 property,' etc. Neither is there mention 
 made in any of the literature, or the public 
 press of that time, of meat trusts, oil trusts, 
 or any other trusts or distrusts to bribe 
 legislators and poison the race with adul- 
 terated foods. Nor had the divorce court 
 become a necessary adjunct to the heaven- 
 ordained institution of matrimony. All
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 223 
 
 these and many other great, and munificent 
 inventions have come to us as a result of 
 the ' confidence ' which those who do all the 
 useful work have placed, with such guile- 
 less faith, in the confidence games of others 
 who work the workers by the splendid work 
 they do with their brains!. 
 
 "You want to know what Socialism is. 
 There is no such thing in all the world; 
 and the places where Socialism has been 
 tried and failed exist only in the fertile 
 imagination of such asses and liars as the 
 Boy Orator of the Platt, and Tse Ted, the 
 hero of Pot Hill. 
 
 " Socialism is the offspring of Capital- 
 ism. It could not have existed prior to 
 Capitalism, and cannot exist with it. They 
 are two distinct systems, and are diametri- 
 cally opposed to one another. If you would 
 know what Socialism is to be, you must 
 first know what Capitalism is. Without 
 this knowledge thoroughly digested, Social- 
 ism were impossible of your comprehen- 
 sion. 
 
 "How many of you can tell me what 
 Capitalism is? You have lived under its 
 iron sway all your lives, ever since the 
 invention of machinery came to displace 
 hand labor; and not one of you can tell me 
 one of its fundamental principles. You 
 may be excused in this, for the truth is, 
 that it has no principle. That is why the 
 old parties stand for it. If it had any prin-
 
 224 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 ciple the Republican and Democratic par- 
 ties would not be wholly unprincipled. But 
 Capitalism possesses one redeeming virtue : 
 it is absolutely selfish, and operates entirely 
 in self-interest, When you workers get 
 wise to the game, you will get into that 
 game, and then the rotten old system will 
 fall before you in one round. 
 
 "Capitalism is a system of murder and 
 robbery, legalized and made respectable by 
 law, and inflicted on the many by the few. 
 Its beneficiaries are few, but its votaries 
 are many. Under its codes the minority 
 rule the majority, while the majority have 
 no voice or power. This remarkable state 
 of affairs is manipulated through the de- 
 ception of what is misnamed ' representa- 
 tion.' The minority who own everything, 
 nominate all the candidates for office, and 
 the majority who own nothing vote them 
 into power, pay their salaries, only to be 
 promptly robbed by them to fatten the 
 purses of their masters the minority. 
 This is called ' representative government'! 
 This is requiring an intelligent person to 
 exercise a phenomenal stretch of generous 
 imagination; but, somehow, you accomplish 
 the remarkable feat year after year, and 
 never tumble! 
 
 "It is said that a chain is as strong as 
 its weakest link; and that beggars get all 
 they deserve. Who shall say that such a 
 * representative' government is not as rep-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 225 
 
 resentative as is deserved by a people who 
 will fight each other to perpetuate if? 
 
 " Surely such a magnanimous and aspir- 
 ing people ought not to be molested in the 
 possession and enjoyment of what they 
 vote for! 
 
 "You have voted for poverty for your- 
 selves and you've got it. You have voted 
 for plenty for your masters and theyVe 
 got it. You have voted for hell and we're 
 all in it! But I don't like it, and I want 
 to get out of it. That's one reason why 
 I am a Socialist. 
 
 "As I said before, you ought to have 
 what you voted for, and you've got it; but 
 I did not vote for it, yet have it, and must 
 suffer the tortures of hell along with ninety 
 millions of others who did not vote for it. 
 It is a beautiful situation wherein almost a 
 hundred millions of innocent men,, women 
 and children have to surrender their indi- 
 viduality, prostitute their manhood and 
 womanhood, maim their flesh and bones in 
 the mills and marts of wage-slavery, for 
 the folly of a handful of honest, but de- 
 luded voting, unthinking, toiling serfs." 
 
 Under the scathing arraignment of their 
 pet political systems the shyster lawyer 
 Jibbs, and the coterie of political hybrids, 
 including Editor Happyman, of the Aber- 
 rant, Sheriff Larding, and old Ben East- 
 ern, the local land pirate, became almost 
 livid with inburning rage. From the tre-
 
 226 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 mendous applause that frequently inter- 
 rupted his sledge-hammer Sailings, it could 
 plainly be seen that the crowded house was 
 with him to a man, save for a dozen or so 
 of those smoothly groomed gentlemen in 
 the front rows, who owned the town, body 
 and soul, and who had " taken in" the So- 
 cialist meeting partly for a joke, and partly 
 to start a fight in which the meeting was 
 to be broken up and the local organization 
 demoralized and driven out of town. It 
 had all been arranged in advance, and was 
 to come off on schedule time, just as the 
 speaker was winding up his discourse. 
 
 The gray-haired hermit of Tannerhill 
 Hill had several times been seen to clap his 
 hands furiously, and actually shout, "Hur- 
 rah for the Socialists!" as the Texas her- 
 cules hurled his stinging rebuke into the 
 very teeth of the leader of the Republican 
 Ring, who, on more than one occasion, had 
 tried to confuse him. And Leland Tanner- 
 hill was known to be a Republican! No 
 man could accuse him of ever having been 
 a "turncoat," but here he was, seated on 
 the rostrum with a half-dozen common 
 town laborers all Socialists and wildly 
 approving the "ranting harangue of a 
 flannel-mouthed agitator ! ' ' 
 
 "It is hard to tell," resumed the South- 
 erner, "what Socialism is, there being none; 
 but it is not hard to foresee what it will 
 be. Socialism will be an operative plan of
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 227 
 
 co-operative ownership among men, of the 
 publicly used necessities of human life. It 
 will be an Industrial Democracy. 
 
 "Capitalism is the antithesis, or opposite 
 of public ownership. Its very life depends 
 on the competitive traffic in the collectively 
 used wealth of the nation. Capitalism is 
 private ownership and exploitation of the 
 common property of the people. It may 
 legally and lawfully be engaged in by any 
 individual who can steal enough money to 
 go into the business. This is done for pri- 
 vate profit at public expense. Socialism 
 would not permit this individual robbery of 
 the Public. Only the Public itself would 
 be in business, and then only for the Public 
 Good, and not for private profit. Not only 
 is Capitalism a system of private owner- 
 ship and exploitation of public utilities, 
 but the whole list of private necessities is 
 included in its monopoly on human life. 
 Capitalism is, everything for profit ; Social- 
 ism will be, everything for use. Socialism 
 would have the people own the government ; 
 Capitalism is ownership of the people by 
 the government. Under Capitalism, a po- 
 litical tool who plans the blowing up of a 
 battleship with its sleeping crew, may be- 
 come President of the nation; under So- 
 cialism, there will be no battleships to blow 
 up and no especial glory could come from 
 shooting an unarmed banana boy in the 
 back. Socialism will not be what some
 
 228 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 cunning, confessed murderer and Ms pri- 
 vate retinue of lawless understrappers 
 deign to make it; it will be what is de- 
 manded by organized society. 
 
 "Man is a social animal. 
 
 " Under Capitalism, society is supposed to 
 be the reflex of some touted individual in 
 public life. Therefore, when a great killer 
 succeeds in killing his way into the chief 
 magistracy of the executive service, every- 
 body buys a gun, the teeth are worn 'open- 
 face,' and Sunday-school children march to 
 church in uniform, a bible under one arm 
 and a shotted rifle on the other ! This is the 
 religion of Jesus Christ under this Twen- 
 tieth Century 'reign of terror!' It says to 
 the 'sinner': 'Read this book and do as I 
 say, or I'll blow hell out of you!' This is 
 said to be 'Individualism,' and under its 
 'patriotic' influences life becomes an option 
 between ' race suicide, ' and race murder ! 
 
 "Under Socialism, the individual will be 
 the reflex of Society, and Society will be the 
 reflex of its emancipated and reawakened 
 will 
 
 "You want to know how Socialism is 
 going to 'work.' In God's name, tell me 
 how Capitalism works? Socialism will not 
 work, it will be worked by Society. Cap- 
 italism works, all right. It 'works' both the 
 individual and Society! 
 
 "It is said, 'a carpenter may be known 
 by his chips, as well as by the structure he
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 229 
 
 builds/ Capitalism has built your modern 
 society ; look at its handiwork ! It is a house 
 of ill-fame. Look at the 'chips' of its build- 
 ers! They are fifty millions of human 
 wrecks, festering in ignorance and poverty. 
 A race disinherited on an opulent earth. 
 Do you think Socialism or any other 'ism' 
 could beat that? " 
 
 "So you p'ose t' (hie) equalize every- 
 body 'n bring all to a dead level, 'n pull a 
 white man down to the same plane with a 
 (hie) nigger, 'eh?" drawled out Lawyer 
 Berrill, Chairman of the Republican Town 
 Committee, who had evidently been holding 
 back to sober up for this grand and decisive 
 blow. This caused a stir among the other 
 members of the gang, and Stanley Lark 
 knew there was mischief in the wind. He 
 buttoned his coat and drew his tall figure up 
 to its full height, and looking the old wolf 
 squarely in the face, replied: "When Social- 
 ists advocate a system so peaceful as not to 
 require an army and navy to force it down 
 the throat of Society, they are accused of 
 being 'anarchists' and 'inciting to violence!' 
 When Socialists aver that every man and 
 woman should be so prosperous and secure 
 in life as to enable them to marry the love 
 of their choice and rear a happy family 
 without fear of hard times and poverty, they 
 are accused of being 'free lovers,' with a 
 desire to 'break up the home!' When So- 
 cialists affirm the inalienable right of every
 
 230 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 human creature to work at useful labor with 
 a guarantee that the full value of the prod- 
 uct of their toil shall be theirs to be enjoyed 
 by them, they are charged with being * dead- 
 levelers,' whatever that may mean. 
 
 " There is nothing in the Socialist pro- 
 gram to interfere with your chances of be- 
 coming just as good as the blackest negro 
 that ever wet-nursed a millionaire, or spilled 
 sweat in a white man's soup. In the North 
 you go to school with them, work with them, 
 and vote with them. In Washington your 
 President eats with them. In the army and 
 navy you fight with them, and in the South 
 you sleep with them. Take your wife out 
 and show her the little yellow faces that 
 mingle with the white faces of her own chil- 
 dren in the streets. Then accuse us Social- 
 ists of advocating 'race equality/ and warn 
 the black man against Socialism because it 
 promises him an honest job of work!" 
 
 At this last, the crowd went fairly wild. 
 Everybody knew old Berrill, the man that 
 Jim Carey had handled so unmercifully in a 
 debate over in Skowhegan, and the cheering 
 at his discomforture by another Socialist 
 was long and hearty. Amid such shouts as, 
 'That's right," "Hurrah for Socialism," 
 "We're with you," etc., "Monkey" and 
 "Dutchy" Boston, two Old Town gamblers 
 and theatrical baggage thieves, now mem- 
 bers of the Eepublican "Ring," arose, and 
 crowding their way to the footlights, shook
 
 "Swish! the whip cut the air. The bully came to four hours 
 later in the hospital!"
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 231 
 
 their fists at the smiling Texan. "Dutchy," 
 a two-hundred-pound bully, who had once 
 traveled with a leg-show, as bouncer on the 
 door, bawled out so loud that all could hear 
 above the confusion: "Youze aughter be 
 hosswhipped, ye Panhandle hayseed!" 
 Tossing him a silver dollar in full view of 
 the vast audience, and without the slightest 
 show of anger, the speaker exclaimed: "It 
 is an experience I have never enjoyed, 
 brother ; here is a dollar it will buy a good 
 whip." 
 
 The bruiser took Stanley at his word. 
 Out of the hall he tore, to return five min- 
 utes later with a long horsewhip. The crowd 
 was on its feet now, and no one saw the 
 shyster lawyer Jibbs when he slunk out by a 
 rear exit. Boston sprang upon the stage. 
 Swish! the whip cut the air! * * * The 
 bully came to four hours later in the hos- 
 pital! 
 
 Pandemonium reigned! Sheriff Larding 
 drew his revolver and was in the act of 
 shooting, when Rec Cotton sprang upon him 
 like a panther and bore him down. Leland 
 and the Texan both rushed forward simul- 
 taneously to disarm the drunken sheriff, 
 when there was a crash of glass from one 
 of the windows ! The next instant a blood- 
 stained stone ricochetted from a hoary tem- 
 ple and bounded across the stage to the 
 proscenium. Leland Tannerhill uttered a 
 groan, staggered backward and fell at full 
 length on the floor !
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 MIND, THE MASTER. 
 
 Rebellious at his fettered task, 
 
 At break of dawn Pierian 
 Nor master sought his leave to ask 
 
 Arose a slave a god a man ! 
 
 Quimby Sands, so rumor had it, was not 
 an obedient child. Not that he was an in- 
 corrigible, but having ideas, as all healthy 
 children will, he early began to think orig- 
 inal thoughts and to do things in his own 
 original way. This was accredited to a 
 " stubborn will" by the knowing ones, and 
 when the minister paid his regular monthly 
 visit, they would shake their heads with 
 melancholy gravity and predict all kinds of 
 dire calamity for any community where 
 town "poppers" held their heads so high! 
 The good minister said that probably he was 
 "spunky," and that his "spirit would have 
 to be broken I ' ' This spirit-breaking process 
 was frequently undertaken, and very assidu- 
 ously persisted in by means of the ox-goad, 
 and cowhide routes; but the uncowed son- 
 of-his-father developed spine instead of 
 hinges in his neck, and when the pious sages 
 reached what looked like either the "break- 
 ing" point or death, the clear hazel eyes of 
 the unconquered boy would flash a challenge 
 
 (232)
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 233 
 
 of defiance in the teeth of his torturers, for 
 he was the son of Jason Sands. 
 
 He was a healthy boy, and he loved the 
 country with its wooded hills and grassy 
 meadows. He loved the wild flowers and 
 the running streams and the songs of the 
 thrushes and the bobolinks; and all the 
 wild things that moved shyly and noise- 
 lessly through the dank mosses of the deep 
 forests. But he hated work. He wondered 
 why the kindhearted farmers who lived 
 among all these rare beauties never loved 
 them. He knew they did not, for they 
 never talked of them and only talked of 
 work, and money; and the rough tasks 
 meted out to him he shrank from with 
 loathing. 
 
 Rock picking among the sharp stubble 
 when the fingers would bleed and the back 
 ache, was distasteful to him. The filthy 
 chores among the cattle and hogs around 
 the tumble-down barn; the slow and un- 
 handy method of doing things after the 
 manner of their grandfathers; all these 
 crude, wasteful and unscientific struggles 
 with simple nature he hated; and in his 
 progressive child-mind he marveled that 
 older men did not find out other ways to 
 make the work a lighter burden. 
 
 Fatherless and motherless, he had none 
 to protect and advise him; and with the 
 kicks and cuffs of strangers hurrying 
 through the world, he was buffetted from
 
 234 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 place to place until lie fetched up in the 
 streets of Boston, a green country boy ten 
 years old, with a two-dollar suit of clothes, 
 cowhide boots and an empty stomach. 
 
 It was here that, after starving for days 
 in the streets, he learned to sell papers and 
 shine shoes. Later, he "suped" in the thea- 
 ters, and it was discovered that he pos- 
 sessed a voice of great quality, and he 
 learned to sing. Also he secured a place in 
 a grocery and provision store in the Back 
 Bay, where he worked long hours for three 
 dollars a week. Over an oil lamp in his 
 attic room at No. 10 Grotton street, which 
 room cost him one dollar a week, he cooked 
 his simple food when his long day was 
 done; and from the balance of his meager 
 wage, together with the fifty cents per night 
 for "suping" (which was sometimes really 
 paid him), he managed meanly to live and 
 to continue his daily round of hustle, over- 
 worked and half -starved though he was. 
 
 Moreover, he learned to save, even from 
 this scanty income; and out of his saving 
 fund he dressed himself neatly, if a three- 
 dollar suit of shoddy store clothes may be 
 said to be neat, and bought old books from 
 the " second-hand man" around the corner. 
 
 But fourteen hours a day for three dol- 
 lars a week began to make him think, after 
 a long time, and when he mustered up pluck 
 enough to think out loud in the presence 
 of his boss, the store raised his pay.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 235 
 
 With another whole dollar every week 
 added to his former three, he bought some 
 white pocket handkerchiefs of the seven- 
 for-a-quarter quality from a faker on the 
 street, and some fifty cent under-flannels 
 the first he had ever worn. Also he bought 
 more and better books. 
 
 He read everything he could lay hands 
 on; for nothing seemed right in all the 
 world, and he felt that somewhere in some 
 of the vast porridge of printed things that 
 great men had said, there must be told the 
 reason for so much apparent useless wrong. 
 
 He used to read the Holy Bible to the 
 old people on the farm before running 
 away, and he knew it almost by heart. He 
 had read it through twice before he was 
 ten years of age, it being his nightly task 
 to read a chapter to them, because their 
 sight was poor. But that was a long time 
 ago, he decided, and he would be fair, now 
 that he had gained what was said to be his 
 independence. So he began by rereading 
 the Holy Bible, and soon became filled with 
 great wonder and desire. The whole of 
 his young life had been spent among pious 
 church folk, and he had always attended 
 and loved his Sunday-school ; but here were 
 whole chapters in God's Holy Book from 
 which no minister he knew had ever drawn 
 a text, and he wondered why. But in his 
 note book he took down a few quotations 
 from Jeremiah 25, 27-28; Isaiah 63: 6; Ex.
 
 j THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 21, 2-8, 20-21 ; 2 Thess. 2, 11 ; Deut. 14, 21 ; 
 Gen. 16, 1-4; Gen. 19, 30-37; Gen. 30, 1-22; 
 Gen. 38; 2 Sam. 11, 2-6; Ezek. 14, 9; 1 
 Kings 22, 20-23; Luke 14, 26; Luke 12, 51; 
 Mat. 10, 34-35; Jer. 48, 10; Deut. 20, 16-17; 
 Num. 31, 17-18; Num. 33, 52-55; Deut. 2, 
 24-25-34; Deut. 3, 3-6; Josh. 6, 2-21; Josh. 
 8, 18-28; Josh. 12, 24; Matt. 10, 34; Ps. 
 137, 9; Isa. 13, 15-18; Nah. 3, 10; Zach. 
 14, 2; Hosea 13, 16; 2 Sam. 12, 15-18; Lev. 
 26, 22; Ex. 20-5; Col. 3, 18; Col. 2, 8; 1 
 Cor. 8, 1; Eccl. 1, 18; 1 Cor. 4, 10; 1 Cor. 
 14, 38; Rev. 22, 11; Eev. 12; Eom. 13, 1-3, 
 and numerous others. The source from 
 whence men's prejudices arose had always 
 puzzled him, but it puzzled him no more. 
 And when he had read these Scriptures over 
 three times more, he knew that he was no 
 hero, and he blamed the preachers no more. 
 In after years he often thanked the day 
 when he resolved to reread the Scriptures, 
 and he regretted not that he had paid a 
 dime for this Holy Bible at the old second- 
 hand man's. 
 
 Into the sciences next he delved, and the 
 errors he unearthed among the works of 
 the so-called great professors astounded 
 him, child though he was. 
 
 In his old geography he remembered of 
 having read that coal was the prehistoric 
 deposit of infusorial vegetation that had 
 fallen from the bottom of floating islands 
 in lakes ! To verify this supposed inf orma-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 237 
 
 tion he snatched a lump of it from the 
 first coal-wagon he saw passing in the 
 streets, and from experiments covering 
 many years, but which were ever persist- 
 ently pursued, he discovered that coal was 
 simply solidified, liquified wood. Even the 
 insects and animals were maligned and lied 
 about. And when he made one shocking 
 discovery after another to the effect that 
 all the simplest fundamentals of common, 
 everyday things were either not known or 
 else ignored, feared, or misunderstood, how 
 hardly shall we censure him for coming to 
 doubt the orthodox theory of organic life? 
 
 Spencer and Darwin were not dry read- 
 ing for this intellectual glutton. He learned 
 much from them. They were not alto- 
 gether right, but they were on the right 
 track. Schopenhauer, Nietsche and Lom- 
 broso were geniuses ; but he criticized them 
 all, and when he had read Ibsen, Nordau, 
 Kant, Ward and Carlyle, he began to real- 
 ize life as it had not appealed to him be- 
 fore. 
 
 He loved Voltaire and Tom Paine. The 
 one for his great bravery, and the other 
 for his great honesty. Huxley came in for 
 his share of glory, also for criticism, and 
 Hegel he devoured with painstaking relish, 
 after which, and in spite of himself, he 
 found himself reading the Apocryphal 
 mythologies, and everything beyond and 
 in between, from lightning-worship to
 
 238 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Christ, and from theology subdued to the 
 " divine right of dividends." 
 
 After five years of ceaseless work and 
 constant study, he began to feel growing 
 into him a great longing for strange sights 
 and things other than those of the daily 
 grind. He was fifteen, now, and from all 
 the hundreds of volumes he had read he 
 had acquired a vast wealth of knowledge. 
 Great men had lived in the world, and some 
 of them had left great books behind them; 
 but there was nothing awe-inspiring about 
 any of these, and the wonders of lay con- 
 ventionality had long since lost their power 
 to charm this untamed spirit of rebellion. 
 
 Quimby Sands was a wonderful boy. 
 The common studies were a waste of time 
 with him. Tobacco, intoxicating drinks and 
 degenerate associations he shunned as a 
 pestilence. With the increase of his pay 
 from four dollars a week for the second 
 six months, to twelve dollars a week at 
 the end of five years, he had moved into 
 better quarters, employed a private teacher 
 twice a week, dressed in the best style and 
 saved several hundred dollars. More than 
 once he shocked his teachers by cutting 
 rough-shod across lots to the conclusion of 
 some seeming deep problem, giving the an- 
 swer ere the trained scholar completed the 
 entangling plot. He soon made the re- 
 markable discovery that he knew more than 
 his instructors, who could not endure the
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 239 
 
 humiliation of being corrected in their long 
 drawn-out meanderings through pages of 
 figures for a result a mere boy could achieve 
 with a single, lightning-like flash of the 
 brain. This he could do, and without pencil 
 or chalk. There was something wrong with 
 the systems of education. This was an im- 
 portant discovery and he would read more 
 and try to find out the causes of things. 
 
 After thousands of years, some one had 
 made the unpopular discovery that the 
 world was round. A thing he knew the 
 first time he went in swimming! For giv- 
 ing this valuable astronomical information 
 to the world, the genius who had dared to 
 announce it served fourteen years in prison 
 as his reward! Galileo was his name, and 
 the reason he was imprisoned was that his 
 philosophy upset the orthodox theory of 
 Society, which society, singularly enough, 
 held that the world was flat! 
 
 In the so-called Natural Histories the 
 skunk was described as being capable of 
 "throwing" his fetid fluid by some unex- 
 plained skunkesque flip of the tail, and 
 there the marvelous explanation ended. 
 This lie everybody parroted and the skunk, 
 the farmers' best friend, was hunted and 
 killed wherever found. He knew the story 
 was a lie ; for was he not born on the same 
 farm with hundred of these little friends? 
 As a matter of fact the skunk being an 
 animal which feeds upon natural vermin,
 
 240 THE TOECH OF REASON. 
 
 did nothing offensive if left unmolested in 
 Ms nightly quest for food ; but he possesses 
 a perfect double-barrel atomizer, and when 
 attacked, and in self-defense, is able to 
 spray a small circle in his immediate vicin- 
 ity with the aforesaid fetid fluid, and with- 
 out spilling a particle of the fluid on 
 himself, the tail playing no part in the 
 performance, whatsoever. 
 
 From elaborate colored plates there were 
 printed pictures of snakes in the act of 
 climbing trees by winding their bodies 
 around the trunks! How silly! And the 
 lazy, "z-ee, z-ee" buzz of the locust in the 
 tree-tops, as he opened and shut the trap- 
 door of his wonderful sounding-box to vari- 
 ate the music of his vibratory snare-drums, 
 they said was the working of some inexpli- 
 cable function of the wings! They were a 
 lot of old fossils who went on the theory 
 that all things were always exactly as they 
 are, arriving at conclusions from cursory 
 investigations, at best. Or else their de- 
 ductions were based on the dead and un- 
 scientific data of other old fossils who had 
 dipped their pens in the mystic fog of su- 
 perstition, charging the mystery of all nat- 
 ural phenomena above their ossified under- 
 standing together with each eonian epoch 
 to the " frivolous wrath of an avenging 
 God!" 
 
 However this all might be, Quimby 
 Sands, while yet a sapling youth, knew that
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 241 
 
 the world had accepted as fact much that 
 was untruth and great misinformation. If 
 the wise men would lie and display this 
 ignorance so unmercifully about these little 
 things of which any farmer boy might be- 
 come informed, what might be expected of 
 them when it came to the big problems of 
 our social and political life ! 
 
 From the very beginning all he had heard 
 was: "Have faith and believe, don't ask 
 questions, believe and believe it; have faith 
 and don't doubt it!" But he had doubted, 
 and they had planted doubt in his heart the 
 very moment they commanded him to be- 
 lieve, and so he became an investigator. 
 
 Next, he fell upon the histories; the en- 
 cyclopedias, and their government records, 
 devouring them greedily. They were horrors 
 -simply HORRORS! If the lies of the 
 "scientists" had nettled him, what of his 
 shame and disgust of these brutal incarna- 
 tions of fiendish inhumanity among men! 
 He found the histories so-called simply 
 the printed accounts of bloody deeds of 
 "war heroes." From cover to cover these 
 horror books reeked with nothing but the 
 red and stench, the blast and roar, the 
 groans and ruin of the "glorious" battle- 
 field. Pictures in many colors there were, 
 of the hurricane of shot and shell, when the 
 blistering flare of the red-throated cannon 
 vomited hell-fire into the blue and grey- 
 garbed breasts of the sons of workingmen.
 
 242 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Here was a double-page plate in four 
 colors said to be the "faithful" reproduc- 
 tion of a certain great General's " glorious" 
 victory over another General presumably 
 less great ! Judging it from its color scheme 
 alone, it were a beautiful picture. It was a 
 work of art worthy of a better cause. What 
 both impressed and shocked the boy most 
 was the artistic and ever-persistent attempt 
 at the portrayal of this bloody thing, 
 -glory." 
 
 Seated upon a beautiful white charger 
 in the foreground, his right hand, from 
 which a broken saber is seen falling, raised 
 heroically above his head, is pictured a 
 splendid specimen of physical manhood. 
 He wears the hated grey! On his manly 
 head now thrown back painfully in the 
 throes of death rests a plumed chapeau, 
 and from the middle of his back, dripping 
 crimson from its sharp point, protrudes a 
 foot of polished steel. 
 
 Just fronting this white charger, and 
 prancing majestically with fore feet in air, 
 a magnificent black stallion champs a foam- 
 ing bit, bearing a gaunt rider in the North- 
 ern blue. The bullet-like head is hatless, 
 showing an ugly red gash from the stroke 
 of a saber, reaching from eye through a 
 cleft ear and losing itself far behind in the 
 scrubby hair. The shabby blue uniform fits 
 sloppily over the brawny hulk. The teeth 
 are gnashed together inside a diabolical
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 243 
 
 grin which matches splendidly the devilish 
 gleam of murder in the bloodshot eye. 
 
 The background of this picture is nothing 
 if not a cyclonic confusion of cannon smoke, 
 flying limbs and arms, splashing brains and 
 spurting gore, with myriads of fight-drunk 
 madmen slashing at each other's throats 
 and blindly rushing headlong upon bayonet 
 and sword. 
 
 Over this turmoil of Christian diabolism, 
 and with staffs leaning aggressively toward 
 each other is pictured two mottled symbols 
 of soiled fabric waving and being waved 
 and flaunted in the demoniacal visages of 
 these insane, unsane, inhuman idiots. 
 
 The handsome white charger, jammed 
 back on his haunches, is being seized by the 
 bridle by a half-naked negro. Spattered 
 all over his immaculate side is to be seen 
 the red brains of a young infantry-man in 
 grey, whose headless body is crumpling up 
 in the act of falling across the stomach of a 
 wounded comrade. 
 
 Into the mouth and throat of another 
 wounded soldier, whose eyes are squirting 
 from their sockets, is planted the right hind 
 hoof of the prancing black steed of the vic- 
 torious blue. Reaching his long arm far 
 forward, the "heroic" rider is in the act of 
 pushing four feet of crooked steel straight 
 through the middle of his unfortunate 
 brother in grey. It was beautiful ! It was 
 grand! It was Heavenly!
 
 244 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 What a splendid sight 1 What an in- 
 spiration, he thought, to the "Toy Scouts, " 
 a Christian organization among children 
 and fostered by every church for the pur- 
 pose of teaching boys the Heaven-hallowed 
 glory of legalized murder. He felt sick and 
 guilty as he read on through the bloody 
 pages of these morbid narratives. And 
 when he had finished without finding any- 
 thing relating to the useful people of the 
 world, except that they mined all the lead, 
 made all the powder, fashioned all the war 
 implements and then shed all the blood, 
 furnished all the unmarked graves, all the 
 widows and orphans, all the broken homes, 
 all the patriotism but received none of the 
 "glory," he began to wonder what it was 
 all about. Then, by merest accident, he 
 came upon "The History of Civilization." 
 (Julian Laughlin, St. Louis.) At the age of 
 eighteen this Apollonian iconoclast had 
 sailed around the world, had mastered seven 
 languages, excelled in both art and music, 
 and was astonishing the civilized world 
 with his revolutionary inventions and his 
 unorthodox revelations regarding organic 
 life. He had familiarized himself with 
 four thousand different religious creeds, 
 from each of which he learned that every 
 one is going to Hell who does not espouse 
 that very particular creed ! 
 
 Becoming historically acquainted with 
 one thousand and sixty-seven only living 
 Gods, all of whom promised everlasting
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 245 
 
 damnation to the unbeliever of their own 
 particular doctrine, the problem of dodging 
 the fate of the transgressor under such cir- 
 cumstances was the only obstacle to his 
 freedom of thought. So he resolved to leave 
 the damning of souls to the older profes- 
 sionals, while he went into the God business 
 for himself. He would save bodies while 
 they yet had souls in them; for without 
 healthy bodies there could not be souls 
 worth the saving. 
 
 Nineteen only sons of the only living 
 God, he had disinterred in his travels 
 around the world. Jesus Christ being 
 among this list, and all having been cruci- 
 fied by the " rabble." Not for anything 
 they had ever done, but for what they had 
 said that was either misunderstood or else 
 that conflicted with what some one else had 
 said, usually some one who had been dead 
 several thousand years! 
 
 He landed in St. Louis during the finan- 
 cial panic of 1907, when four hundred po- 
 licemen were stationed in the basements of 
 the several banking institutions, armed to 
 the teeth, and with orders to shoot to kill 
 should a "run" be started by the deposi- 
 tors. "John Smith" and "John Doe" 
 cheques were the only available medium of 
 exchange, which cheques were simply so 
 much white paper, and as worthless as 
 gummed labels so far as real value was 
 concerned. The money of the people had all
 
 246 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 been stolen or hoarded by the big gamblers, 
 and when the bottom fell out of their wa- 
 tered stock speculation grafts, their "con- 
 fidence" in each other's confidence games 
 played out, and money was said to be 
 "tight!" 
 
 Up to this time he had never met a So- 
 cialist, knew little of them, and less of their 
 program. Had he been in touch with the 
 new political economy he would have better 
 understood the causes of panics and why 
 the subtle games of the wily stock robber 
 sometimes fail in the midst of what appears 
 to be a period of "unprecedented pros- 
 perity." Also he would have found the 
 real essence of social justice awaiting its 
 application to modernized civilization. 
 
 He had his hard-earned money in the 
 Missouri Valley Trust Co., and when that 
 bank refused to honor his draft for fifty 
 dollars, he called on the president, one Mr. 
 Eeckonbridge Bones, who flatly admitted to 
 him the unlawful practices of his institu- 
 tion, pleading guilty to it, and going to the 
 limit of unreason by declaring such refusal 
 to be an act of outlawry, he wanted to know 
 what in hell there was going to be done 
 about it! The words of the smug banker 
 riled the honest youth. He was angry, and 
 he could feel the hot blood rushing into his 
 face at the defiance of the old villain who 
 was literally holding him up as a wayfarer 
 is held up by a highwayman. There was a
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 247 
 
 scene, which wound up by the cheque being 
 honored and o. k.'d by the president, the 
 same Mr. Reckonbridge Bones. 
 
 No! young Sands was not arrested! On 
 the contrary, he was invited into the pri- 
 vate office of the chiefs, where he was prom- 
 ised every consideration in the future, pro- 
 found regrets having been expressed at the 
 "slight misunderstanding that had just 
 eventuated ! ' ' 
 
 This was his first jolt. This was what a 
 great banking house could do to the Public ! 
 This was what the police were for, then! 
 " Still Bill" gave the snap away to him 
 later, after they became acquainted, for 
 Bill was a Socialist Cop, and said he didn't 
 give a damn who knew it. 
 
 Quimby Sands had gotten his first real 
 slap in the face by the Mailed Fist of Capi- 
 talism. Of course the system had hit him 
 before, but not openly and in broad day- 
 light. It came as a revelation to him. It 
 made him think, and in the thinking, he 
 thought the thoughts of the rebel and his 
 eyes saw red. 
 
 Who were these bankers, anyway? How 
 came they to be so rich and powerful ? How 
 was it that in the soft hands of these rich 
 rascals resided so much power? Around 
 the corner in his great red touring car spun 
 Ann Souser Brush, the South Side suds 
 maker. His car had just killed a man! 
 Why was he not arrested? Why didn't
 
 248 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 the panic hit him ? Then there was Francis 
 R. Golliah, the multimillionaire tax dodger 
 and apostate to the public confidence, call- 
 ing for a thousand dollars in gold! 
 
 These, and others, were some of the rebel 
 thoughts that came trooping through his 
 brain. He saw the people starving. What 
 was meant by "hard times'?" Why did 
 that big furniture house fail? Why did 
 the Goosie-Rottenhimer Shoe Factory shut 
 down? What were panics for, and why 
 were they permitted in a Republic ? 
 
 These things began to interest him. 
 Theology had interested him mightily; 
 but theology treated of things after 
 death. Here was life, and the problems 
 of life. These things were here and 
 now! They were real! They dealt with 
 man's means of life here on earth, and 
 while he still might be alive. Funny the 
 school books never taught about these 
 things! Somebody was running the gov- 
 ernment, and it wasn't run right. Who was 
 at the head of things, anyway? The bank- 
 ers seemed to be, for the newspapers were 
 full of "finance" and "slump" talk; and 
 there was a whole lot about the tariff, the 
 trusts, religious revivals and how a work- 
 ingman might live comfortably on six cents 
 a day. To make a long story short, who- 
 ever was at the helm were either fools or 
 criminals, sleeping drunkards or raving 
 madmen, and it was time for a change.
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 249 
 
 They were running things wide open and 
 the country was going to ruin. Whoever it 
 might or might not be, he figured it out that 
 it could not be the fault of labor, for he 
 knew there wasn't a single working man or 
 woman in political office in the country. 
 
 In all his studies he had begun at the 
 wrong end of life. That was the fault of 
 the educators. They were paid to teach 
 only what supported the accepted theories, 
 which theories were the pillars of the 
 Ruling Regime. It was beginning to get 
 clear to him this social and political struc- 
 ture wherein operated a subtle cleavage of 
 the toiler and his toil's reward. A revolu- 
 tion was fermenting within him. Not from 
 any studied or natural promptings from 
 within, but from the social atmosphere 
 without. 
 
 Was America a land of the free? It 
 might be "The home of the brave," for 
 one had to be somewhat brave to live at all ; 
 but liberty, as it really existed, consisted of 
 one's ability to stay out of jaill Of free- 
 dom there was none. Not even freedom of 
 thought. To be a thinker was to be an un- 
 desirable citizen; and an intelligent person, 
 if allowed freedom, was a menace to the 
 stability of sound government! Sound gov- 
 ernment meant the same as sound money. 
 It consisted chiefly of sound! This "sound" 
 the working man got, while the Kings of 
 High Finance got the cash!
 
 250 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 An intelligent, thinking people were an 
 undesirable quantity in the perpetuation of 
 such a reign, for only through the ignorance 
 of a misled majority could such a pestilen- 
 tial fraud be masqueraded under the guise 
 of Democracy. But here was a mental out- 
 law who dared to break that law. Here 
 was a mere youth who would defy that law. 
 One who dared to dream, and in the dream- 
 ing to create a new a rebel law! 
 
 "And a little child shall lead them." 
 
 So it came to pass that Quimby Sands 
 created, educated and organized "The Cadet 
 Democracy." 
 
 Now the generally accepted interpreta- 
 tion of the term, "cadet," being "young 
 soldier," the hair-splitters and jealous 
 fault-finders were on their feet to cry the 
 name down ; but after awhile some one with 
 brains and a little moderation looked the 
 word up in Webster's and found it was from 
 the French, meaning "younger brother." 
 Then it very naturally swept the country 
 like a cloud burst. Also the Cadet Demo- 
 crats were copied abroad, and in six months 
 it was a world movement, out of which was 
 born "The International Industrial De- 
 mocracy." This latter being an organiza- 
 tion of and by the International Socialist 
 Party. 
 
 Now the orthodox cadet hopes some day 
 to become a great killer of men at so 
 many dollars per month! But Quimby 's
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 251 
 
 cadets were different. They comprised the 
 torch and flame of clean young manhood 
 and clean young womanhood of the nation 
 and the world. They were the very sinew 
 and soul of the universe. 
 
 There were no dexterous, one-hand ciga- 
 rette rollers, crap shooters, or weaklings in 
 the Cadet Democracy. Hollow chests and 
 sallow faces there came into it, but they 
 soon developed spirit, pride, and a manly 
 wholesomeness, that defied weakness; and 
 the hollow chests became full chests; the 
 sallow faces turned to rose-cheeks, and the 
 shiftless, idle boy and languid, tired girl, 
 were quickly transformed into two blos- 
 soms of budding health and glowing 
 virility. 
 
 The Cadet Democrats had a principle 
 a principle with a purpose. They were 
 not animated with the blood-thirsty aspira- 
 tions of the soldier cadet. On the contrary, 
 their function was two-fold, viz.: to draw 
 the deadly charge from the shotted musket 
 of the "Toy Scouts," and to shoot Socialist 
 propaganda into the plastic brain of every 
 child and youth male and female under 
 twenty-one years of age in the nation. For 
 this they were destined to become famous 
 as the ''Red Cadets." 
 
 E. G. Lewis, founder and Mayor of Uni- 
 versity City, creator of the biggest printing 
 establishment in the world and founder of 
 "The American Woman's League," and the
 
 252 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "Women's Democracy," was not a Social- 
 ist, though he was destined to be. He was 
 an honest man, however, and he owned the 
 St. Louis Evening Moon. So when the 
 Cadet Democrats were organized and the 
 other newspapers "knocked," the Moon 
 was fair. This aroused the ire of Pulse- 
 squeezer's Daily Roast-Besmirch, whose 
 columns fairly reeked with slanderous vi- 
 tuperation, climaxing by pinning this "red" 
 bouquet on the school children of St. Louis, 
 because they dared to organize for the 
 study of life's real problems. But Quimby 
 Sands was both alive and alert to the situ- 
 ation, and lost no opportunity to make cap- 
 ital out of any move the enemy might make. 
 He knew it "was an intended insult, and his 
 blood boiled; but he sprang into the fight 
 like a young panther; and in a letter to the 
 Moon, he told the people why red was the 
 symbol of Socialism, explained why the 
 banner of Jesus was of a "crimson hue," 
 pointed out that, whereas the blood of all 
 men was red, it proved a common origin 
 and a universal brotherhood. The Moon 
 printed the truth, and the fight was over. 
 
 The boy did not seek the fight, but once 
 begun he would either win or else go down 
 and out to everlasting defeat. But "de- 
 feat" was not in Sands' vocabulary! And 
 Quimby was the son of his father! 
 
 For his conversion to Socialism, this 
 young fire brand gave the credit to Jack
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 253 
 
 London. Jack had made him think! After 
 reading "THE CALL OF THE WILD," "THE 
 SEA WOLF," and "THE WAR OF THE 
 CLASSES," he fell upon "MY LIFE IN THE 
 UNDER WORLD," "THE IRON HEEL" and 
 "MARTIN EDEN." These were great books. 
 Especially good were the "THE CALL OF THE 
 WILD," "THE IRON HEEL" and "MARTIN 
 EDEN." Other books Jack had written, 
 books by the dozen, including "THE GAME," 
 "BURNING DAYLIGHT" and "THE KEMPTON- 
 WACE LETTERS," this latter being a wonder- 
 ful love classic. 
 
 Jack London, in his estimation, was the 
 greatest living literary genius. Here at 
 last was one man who knew how to write 
 of life life real, and red, and raw. The 
 more he read London, the more he knew of 
 life; and the more he knew of life the more 
 he loved life and all mankind. But more 
 than all other men among men did he love 
 Jack London. 
 
 The years came and went and the "Red 
 Cadets" grew. They were a sure enough 
 organization now. In America there were 
 ten millions of them! Every school was a 
 chapter house, and whenever they wanted 
 new books or new studies, they called a 
 meeting of the School Board and got what
 
 254 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 they wanted. If the School Board slept 
 on their mandates they called a strike. O 
 you couldn't fool the kids! Besides, there 
 was "The Red Cadet/' a juvenile daily 
 newspaper, edited by young Sands and 
 which went to the home of every citizen of 
 the Cadet Democracy; said what it pleased, 
 defiantly challenging the lying old party 
 press to refute it. Nothing could stop the 
 "Red Kids" now. Every mother's son of 
 them wore the beautiful red and gold uni- 
 form of the organization on all public oc- 
 casions, and a handsomer sight was never 
 seen than when at the inauguration of their 
 first president, 20,000 of them, uniformed 
 and equipped for "active service," formed 
 in line and marched to the City Hall in St. 
 Louis. All traffic ceased. The police tried 
 to clear the streets, but were powerless. It 
 was a new one on them! It commanded 
 the respect of the press, and it made the 
 grey beards sit up. 
 
 Quimby Sands was an inventive genius. 
 At nineteen he invented the Comet, and her 
 phenomenal aerial exploits staggered the 
 world. Also, his name had become famous 
 in every land and stories were written of 
 his creations in every tongue. Presidents 
 entertained him; kings sought him; women 
 worshipped him and the Church feared 
 him! For was he not an "incarnate devil?" 
 Look at his Eed Cadets!
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 255 
 
 With the established record of being the 
 greatest inventive genius the world had 
 ever seen, small wonder that capital un- 
 sought came flowing in on him when he 
 announced to an awakening world his in- 
 tention to build a sea-going submarine 
 utility ship propelled directly by explosion. 
 The newspapers got hold of it, and every 
 Sunday supplement blazed with four col- 
 ored cartoons of his prowess with this new 
 fire-propelling engine. 
 
 Quimby was young, and when the pledged 
 donations came flooding in upon him to the 
 appalling amount of $20,000,000, he became, 
 momentarily, overwhelmed with elation. It 
 seemed everybody wanted to give him all 
 the money they had. Everybody wanted 
 to help build the great new " battleship, " as 
 they would have it. The world was on its 
 knees at his feet, and of course his fortune 
 was made ! 
 
 But a thing happened just at this junc- 
 ture that put him to the crucial test, a test 
 that unmasked the real stuff of him and 
 denuded his grand character of every ves- 
 tige of capitalistic veneer of which from 
 the sudden association of great w r ealth he 
 was in danger of becoming enamored. The 
 devilish cunning with which monied men 
 cast their capitalistic bread upon the waters 
 of opportunity was revealed to him with all 
 its subtle charlatanry.
 
 256 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 He was in Boston again. In the office of 
 Young's Hotel he was in the act of shaking 
 hands with Copper King Eawson, who had 
 subscribed liberally to the " fire-ship " fund, 
 when a bright-looking lad in a scarlet and 
 gold uniform sidled up and slipped a copy 
 of the "Red Cadet" into Rawson 's hand. 
 Reporters with their cameras were ever 
 dogging the heels of the great stock gam- 
 bler, and next morning all the Boston 
 papers carried a double-head quarter-tone 
 of the Rawson-Sands hand-shaking, with 
 the title page of the "Red Cadet" plastered 
 all over the picture as clear as a black eye. 
 That settled it! It was Quimby Sands^ 
 founder of the "Red Cadets/' and Socialist 
 agitator, being entertained like royalty by 
 Tom Rawson. That was enough to know 
 about Rawson! He, too, must be a 
 Socialist ! 
 
 The "Red Cadet" was known from Cape 
 Horn to the North Pole, and from the 
 Philippines to Labrador and around the 
 world. Loved by every wholesome boy and 
 girl capable of intelligent reasoning, it was 
 the most popular and widely circulated 
 juvenile magazine on earth. Also it was 
 the most bitterly hated. 
 
 "It is all off," phoned the Boston Capi- 
 talist that afternoon, "I have stopped pay- 
 ment on that cheque for half a million. 
 You see, I can't afford to have my name 
 connected with -you people. And had I
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 257 
 
 known of your political leanings, you could 
 not have interested me. I am wiring the 
 truth of the deception to the Associated 
 Press, and henceforth I am not to be 
 considered." 
 
 One week from that announcement, the 
 entire subscribed fund, with one single ex- 
 ception, had been withdrawn in like man- 
 ner. The single exception being $10,000 in 
 gold from one Joe Sworoski, Polish tailor, 
 who had known young Sands when he lived 
 in the attic room on Grotton street. Also, 
 the good old man had loved and befriended 
 him in many ways. Joe was a Socialist; 
 though Quimby up to this point had been 
 unaware of it, and when the boy related the 
 circumstances of the fund retraction mean- 
 ness to him, the old man shrugged his 
 shoulders and laughed. But he reassured 
 him that all would come out right in the 
 end, and that nothing could prevail to keep 
 him down now that the common people had 
 become acquainted with the charge that he 
 was a Socialist. 
 
 Here it was, the capitalist mind laid bare. 
 You could not trust them. They were out 
 for the coin, and whenever they loosened 
 up it was only for the purpose of getting a 
 tighter hold. History was full of it their 
 duplicity why had he not remembered. 
 They could never fool him again, the 
 cowards !
 
 258 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Five days later he received a long, en- 
 couraging letter from the secretary of the 
 National Executive Committee of the Ca- 
 det Democracy, promising that if he would 
 write up the Rawson episode for the "Red 
 Cadet/' that paper would show the money 
 changers what an organized nation of 
 school children could do. Accompanying 
 the letter was a draft for $5,000, subscribed 
 by the Founders' Key at St. Louis, and the 
 work on the Agitator began forthwith. 
 
 One year from the insidious slander by 
 the capitalist press that Tom Rawson and 
 the young American wizard, Sands, were 
 plotting to upset the existing social order 
 and establish anarchy, the wonderful new 
 air-burning submarine the Agitator was 
 launched in the Mississippi River. By this 
 time five thousand "Keys" of the Cadet 
 Democracy had been established in the 
 United States; the school boys and girls of 
 five other countries had placed orders for 
 similar ships; but not a single Foundation 
 of the International Industrial Democrats 
 had as yet been established in the country. 
 "Foundations" there were in varied pro- 
 fusion foundations of millions of dollars 
 wrung from the faces of the mulcted poor 
 the Carnegie, Rockefeller and Sage 
 "Foundations," together with the soft-soap 
 Gullet "shaving" device which smelled of 
 Standard Oil "WORLD CORPORA- 
 TION."
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 259 
 
 Fakes and shams there were in abun- 
 dance ; but the United States had been hum- 
 bugged so long that the Light of Reason 
 was inky midnight; Truth was insanity, 
 and to possess knowledge was to be ''bug- 
 house!" 
 
 In every other country on the globe the 
 I. I. Ds. were thriving and slowly but sure- 
 ly sucking the vitality out of Capitalism; 
 but they had never been heard of here ! 
 
 The cruise of the Agitator down the Mis- 
 sissippi and around the Horn, including all 
 the island possessions, the visit to Japan 
 for pictures and to the Alaska Coast con- 
 sumed another whole year ; and when father 
 and son met on board the Red Cadet's queer 
 new ship in the far waters of Norton Sound 
 in the year 1910, Quimby Sands had passed 
 the twentieth milestone. He stood erect, a 
 tall, broad-shouldered, broad-minded hand- 
 some boy, master of matter and an uncom- 
 promising social Revolutionist and cham- 
 pion of the rights of men. 
 
 It was at this point that the Socialist 
 Party of Canada at its 1910 national con- 
 vention, adopted a resolution pledging the 
 party support to these Co-operators, thence- 
 forth. Secretly, its members were in sym- 
 pathy to a man ; but their assistance had all 
 been individual, and purely voluntary. Now 
 the Industrial and Cadet Democratic Co- 
 operators had gone on record as part and 
 parcel of the Socialist Party and the wrath
 
 260 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 of the plutes knew no bounds. Up to this 
 stage, the Industrial Democrats were not 
 considered a political organization. 
 
 With the Socialists pledging their united 
 affiliation, it was thought best to hold a 
 national convention of their own, when a 
 reciprocal resolution in favor of Socialism 
 and the Socialist Party, declaring for po- 
 litical action, might be passed. The date 
 agreed upon, it was decided to favor the 
 Pacific coast, and so Victoria was settled 
 on, and the date fixed for September the 
 8th. Young Sands, founder of the Red 
 Cadets, and now world-famed scientist, had 
 promised to deliver the unity address, and 
 on the night of September 7th, after the 
 evening's entertainment, and accompanied 
 by his new-found father, Dr. and Toy 
 Spanto, Jack Philips, and his crew, he gave 
 the signal to Captain Hautier, and the 
 Agitator turned into a thing of hissing fire 
 and sinking into the rolling waters of the 
 northern sea, began her long run through 
 the Aleutian Islands. 
 
 "Quimby, are you not afraid of hitting 
 an island or a sunken reef, running at such 
 terrific speed in the night and under water ? 
 There are thousands of tiny islands spat- 
 tered all over this course on the map," 
 Jason cautioned, as his son pointed to the 
 speed dial which indicated a rate of two 
 hundred miles an hour.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 261 
 
 "No, father. There is absolutely no 
 danger of such an ancient calamity befall- 
 ing any modern ship equipped with the 
 finder ray. Look," the boy commanded, 
 pointing to a mirror-topped table in the 
 center of the operating room. From a 
 small tube with a funnel-shaped extremity, 
 located immediately above the center, 
 streamed down a white glow that flared out 
 over the polished glass, into which gazed a 
 young sailor, who never raised his eyes, nor 
 gave the slightest sign of perception to any 
 of his surroundings, save the one object in 
 the glass before him. He was the helmsman, 
 Billy Self, by name, and one of the few 
 the very few men among men, who was real, 
 constant, and loyal. Perhaps this may be 
 accounted for by the fact that Billy was 
 one-fourth Cherokee Indian. Quimby first 
 met him in St. Louis, and made the dis- 
 covery that he was a mechanical genius, and 
 later he was engaged to take charge of the 
 electrical construction of the Agitator, and 
 so became one of the crew. 
 
 Jason bent down over the strange con- 
 trivance, and there in the mirror beheld 
 what looked for all the world like a minia- 
 ture mill-pond full of islands, with a firefly 
 -belly up swimming smoothly near the 
 bottom which seemed covered with tiny 
 white shells. 
 
 "What is it," he ventured, finally, "a 
 game?" The eyes of Billy Self fell a little
 
 262 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 nearer the mill-pond, and the corners of 
 Quimby's mouth almost suggested a smile 
 as he replied: "No, father, not exactly, 
 see! It is the Agitator, and this is the 
 ocean. See how our fire lights up the bot- 
 tom? And this is the finder ray. We are 
 now off Pt. Romanof , where the north fork 
 of the Yukon empties into Pastol Bay. And 
 that thing that looks like a trip-hammer off 
 there to the northwest, is St. Lawrence 
 Island. This is Nunivak, and yonder there 
 are the Priblofs covered in springtime with 
 seal." 
 
 Jason bent closer to view the incompre- 
 hensible phenomenon before him, his pride 
 in his son mingled with the bewilderment of 
 each new mystery, so overwhelmed him that 
 for some minutes he was speechless. 
 
 "It is all very simple, father. Just 
 imagine you are a mile above us and peer- 
 ing down with eyes that pierce the dark- 
 ness like the radium glow you see there in 
 the mirror; things would look precisely as 
 they do in that mill-pond, as you call it. 
 It is the angular ray that is doing the look- 
 ing down instead of you in this case, and 
 what it sees it reflects on the lens of a 
 powerful vitascope, which, in turn, projects 
 the picture down that tube by means of a 
 thousand tiny mirrors and through a lens 
 to the table, and what you see before you is 
 the result. Thus we have the remarkable
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 263 
 
 ability to see ourselves as others see us, 
 so to speak. 
 
 "Just get a firm hold on something now, 
 keep your eyes on the mill-pond, and I will 
 show you something. " So saying, the son 
 drew a small disk, the size of a silver dol- 
 lar, from his pocket, and placing it to his 
 lips, though the captain was nowhere to 
 be seen, commanded: "Captain Hautier, 
 circle the ledge on the port, at three fathom, 
 full speed." 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir." And back came the 
 order : 
 
 "Billy, three fathom around that knob 
 on port wide open." 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir," as Billy Self laid his 
 fingers to the key board at the edge of the 
 table. There was a veering and a forward 
 lurch, when the ship seemed to slip from 
 under foot, and rolling to her left side until 
 her decks were vertical, spun around the 
 small island and .picking up her former 
 course raced away like a porpoise, throw- 
 ing a shaving of boiling water and white 
 steam a thousand feet in the air. There it 
 was in the mirror as clear as sunshine ; and 
 there was the long stream of white foam 
 stretching far behind, like a necklace of 
 pearls girdling the green billows as the 
 ocean 's breast rose and fell to the even pulse 
 of the harnessed sea. 
 
 "We are now traveling at the rate of 
 five hundred miles an hour," explained the
 
 264 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 inventor prince, "and you must know that 
 because of the fierce blast of exploding gas 
 coupled with our great speed, we are not 
 touching the water at all. At this rate we 
 should arrive off Seattle in eight hours. 
 But we are in no such a hurry." 
 
 A few words to the commanding officer 
 as before, and the Agitator settled back into 
 her former position near the bottom and 
 took up her old gait of two hundred miles. 
 
 It was a wonderful performance; but 
 what impressed Jason Sands more than 
 everything else was the perfect harmony, 
 discipline, and the unaccountable just- 
 rightness of everything in connection with 
 his son's strange ship. There was no con- 
 fusion. Everyone knew everything. Every- 
 thing worked without friction. It was 
 neither too hot nor too cold, and all were 
 well and happy. 
 
 There was a something in the pregnant 
 atmosphere of that wonder-craft that had 
 not as yet been explained. There was a 
 mystery about it, a sweet, aesthetic ego that 
 seemed to guard each truant vibration with 
 the mastery of infinite love and perfect 
 peace. 
 
 The very walls had ears. 
 
 There were no loud shoutings, yet officers 
 conversed freely though separated and from 
 any part of the vessel. 
 
 Light was everywhere whenever wanted, 
 but of lamps there were none.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 265 
 
 Music played out of the very air one 
 breathed, and sleep came at the bidding 
 sleep that was sound, and dreamless, and 
 sweet. 
 
 What did it all mean? Jason Sands 
 would know! but it was midnight, his sec- 
 ond night on board a floating heaven a 
 heaven built out of the brain of his son 
 his only, and greatly beloved son. 
 
 His stateroom was like the inside of a 
 huge eggshell, standing on its thickest end, 
 and hanging in his cot from the dome above, 
 was like a canary on a swinging perch in 
 a cage. 
 
 No sooner had he stretched himself in 
 repose, than on came the restful garnet- 
 emerald tint, and from somewhere far dis- 
 tant came tinkling, liquid sounds, the same 
 sounds and the same tint that he had mar- 
 veled at the night before. 
 
 He could smell the salten odors now, and 
 as he strove to keep awake that he might 
 listen to the sweet, faint music and view 
 the mellow tints, the colors faded away, 
 leaving an azure sky with the stars all in 
 their places, and out of which on the Eas- 
 tern horizon rose the yellow, Northern 
 moon. 
 
 Mountains, snow-capped, appeared as 
 the moon got higher, and a delightful cool 
 pervaded the night. He thought of the old 
 mountain home of his blighted childhood; 
 but the music was sweet, and the thoughts
 
 266 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 did not make him sad. He thought of the 
 storm on the lake with his brothers at dead 
 of night, and of the haven of refuge in the 
 Karns cove; of Ben Page and the "Broken 
 Bone," and of the night on the shelf with 
 the wolves. They were all fond memories 
 now; and -as the playing ceased and the 
 darkness grew apace, heavier hung the rest- 
 ful lids, and sleep, profound, and peaceful 
 sleep, huddled him in her mystic arms, as 
 a mother fondles upon her soft bosom the 
 cheek of her slumbering babe. 
 
 "More inventions," explained his son 
 next morning. "Inventions, not for the 
 enslaving of men, but for man's mastery of 
 the Universe." 
 
 "To enjoy the day, man must be wakeful; 
 but at nighttime he should sleep. In order 
 to sleep fully and properly, the senses must 
 be in tune with the peculiar chemistry of 
 the night darkness. The very name- 
 Day, is enough in itself to suggest activity ; 
 while to speak of Night is to suggest rest 
 and sleep," he said. "Imagine one sleeping 
 perfectly in a great city! 
 
 "Sleep is as essential as breath, and the 
 generation which gets little of sleep gets 
 little of life. I have found a way of sepa- 
 rating the physical consciousness from the 
 intangible, or sub-consciousness, by creating 
 a harmony between the cellular activity of 
 the living body and the inert nebular ego. 
 
 "The tints, the stars and moon and the
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 267 
 
 mountains you saw were simply pictures 
 thrown on the transparent walls of your 
 room from the outside, and what appeared 
 like music was played on the fine metal 
 wires attuned to catch the minute strains 
 of melodies played, not by human hands, 
 but by the cycles of the living spheres. 
 
 "My inventions are not contrary to Na- 
 ture, but in accord with Nature. 
 
 "Man has strayed far from life because 
 he has strayed far from Nature. I would 
 lure him back to the fold by transporting 
 him far remote from the deadly crash and 
 maddening roar of his congested cities, and 
 so I have made a sleeping-room that pro- 
 duces this desired effect. All may possess 
 them when things are made for use instead 
 of for profit and that day is at hand." 
 
 They were among the Aleutians now, the 
 day was beautiful, and the Agitator was 
 flitting in and out among the bays and small 
 islands, running at low speed, and only half 
 submerged. The picture men were on deck, 
 and the ship was being maneuvered skill- 
 fully among a herd of walrus, when a low, 
 deep rumbling, like the distant reverbera- 
 tions of a world exploded from within, rose 
 above the surging breakers. The sea parted 
 and rolled back beneath the Agitator's very 
 feet. Up from the nether regions belched 
 a deluge of molten vomit, as with the 
 travail of Hell a redhot mountain reared 
 itself out of the bubbling ocean another
 
 268 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 obsidian babe born the son of a Vulcan 
 sire. 
 
 Jason Sands and his son were seated in 
 the latter's private laboratory when the 
 first murmurings of the eruption were re- 
 corded on the delicate instruments of that 
 wonder-chamber. Simultaneously with this 
 the marine seismograph became violently 
 agitated and a sharp, bell-like signal rang 
 throughout the vessel. At a key-board 
 abo TT e which was the one word: "Comet," 
 flew the right hand of the young scientist, 
 with the left he jerked down a lever, la- 
 beled: "Full Speed Ahead." 
 
 "Hang on, father," he cried, sharply, 
 "the doors of Hell are opening right under 
 us, for this is the so-called volcanic belt, 
 where the number of these islands fluctu- 
 ates over night like the price of foodstuffs 
 on the stock exchange. I've sent up the 
 Comet for pictures, and as soon as we're 
 straightened out we'll go on deck and see 
 what a new earth-babe looks like all warm 
 and smoking. I have never seen one, and 
 what we may see here in the reflector is not 
 satisfying. Come on, now, here we are, as 
 motionless as the progress of the St. Louis 
 Million Population Club." 
 
 Sure enough, when they reached the deck 
 the ship was rolling stationary on the sun- 
 silvered sea, and the sight of the flashing, 
 fluttering scooting little Comet, dodging 
 hither and yon through the smoke and fall-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 269 
 
 ing cinders, as she gathered moving pic- 
 tures of the wonderful scene, was a treat 
 better imagined than the butchery of words 
 can describe. 
 
 At a distance of three miles to windward, 
 the intense heat could be felt, as the stream 
 of glowing lava spewed out over the crest 
 of the great cone and into the water. Into 
 the heavens, as from the stack of a mam- 
 moth locomotive, shot up a tower of black 
 smoke and red stones, while far to the 
 south-east spread out an ever- widening 
 cloud of fine, white ashes, hanging like 
 open-work lace on the evenly moving wind. 
 And with the sun shining through this veil 
 of earth-ashes was effected an aurora bore- 
 alis, rivaling in magnificence the wondrous 
 beauties of the boreal circle. Who shall 
 arise to disprove it when the scientist who 
 is not for sale, announces to the world that 
 this is the Auroro Borealis that for centu- 
 ries has lured the adventurer to death among 
 the Arctic snows? We shall see ere this 
 narrative ends. And we shall know the 
 mysteries of the North Pole: for be it 
 known that the Agitator can sail as smooth- 
 Iv and as swiftly through a mountain of 
 ice as through the tropical waters of the 
 Torrid Zone. Also we shall know the secret 
 of the hidden fires under the earth and 
 under the sea. The History of the histories 
 shall be opened and the diary of Nature 
 read in the Light of Reason rebellious, 
 evolutionary, scientific, revolutionary 
 Reason.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE JUVENILE DEMOCRACY. 
 
 Every eye with gladness beaming, 
 With the love-light flashing gleaming 
 Banners, one-hued, all astreaming 
 In the Dawn of Brotherhood ! 
 
 With her blood-red banner waving and 
 the great -finder ray feeling out the channel 
 in the strange waters, the Agitator, her aux- 
 iliary, the Comet, gracefully flying on 
 ahead, slipped into Queen Charlotte Sound 
 through Georgia Strait and dropped her 
 feet into the mud at the bottom of Victoria 
 harbor. 
 
 Once departed from the zone of quake 
 and volcano, the route had lain hard by the 
 picturesque Alaskan Peninsula through 
 Shelikof Strait and among the wave-eaten 
 crags all the way to the Beautiful British 
 Columbia city. 
 
 From the mainland an Empire cheered 
 them an Empire? Nay, a Democracy! 
 
 From every harbor craft colored lights 
 and bunting floated until it seemed that all 
 Canada, aflame with red, had poured out 
 her citizenry to do them honor. 
 
 A hundred thousand voices in mighty 
 chorus cleft the air to the fiery strains of 
 the Marseillaise, played on a thousand 
 bands. Above the human forest soared the 
 
 (270)
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 271 
 
 beautiful little aluminum Comet, playing 
 her powerful searchlight in all the colors of 
 the rainbow, and illuminating the harbor, 
 while a lighter from H. M. S. Homewrecker 
 came alongside to take the Agitator's party 
 ashore. 
 
 The industrial Democrats, or, as they 
 were more commonly called, The Co-opera- 
 tors, had just completed their magnificent 
 new Coliseum in Victoria City, and in it 
 were gathered twenty thousand eager souls. 
 Each fired with the new enthusiasm, and all 
 animated with a single motive a single 
 purpose. It was a grand pageant. No con- 
 quering hero of old was ever more honored. 
 For weeks the entire press of the Dominion 
 had been flevoting pages to the exploits and 
 successes of the Agitator, and now it was 
 the survivors of the Aurora and the spat 
 with the captain of the Terror only 
 yesterday. 
 
 Across the border in the United States, 
 little or nothing was known of them. The 
 press of that judge-ravaged land being 
 owned from editor to "devil" by the com- 
 mercial interests, the people never heard 
 much of the Socialists and Co-operators but 
 knocks. So when the Industrialists carried 
 Canada for Socialism, the facts were 
 adroitly and malevolently misrepresented 
 or diplomatically suppressed through the 
 old familiar journalistic trick of the "con- 
 spiracy of silence."
 
 272 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 In the Coliseum there were no curtains, 
 flies, wings or other scenery. Instead of 
 these there were contrived vapor rays, upon 
 which played the most marvelous color 
 effects from picture machines radium 
 lighted. It was like the thick veil of a col- 
 ored mist possessing the power of the 
 mirror to reflect whatever the lens might 
 throw upon it. Where the drop curtain 
 should have been, spread out the restful 
 tinted glow of the strange garnet-emerald 
 effect which had so puzzled Jason Sands 
 in his stateroom on the Agitator. Not a 
 lamp was visible in all that great playhouse ; 
 but light, mellow and soothing, blended ar- 
 tistically throughout the auditorium in 
 every known color effect, or melted into 
 midnight at the whim of a keyboard opera- 
 tor in the "light-house." 
 
 From open spaces all around the upper 
 dome the pure air came in through the same 
 fine white silk screens through which the 
 salten odors had blown in Jason's quarters, 
 when he first awoke in his swinging cot in 
 Norton Sound. The white silk screens be- 
 ing simply thin shafts of electro-radium 
 through which the cool winds streamed, 
 warming as they streamed. It was the new 
 method of heating and lighting that had 
 come to take the place of coal and other 
 dirty fuel. It was one of the inventions of 
 a Red Cadet, whom the Canadian Govern- 
 ment had instantly recognized and honored ;
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 273 
 
 for things under the rule of the Co-opera- 
 tive Democracy were created for use and 
 not for commercial exploitation, and Gen- 
 ius, for the first time in the history of the 
 race, was honored and set free. The new 
 discovery, called volt-o-sheen, was inex- 
 pensive once the proper chemicals were set 
 in action, and lasted a lifetime. The smoke 
 nuisance was ahated, coal mining was abol- 
 ished, and the race lifted up a long jump 
 from poverty, toil and disease. 
 
 All the new houses of the I. T. Ds. were 
 equipped with volt-o-sJieen, and through 
 corrugated floors all dust and bad odors 
 were pumped off, the suction being regu- 
 lated to correspond with the intake of pure 
 air at the dome. This pure air, coming in 
 through the electro-radium screens, was 
 heated to the right temperature, and drawn 
 straight down and out through thin slits 
 under foot, then off through other white- 
 hot rays, thus performing the lung service 
 of those within and returning to commingle 
 with and resume its travel through space, 
 purified and revitalized. No dust ever rose 
 above the soles of the feet, and the air was 
 always sweet and pure in the theaters and 
 other buildings of the new Democracy. 
 Brooms and vacuum cleaners had been 
 swept away, and housewives were no longer 
 coal-stoking, broom-wielding soldiers of 
 drudgery.
 
 274 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 During the wait before the lecture the 
 audience was treated to thirty minutes ex- 
 hibition of motion pictures and music. The 
 lights went out, and on a screen of non- 
 illuminous vapor played the tragedy of the 
 Yukon River, the rescue, the eruption, and 
 the birth of the new island among the 
 Aleutians. Next followed some beautiful 
 panoramics from Japan. Then came a 
 mighty explosion of human enthusiasm, 
 when, and without warning, on came the 
 lights to reveal the stage a horticultural 
 vista of floral effulgence. 
 
 Seated in couples where tropical verdure 
 stirred to the wing-flittings of humming 
 birds, were a thousand Red Cadets in their 
 uniforms of scarlet and gold; and in the 
 center of all, amid festoons of gorgeous 
 red roses sat the modest young scientist. 
 Between the Governor-General of the Do- 
 minion of Canada and the Mayor of Vic- 
 toria he was seated the boy scientist, the 
 son of Jason Sands. He it was whose brain 
 revolt had wrought with genius to free his 
 class and lift humanity up and out of the 
 hell of wage-slavery. 
 
 The Mayor of the city was the chairman 
 of the evening, and he lost no time in in- 
 troducing the Governor-General. They 
 were both social revolutionists, and their 
 speeches were short, rapid and full of 
 humor and good cheer. The Governor- 
 General paid the Red Cadets, of whom
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 275 
 
 Quimby Sands was chief, the compliment 
 of having made it intellectually possible for 
 Canada to become one of the first Socialist 
 Democracies on earth. And then came the 
 introduction. 
 
 With the pronouncing of his name the 
 tall athletic figure of the young god-man 
 glided swiftly forward to begin his address. 
 The storm of applause that greeted him 
 amounted almost to a frenzy. From his 
 box on the right Jason Sands could look 
 out over the vast throng that filled every 
 inch of space in that huge hall. "To see 
 my son," he exclaimed exultantly to him- 
 self, "to see my son, my boy! My boy!" 
 He was thinking of the old days once more, 
 days of barbaric insecurity and the battle 
 of life-and-death, when after having been 
 left stranded in the Albion House in Hali- 
 fax, Novia Scotia, by that old fraud, "Prof. 
 Harrington," he had fought a prize fight 
 with one Scanlon, in an old barn on the 
 outskirts of the city, to get money with 
 which to pay the skipped board bill and to 
 get out of town. Wherever this old faker 
 acquired the bogus title of "Prof." was a 
 mystery. He always reminded Jason of 
 Davy Crockett's " Thimblerig, " and 
 palmed himself off on the unsuspecting 
 public as a sort of nut-shell magician, 
 barn-storming country towns where he held 
 forth his prize-package performances be- 
 decked in a seedv Prince Albert coat from
 
 276 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 which dangled a glittering array of brass 
 medals and French paste. 
 
 Jason had first met the sleek villain in 
 the Victoria Hospital. Blood poisoning 
 they said it was, and it had resulted from 
 overmuch meat eating. Here "Thimblerig" 
 had fled for safety and to recuperate from 
 a near-lynching from which he had escaped 
 in his own home town. Jason, who was 
 slow to find out wrong in men, had helped 
 the "snap" showman on to his feet with 
 his last dollar, only to be " touched," then 
 later deserted by him for his trouble. 
 
 As his son stood there bowing to the 
 thunderous roar of applause, he could not 
 help contrasting the scene with the dingy 
 suffocating hives in which he had sung 
 while traveling with the aforesaid Harring- 
 ton "straw" outfit. Also his thoughts re- 
 verted to the Victoria Hospital, where they 
 had put him to bed in a ward cot upon 
 which had died, only the night before, a 
 sailor whose hip had been eaten out with an 
 abscess. The bed had not been "changed," 
 and when he tried to turn over he experi- 
 enced a sensation akin to what might be 
 imagined of one lying on a sheet of Tangle- 
 foot fly paper. He threw off the covers. 
 The stench was awful! With an heroic 
 effort he rolled out of bed, the sheet and 
 mattress still pasted to his side, and there 
 heaped up in a thick puddle on the floor, 
 and hanging in great gobs from the under-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 277 
 
 side of the mattress, was the accumulated 
 pus from the dead sailor's abscess, alive 
 and squirming with maggots. 
 
 This was nothing like his thistle-down 
 dream while swinging in that fluffy bird's 
 nest cot on the Agitator, he decided. How- 
 beit, this was Capitalism. But the day of 
 Capitalism was fast fading into oblivion. 
 
 When he thought of the perfect health 
 of his son and the crew of the Agitator, he 
 could not help turning to the other pictures 
 back in the departed years, when he had 
 been caught in the seething vortex of Chi- 
 cago's insane swirl. There, packed in a 
 lodging house with hundreds of others like 
 canned fish, all the beautiful theory 
 of "free-born Americanism" had been 
 squelched in him. And between mal-prac- 
 tice, which operated to abort human souls, 
 and political graft, the function of which 
 was to suck blood from the living progeni- 
 tors of those throttled souls, was welded the 
 middle link, poverty, in the awful social 
 chain. 
 
 Next it was the army of the unemployed. 
 Sandwiched among the cliff-dwelling hordes 
 down in the congested rookeries of the un- 
 der-world, he had seen sick babies literally 
 eaten alive with rats and flies; while on 
 couches of dirty straw sprawled scurvy 
 dogs licking the oozing pus from the syphi- 
 litic sores of these dead babies' mothers.
 
 278 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 He contrasted all this with the beautiful 
 homes of the Co-operators and the happy 
 picture before him; but the old drama per- 
 sisted. He closed his eyes that the trans- 
 position might be the clearer, and the pic- 
 tures flashed forth as sharp as cameos. 
 There were the ups and down of toil and 
 idleness; jobs and no jobs. Working half 
 time or loafing, with the annual rush at end 
 of season. Then his genius would revolt 
 and with his scant savings he would make 
 an investment. But feasting on fat viands 
 during the successful lulls between periods 
 of panic and poverty, only served to sand 
 his rebel brain with more rebellion; and 
 when once again the unequal circumstances 
 of an unjust environment matched him to 
 battle with the Pale Lady of Starvation, he 
 called her fake "equality" bluff with a 
 challenge of protest surcharged with trea- 
 son and red revolution. Then it was that 
 he would mount a soap-box on the street 
 corner, and with the irrefutable logic of 
 Socialism furiously harangue the ignorant 
 multitude whose votes outnumbered those 
 of their masters ten to one. 
 
 But after suffering the taunts and jeers 
 of these besodden slaves until forbearance 
 ceased to be a virtue, he would disappear 
 from these pestilential fens of brutish toil 
 and criminal fecundity, and peacefully in 
 his cabin on the mountain side he would 
 sleep long and sweetly to the roar of tern-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 279 
 
 pest and crash of thunder, or to the melan- 
 choly hoot of the glare-eyed owl. Twere 
 music in his ears, he remembered, con- 
 trasted with those bra in- wrecking bedlams 
 of the urban hells in which he had stifled. 
 
 While the joy-mad crowd yelled and 
 clapped he went as in a dream through the 
 whole frightful drama back to the mother, 
 then again to their boy who was bowing 
 and smiling to the mightiest audience Jason 
 had ever seen. He remembered the promise 
 he had made to her as she lay with glazed 
 eyes in her last hour of earthly pain. He 
 had kept that promise, and surely he had 
 not lived in vain. All his suffering was 
 nothing contrasted with the joy of that glad 
 moment. Slavery in their shoe factories 
 from Lynn to San Francisco, and including 
 the foul "penitentiaries" of St. Louis, was 
 nothing; frost was nothing; hunger was 
 nothing, and had he lost both his good legs 
 in the wolf fight, still would he now be 
 supremely happy that he had lived to feast 
 his eyes on the proud scene before him. 
 There in the sinewy tower of youthful 
 virility among those flowers, he saw him- 
 self as Erma had seen him on that eventful 
 day when they first looked into each other's 
 eyes, there to read the unwritten chapter 
 of a pure and reciprocal love. 
 
 "It is the shoot from the root of the 
 tree," he mused. He was talking in a mon- 
 otone to himself, oblivious to all save the
 
 280 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 sapling counterpart of his younger self be- 
 fore him. 
 
 Back his thoughts went, back there to 
 the old Holiness Town House where he was 
 "Moderator," addressing the town meet- 
 ing ! His gaze was riveted on the stage, but 
 his thoughts were far away. He was 
 aroused from the dreams of his childhood 
 when an exquisitely beautiful young girl 
 in robin 's-egg blue and with corn-silk 
 blonde hair, advanced and pinned a luscious 
 red rose on the lapel of his son's coat. The 
 cheering burst out anew. The young man 
 drew the blushing maiden to him and kissed 
 her in her shining hair, and the crowd went 
 wild! His father looked on and a great 
 longing welled up in him. He remembered 
 how that Erma had done this same thing 
 to him at the church festival, and how he 
 had seized and kissed her on the forehead 
 to the delight of the rustic young folk of 
 the long ago. 
 
 "I see it all," he philosophized. "It is 
 I, the stuff of me, the ego of me, aye, the 
 very soul of me, coming down to him liv- 
 ing in him just as I am the living proto- 
 type of my father." 
 
 But the skein was only in the spinning. 
 The story but begun. What had there been 
 two instead of one? Or had Erma lived, 
 what then ? What had there been six, eight, 
 ten a dozen boys and girls? O, it were 
 all the same, plural instead of singular,
 
 An exquisitely beautiful young girl in robin's-egg blue and 
 
 with corn-silk blond hair, advanced and pinned a luscious 
 
 red !!>*< on tlu> lapel of his son's coat, and the crowd 
 
 went wild!"
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 281 
 
 souls, not soul, there was no limit, only in 
 death. 
 
 This, then was the Secret age old and 
 age sought the offspring, the shoot, the 
 seed, the egg the soul! Or a soul for every 
 offspring, shoot, seed, or egg. They were 
 numberless. The greater the multiplicity 
 of progeny, the more prolific the tree of 
 procreation, and the larger the number of 
 its living souls. Each a soul of its soul, in 
 turn to number their souls according to the 
 fruitfulness of the tree. It was an endless 
 chain this racial soul-fabric and it must 
 go on, and on, and up, and up, to the very 
 heights. But to die childless were to die 
 soulless ! He had not lost his soul, for there 
 before him it stood, his son, though he had 
 but the one. Here was the answer at last: 
 earth, the home of the soul! It was a chal- 
 lenge ! 
 
 Jason was leaning far out over the gold 
 railing of the box, eager to catch the first 
 words that should fall from his son's lips. 
 As the storm of greeting subsided, Quimby 
 turned and caught his father's eye. There 
 was a glitter of moisture there, like the 
 glitter of dew on the frostflower petals in 
 autumn on the mountain. It was the glit- 
 ter of the dew of joy. 
 
 The scientific construction of the build- 
 ing was such that, with its devices of bal- 
 ance for the harmonizing of sound, the 
 faintest vocal articulation was clearly audi-
 
 282 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 ble throughout the remotest reaches of its 
 vast interior. Like all the intricate ma- 
 chinery he had invented, which worked 
 smoothly and noiselessly, the theory of 
 Tune was his hobby. There was much on 
 the printed page about it, but young Sands 
 it was who had reduced the theory to a 
 practical science. It was Temperature, 
 Tune, Chemical Tune Life. Everything 
 was a correlation. There were no separate 
 substances or independent particles set 
 apart by themselves; all were but frag- 
 mentary members of the one great organ- 
 ism, and with disunited action or obstructed 
 scope, only confusion and discord must 
 result. 
 
 All the homes of the Industrial Demo- 
 crats were built with this idea of "tune" 
 molded into the very cement of their every 
 wall. Wood, brick and stone had gone with 
 the ox cart and the wooden loom; and only 
 glass and cement and metal had remained. 
 These could not burn down, but would last 
 forever. Wall paper, lace curtains and car- 
 pets also had been relegated, together with 
 all the rest of the germ-laden trash and 
 trumpery of an out-lived civilization, the 
 existence of which had depended on its 
 ability to market perishable clutter to an 
 impoverished and enslaved people for the 
 profit the traffic yielded. 
 
 But what was the speaker saying?
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 283 
 
 "You call me 'Professor,' but I am not a 
 professor. Any one may be called a pro- 
 fessor, for to be a professor is but to pro- 
 fess something. Some profess what they 
 are not, others are what they profess not 
 to be. I am not a professor, but a doer. 
 I have found out means of bringing light 
 out of darkness. I was born in darkness 
 and ignorance, like the rest of my race ; but 
 I smarted under the lash of hunger, and 
 the befuddling word-wine of the sooth- 
 sayers was abomination to me. I was a 
 seeker after knowledge. 
 
 "In the workshop of Nature I served an 
 apprenticeship to the Force god. There I 
 learned that all not of force was decadent. " 
 
 Then he went through the whole con- 
 structive program of the universe, showing 
 that it was the law of force organic force 
 that shot up the mighty oak from the 
 tiny acorn, dry and inanimate. It was 
 force, he said, organic force, the activity of 
 chemical good health through contact under 
 temperature, that was responsible for the 
 rejuvenation, revitalization and perpetua- 
 tion of all life. Even the planets were kept 
 in their respective places in the great cos- 
 mos, like gears in a monster machine, 
 through the operation of this same law and 
 by the same force that attracts and repels 
 in the two poles of the magnet. 
 
 Then there was the thing, Love. This 
 also, was force, the greatest, grandest, but
 
 284 THE TORCH OP REASON. 
 
 withal the most subtle of forces amalga- 
 mate. The forces of shot and shell, bayonet 
 and billy, tyranny and superstition, faded 
 into insignificance in the brilliancy and 
 force of the Love electrodes. 
 
 Love had ever been enslaved, he charged, 
 with the enslaving of the hands; but then, 
 Love was -young. Also Love was ignorant. 
 But Love was the ripening virgin of human 
 brotherhood, and was at that very moment 
 tugging at the thongs, and the yoke was 
 even now falling from her bruised, white 
 neck. What of the new Industrial Democ- 
 racy ? It was the birth of the Co-operative 
 Commonwealth a brotherhood a love civ- 
 ilization. 
 
 "Love is coming of age," he announced, 
 when again they would let him continue. 
 When the maiden attains her majority she 
 will be eligible in wedlock; then will her 
 champion appear to claim her for his mate. 
 This will be Love wedded to Humanity, the 
 long betrothed starvelings between which 
 for a thousand years has stood the bloody 
 myrmidons of the robber king, Merchand." 
 
 Jason was all attention. Both poet and 
 philosopher himself, the words of his son 
 were rarest morsels of mental nourishment 
 to his hungry ears. This is what he would 
 have liked to say, but the boy had said it 
 better. He was cultured, Jason was not. 
 One the rough diamond, the other the pol- 
 ished gem. He could strike the staggering
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 285 
 
 blow, but the other could speak the flaming 
 word. One had lived the life, the other 
 was the life. The father had read out of 
 the books, the son was reading into them. 
 One was the past and the present, the other 
 the present and the future. Jason mar- 
 veled at the smooth delivery of each clean- 
 cut word, and the throng swayed under 
 their magnetic voltage like willow tendrils 
 in an April wind. 
 
 Jason looked at Jack Philips. That 
 sunny boy-man was showing all his double 
 row of white teeth in a pleased and satis- 
 fied smile which was the very essence of 
 undignified delight. He knew the stuff of 
 Jack, and it was to laugh and love that 
 Jack lived. But there was the Aztec, Span- 
 to, burning into the scene with his big 
 black eyes afire with passion. On his arm 
 clung the Indian bride of his, wide-eyed but 
 crying. It was too much for her. The 
 good priest had pictured Heaven to her, but 
 nothing like this had she ever dreamed of 
 earth. These strange men these Social- 
 ists were not angels, she knew that, but 
 somehow they did not belong to earth. It 
 was all too good to be true. Besides, some 
 of these men were un-Christian unbe- 
 lievers some of the best of them. Even 
 there were avowed Atheists among them; 
 but then, all this was true of the multitudes 
 of men she had known, only it seemed that 
 always these ungodly scientists managed to
 
 286 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 make their point, right or wrong, and were 
 genuinely unafraid. How different with 
 the hypocrites, she thought. They were 
 always quarreling among themselves, and 
 ever ready to start an argument. 
 
 But the crowd was cheering again. What 
 was it Quimby Sands was saying, the while 
 he pointed to his father in the box? He 
 had been telling them passionately of the 
 years of double search of father and son 
 each for the other, of the struggles and 
 perils of his father, and the story of his 
 dead mother whom he had never seen. Si- 
 lent and motionless, they sat, or sympatheti- 
 cally aroused with the dynamic passion at 
 his righteous rebellion. He told them the 
 story of his early struggles, and the press 
 of the wrongs seemed to weigh them down 
 like a Jehovan wrath. 
 
 There were many Amp.-rica.Tia in the audi- 
 ence, and they listened to the story of the 
 Red Cadets, and how they came to be born, 
 with keen interest. The distribution of 
 classified literature, he told them, was the 
 function of the Red Cadets. This, and 
 health culture, along with the study of self. 
 It was not in the books, but Quimby Sands 
 had written it into his classified literature. 
 Classified literature meant classified litera- 
 ture. It didn't mean a conglomeration of 
 bewildering generalities, extravagant per- 
 sonalities and incomprehensible statistics 
 cheaply printed on the poorest paper and
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 287 
 
 addressed to "You workingmen ! " It 
 meant -what it said for instance: "THE 
 GOD OF THE SOD." This was a 100-page 
 pamphlet on farming. It was printed on 
 good, strong paper calculated to stand the 
 shuffle, and it told all about farming, from 
 the time the first crooked stick was made 
 to scratch the earth, and before, all the way 
 up through the hand-hoe, the hand-sickle 
 and the bucket of seeds, to the mighty auto- 
 mobile gang-plow, steam seeder, reaper and 
 thresher. It told the farmer what the 
 farmer wanted to know. Yea, it told him 
 more than he knew he wanted to know. It 
 told him that he was the creator, sustainer 
 and the unthroned god of the earth. 
 
 This book sold for 25 cents, and wher- 
 ever it was sold it did the work it made 
 SOCIALISTS. Through it Socialism was 
 carried to the tiller of the soil cooked to suit 
 his taste, and served in a style especially 
 attractive and interesting to Mm. It was 
 the business of the Red Cadets to see that 
 every farmer bought and paid for a copy 
 of this book; and this it was, more than 
 anything else, which had won Canada to 
 Socialism. 
 
 Then there was "THE CITIES UNDER 
 THE SEA." This was a 100-page booklet 
 for carpenters. It began back of man, back 
 and beyond and beneath, down under the 
 sea, and told first of the coral workers, and 
 how that they were united and always
 
 288 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 worked together. From these it told of the 
 tree people, and of their nests. Next it 
 went into the hills among the cave folk, 
 then out on the plains under the skin tepee 
 and the dugout. Finally it took the reader 
 into the modern mansions of the monied 
 parasites whose fabulously grand abodes 
 may be pointed out in any big city, on the 
 Hudson River above the Palisades, at Bar 
 Harbor, Newport, or on the sunny shores 
 of the Pacific. This book was for the 
 builder and his art. There was nothing left 
 out, it told it all. Moreover, it told it in a 
 lanugage spoken by the modern carpenter. 
 In fact it pled his cause and in the plead- 
 ing it laid the remedy for his unrealized 
 dreams of a beautiful home for himself and 
 his loved ones in his lap. 
 
 And so through the list: The barber, the 
 baker, the boilermaker and the biscuit 
 shooter. None were forgotten, and it 
 showed what was, is, and will be. Not be- 
 cause some men wanted it, fought for it, 
 and that it was a good thing; but because 
 there were underlying forces in the very 
 meat and marrow of man's social being 
 that had been, is still, and will continue to 
 be compelling it. Each special classified 
 propaganda pamphlet for each separate 
 trade, profession or calling, treated the sub- 
 ject to the same end, but in a different set 
 of words, and always apropos the particu- 
 lar job at which one worked. It showed
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 289 
 
 that the population of the earth had in- 
 creased since the days of the hand tool, and 
 that the hand tool had passed with the 
 onward march of the race up and into the 
 huge factory. With the coming of the ma- 
 chine had come the increase in the product 
 of each pair of hands. But with the fac- 
 tory owned by the masters, the creators 
 were dispossessed. In other words, the pri- 
 vate ownership of the public means of life 
 had become inadequate to the public needs, 
 these pampnlets taught, and the time was 
 come when the workers must either unite 
 and possess the earth and all the machinery 
 of social needs collectively, or else the race 
 must starve to death for the pleasure of a 
 few plutocratic masters. 
 
 When young Sands first conceived of 
 classified literature, he forthwith proceeded 
 to tell it to his " friends," as, before he got 
 his eye teeth cut, he had always ran to 
 them to tell them of his inventions. It was 
 sympathy and encouragement that he 
 wanted, but, as in the case of his inven- 
 tions, he had gotten neither. Only jealousy 
 gave they him, coupled with an attempt to 
 pull him down to their pigmy level. 
 
 But the Red Cadets were more than prop- 
 agandists. They were an organization. 
 In every town and city, in every state and 
 nation their "garrisons,' or Capitol houses, 
 with a single exception, had gone up to float 
 the crimson banner of universal brother-
 
 290 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 hood, and that single exception was the 
 United States. Here, their birthplace, they 
 were slandered, ridiculed, and held down to 
 the level of the low order of capitalistic 
 intelligence prevalent of the low order of 
 governmental administration. Especially 
 low was the order of intelligence in St. 
 Louis. It manifested itself everywhere. 
 There was no congenialty or sociability 
 there. Of course, ignorance was responsi- 
 ble for this. It is always ignorance and 
 the consciousness of ignorance that seals 
 the lips and glints the eyes. An " East- 
 erner" was spotted on the instant in St. 
 Louis. He always held his head erect and 
 wore his handkerchief in his hip pocket. 
 Let an Easterner reach for his pocket hand- 
 kerchief in public, and every one automat- 
 ically reached for his gun. Street car con- 
 ductors insulted passengers with impunity, 
 and the cats and dogs killed on the trolley 
 lines remained to be trampled into the 
 muddy streets until carried away by flies 
 and maggots. But out on the corner of 
 Lindell Boulevard and Newstead avenue 
 was built the largest and most magnificent 
 Catholic Cathedral in America. It cost 
 three million five hundred thousand dollars ; 
 and a five minutes' ride distant, naked 
 babes were subsisting on a diet of swill. 
 
 In St. Louis, the home of the Red Cadets, 
 there were twenty thousand of them; but 
 they were forbidden to erect their own Cap-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 291 
 
 itol building. That they were a " conspir- 
 acy," was the decision of a corporation- 
 owned judge, and not being citizens "of 
 age," were held to be irresponsible! But 
 they were undeterred by such rulings, how- 
 ever, and the good work went on, and the 
 Socialist vote continued to rise with the 
 distribution of the classified literature sold 
 by the live boys and girls right under 
 the very noses of their masters. But of all 
 the classified pamphlets written by Jason 
 Sands' son, probably the one entitled, 
 "THE HOLLOW ORIFICE" was the 
 most effective. It was a terrible indict- 
 ment against war, and many a Boy Scout 
 had been seen to smash his gun and tram- 
 ple his cheap cotton uniform as a result of 
 reading this frightful tale of blood. 
 
 And so, with the coming of classified lit- 
 erature and the Red Cadets had come the 
 Canadian victory, he told them. 
 
 "But you want to know what is to be 
 done in the case of the United States," he 
 resumed. "Well, there they have not as 
 yet learned the simplest rudiments of co- 
 operation. They are great on division, sub- 
 traction, limit and boundary lines, but, al- 
 though having themselves taught it for a 
 hundred years, they have not learned the 
 meaning of the motto of every lodge and 
 other organization on earth: 'United we 
 stand, divided we fall/ But speaking of 
 boundaries, let me tell you a story.
 
 292 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "The imaginary boundary lines that the 
 God-fearing nations have conveniently 
 drawn around themselves," he said, "are 
 but the unnatural barriers erected by the 
 robber chiefs and maintained but for the 
 purpose of legalized private plunder. They 
 are perpetually operated to keep the work- 
 ers divided with race hatred, that they 
 may the more easily sic them to fighting 
 whenever a war may be profitably pulled 
 off on the tame public." Then he referred 
 to the boundary between Canada and the 
 United States as a geographical spite fence. 
 It was an insult to their pratings of "Love 
 thy neighbor as thyself." 
 
 "Such epithetical derogations as 'John 
 Bull/ 'Yank,' 'Canuck/ and all that vin- 
 dictive vernacular, must soon drop from our 
 vocabulary," he prophesied. "Socialism 
 knows no boundaries, but wherever they 
 may be, Socialists are brothers Com- 
 rades." 
 
 Recalling a very interesting, though not 
 generally well-known bit of American his- 
 tory, he told them the story of the "Great 
 British- American hog war ! " It most prob- 
 ably was the first time it had been told by 
 a Socialist on the Canadian side, and from 
 the levity it engendered the Socialist posi- 
 tion on boundaries seemed sound. 
 
 "Across the Strait, there in the Sound," 
 he went on, "lies the beautiful little island 
 of San Juan. On that speck of dirt a part
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 293 
 
 of the earth that God is said to have con- 
 cocted from less material and then given to 
 all men occurred a very silly fracas, once 
 upon a time, which came near plunging 
 these two great Christian nations into a 
 bloody war. A hog was the cause of it all ! 
 Imagine two mighty nations going to war 
 over a hog ! The hog was said to have been 
 a 'blooded' hog. Which, I presume, is to 
 say, that he was an importation from 'The 
 Other Side.' As if all self-respecting hogs 
 weren't blooded. However, I guess the 
 'blooded' point was well taken, for I am 
 acquainted with both blooded and blood- 
 less, as well as some Woody hogs myself. 
 Some hog all the money, others all the oil, 
 and still others, all the food from the 
 mouths of innocent children, and then for 
 good measure root up the homes of work- 
 ingmen who exhibit enough spine to dare a 
 healthy protest. 
 
 "Among the hogs without blood, but 
 through whose slimy veins sloughs the cold 
 maggot- water of graveyard affinity, is the 
 hloody old Sus scrofa, Diaz, who for thirty 
 years wallowed, with cloven hoof and tushes 
 red and dripping, through the broken heart 
 of poor, groaning Mexico as Bill Reedy 
 says: 'Our sister Republic, God save the 
 mark!' This grizzled swine, whose every 
 grunt meant the death of a patriot, is now 
 well-nigh blind and toothless, and his 
 scrawny bristles once black as the pouch of
 
 294 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 night-shade that serves him for a heart, are 
 now a yellow-grey, like the grey of the 
 dreaded timber angels of the Arctic. But 
 he still grunts and wallows, and out of the 
 skulls of babies and widowed mothers he 
 drinks the sweat and blood of his mur- 
 dered slaves. Once upon a time a time 
 that went down in history on a page draped 
 in mourning a 'great' President of the 
 United States of America journeyed thither 
 to that land of weeping stones to fondle 
 and caress, and press the foul-smelling hoof 
 of that bloody, unblooded monstrosity, 'in 
 the name of the people of the United 
 States!' 
 
 "But I am straying from the aforesaid 
 history apropos the great British- American 
 hog war. 
 
 "The island of San Juan belongs to a 
 well-known group which had always been 
 considered a part of the territory of your 
 Uncle Sam; but the Hudson Bay Co., the 
 first great North American trust, con- 
 ceived a sly trick by means of which the 
 fertile little spot might be successfully 
 stolen, and so arbitrarily planted over it 
 the Union Jack. That its population con- 
 sisted chiefly of Americans made no differ- 
 ence to the rough necks. The company's 
 agent, a Cockney Briton, had an old razor- 
 back and that John Bull hog ate the 
 Yankee's cabbage; the Yankee shot the 
 blooming porker and the war was on. Up
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 295 
 
 drew the imposing fleet of H. R. H. Queen 
 Victoria. It was a warlike spectacle, and 
 it demanded restitution from the man who 
 had so wantonly slain a British subject! 
 But I guess the, Yankee nomad hadn't the 
 price, or else he wanted some fun; any- 
 way, he loaded his old musket again in- 
 stead. That ended the great British-Amer- 
 ican hog war. 
 
 "It is not impossible that some among 
 you have forgotten that, on the island of 
 San Juan, over there in Puget Sound, flew 
 the last British flag above United States 
 soil. That was in the year 1859. " 
 
 "Good jawke, awld man, and bloody wull 
 tawld," laughed a lank Englishman with a 
 mop of yellow hair and wearing a grin that 
 came dangerously near severing his head 
 at the ears. This story put the house in a 
 jocose mood, and a ripple of levity flowed 
 over it, during which the lank individual 
 sprang up in his seat, and waving his arms 
 wildly for recognition, shouted: "You Saw- 
 shalists as wull as anarchists all fly the 
 sime flag, naow yer naow, dawntcher naow. 
 Would yer mind tulling us abaowt th' Red 
 Flag, plyse ? Of course, I naow, yer naow. 
 But there may be some Hermericans 'ere oo 
 dawnt naow, dawnt yer naow." 
 
 "It is said that wolves, prey-birds, bulls 
 and other forms of gore-spilling beasts hate 
 and fear red," the speaker replied. "When 
 any of these see red it acts on their nerves
 
 296 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 like fire on powder. They explode. Fear 
 is generally associated with guilt, and cun- 
 ning is the pander of cowardice and crime. 
 
 "The Red Flag is not embellished with 
 the skull and crossbones, nor mottled, 
 striped or crossed with many hues. There- 
 fore, it is not a fit emblem of 'patriotism' 
 in a society where the street pavements 
 reek with the brain-spatterings of police 
 club brutality, and where the young sons 
 of the nation are drilled by the church, 
 armed by the government, uniformed at the 
 expense of their impoverished parents and 
 incited to pose as living targets for the 
 machine-gun, the cannon and the torpedo. 
 Honest work folk are not afflicted with 
 terror at the sight of red flags or any 
 other flags. Like pure women and inno- 
 cent children they are without fear, and the 
 fluttering hues of banners give them no 
 cause for alarm. 
 
 "It is written that 'a troublesome fellow' 
 was once spiked to a cross of wood because 
 he taught the 'rabble' that all men were 
 brothers. He said that because the blood 
 of all was red, it bespoke a common parent- 
 age. The same story teaches that 'his rai- 
 ment was spotless and his banner was the 
 color of blood.' No wonder the myrmidons 
 of the owning class followed him about to 
 catch words out of his mouth with which 
 to crucify him!' It's a wonder that the 
 present generation of 'vipers and hypo-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 297 
 
 crites' don't try to twist the Christian 
 religion into a ' seditious doctrine of 
 anarchy ! ' 
 
 "Every Capitalist government under the 
 sun has a different flag. This is as it 
 should be; for how otherwise could their 
 uniformed dupes be befuddled into killing 
 each other in battle? This Heaven-hal- 
 lowed pastime of pumping lead into one 
 another is never indulged in by the money- 
 mongers who rule the nation. Their func- 
 tion is to give orders. There would be no 
 profit in it for them to lay out on the wet 
 ground o' nights hunting each other with 
 guns. This exhilarating exercise is bene- 
 ficial only to working men! That's what 
 'patriotism' is for. This is one of the * in- 
 centives' that Socialism cannot stimulate. 
 
 "To. the grafting ghoul who fattens on 
 the bread out of the mouths of children, the 
 Red Flag is a signal of gravest danger ; but 
 to the toiler it is a sheen of hope and love 
 and blessed peace. To the one it bodes 
 death, to the other it symbolizes joy, and 
 life, and home. To the tyrant it reflects 
 the Eaw Head and Bloody Bones of a mil- 
 lion battlefields, filling his golden dreams 
 with terror, as in his subconscious fantasy 
 he beholds his rusting riches stained red 
 with the life fluid of the many victims of 
 his cruel greed. To the builders of the 
 world it radiates the cheery smiles of happy 
 children in homes where armless sleeves
 
 298 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 and tales of carnage never more shall cast 
 a gloom. 
 
 "The Bed Flag was once a thing of 
 snowy whiteness; but their rule of ruin 
 splashed upon it the innocent blood of mar- 
 tyrs, dyeing it a crimson hue. What of the 
 Inquisition? What of .the Commune? 
 What of John Brown? What of Love joy? 
 Their blood is there look at your hands! 
 you workingmen who once voted for Cap- 
 italism. What of Russia? What of Fer- 
 rer? What of Mexico? What of the mil- 
 lions of poor, misguided mothers' sons who 
 'have been blown to twitching fragments of 
 slippery pulp with shot and shell, while the 
 money Shylocks who coin their quivering 
 flesh into clinking gold were feasting in 
 mansions across the seas, far beyond the 
 roar of war's red hell and away from the 
 smell of blood? 
 
 "The Red Flag is the badge of my 
 father's manhood 
 
 "Three cheers for Jason Sands," went 
 up the yell! 
 
 Like a marine volcano the chorus burst 
 into thunderous applause, followed by the 
 three rousing cheers: "Hurrah! Hurrah! 
 Hurrah! for Jason Sands Jason Sands! 
 Jason Sands! Speech, speech ." 
 
 But the speaker raised his hand for si- 
 lence, then continued: "It is the deed of 
 my heritage, it is the coat of arms of the 
 class that toils. I see in its folds the
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 299 
 
 promise of love to a weeping world. I 
 know that I am represented there. It is 
 the symbol of freedom. Its very fabric is 
 damp with the sweat of your faces. My 
 mother's tears are there. The virginity of 
 your sweet sisters is protested there, and 
 the stifled moan of the unborn babe, throt- 
 tled by the bony hand of poverty in its 
 mother's womb, is trembling there. 
 
 "What of the victims of the late human 
 carrion who sent troops to Pullman? If 
 he had had his way the blood of honest 
 Debs would now be there; and that the 
 heroic blood of Haywood did not saturate 
 its sacred weft is not the fault of the bar- 
 barian of "big stick" infamy, who, for 
 seven years so foully disgraced the public 
 trust. What lisping babe can be found who 
 does not know that the Eed Flag of human 
 brotherhood is the International emblem of 
 peace, love, and liberty, that will soon float 
 over an awakened world at the birth of the 
 Co-operative Commonwealth 1 ? 
 
 "If the anarchists wish to adopt the Red 
 Flag, it is well. It is better to be an anar- 
 chist under a Socialist flag than a wage- 
 slave under a Capitalist rag. When all the 
 anarchists become Socialists there will no 
 longer be any Republican or Democratic 
 parties. 
 
 Before I had read the history of Chris- 
 tian civilization, trailing it back down the 
 back track of its butchers who were called
 
 300 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 'heroes,' I was a Republican. After I had 
 read that I was an anarchist. Then some- 
 one lied and told me Socialism and anarchy 
 were the same, so I studied Socialism and 
 became a Socialist. 
 
 "This beautiful amusement house is one 
 of the cornerstones of the Industrial De- 
 mocracy. I am glad to participate in its 
 dedication. It is a thing of social wealth. 
 It proves to me that at last the selfishness 
 of human nature is being understood and 
 applied intelligently. While it is true that 
 selfishness is the motive force behind every 
 action of every form of life, selfishness 
 until now was always individual, and there- 
 fore destructive, mean and inhuman. With 
 the Co-operative Democracy has come the 
 collective selfishness. Collective well-being 
 means collective happiness; and out of the 
 pool of this social abundance is absorbed 
 the individual self desires, and the self 
 defense of individual competition falls 
 from the individual like husks from the 
 ripened corn. 
 
 We are met here to-night to learn from 
 one another. This is another demonstra- 
 tion of intellectual selfishness. It is grand ! 
 It is beautiful! It is glorious! In the 
 selfishness of the brute as exemplified 
 through the Capitalist system, men meet 
 that they may become wise in ways where- 
 by they can legally destroy each other. 
 This is what they call 'individuality.' It
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 301 
 
 is not rightly named. Its real name is 
 individual 'barbarity. 
 
 "We Socialists were long called dream- 
 ers, by our friends the enemy. But I say 
 to you that this is the age of the dreamer. 
 They soon shall know that it is the dreamer 
 who is the true progress-god of the dawn- 
 ing civilization. They shall know that the 
 dreamer is the toiler, and that the toiler 
 shall be the dreamer, and that both toiler 
 and dreamer shall be one. The dreams of 
 the future shall be day-dreams. They shall 
 be dreamed with eyes open and out loud in 
 the broad open light of a world without 
 fear ; a world without superstition, without 
 ignorance and without chains." 
 
 "Man, like the love-eyed animals, is 
 essentially a social species. But his so- 
 called social systems are not systems of 
 social peace. Instead of social organiza- 
 tions, he constructs competitive congestions. 
 In direct opposition to the constructive 
 harmony of his inherent nature, he has per- 
 mitted the few degenerate prey-beasts 
 among his family to fasten him down to a 
 divided confusion of ideas, to which he 
 foolishly bows like the idol worshiper and 
 the savage. 
 
 "This obeisant prostitution of intellect 
 and ideals, is called patriotism! And the 
 savagery of old which yoked the race in 
 chattel slavery, was nothing in comparison 
 with the mental servility of the pawns of
 
 302 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 this our 'representative' form of govern- 
 ment. 
 
 " Imagine a wolf representing a hare! 
 Can you conceive of the fish-hawk repre- 
 senting the interests of the fish upon whom 
 he feeds? Thinks of a workingman voting 
 for a representative in political office, who 
 possesses millions of dollars the accrued 
 profits from the traffic in uneaten bread- 
 bread snatched from the hungry mouths of 
 his own "patient wife and innocent children. 
 Such indeed were a pitiful sight ! 
 
 "I recognize the fact that my body is a 
 great living organism of wonderfully 
 wrought and ever active machinery. I ar- 
 rived at such a knowledge of this human 
 institution through the studv of Science. 
 I found that the great organism called the 
 human body is but the social structure com- 
 posed of uncountable billions of minute cell 
 life, all joined together to make up the 
 whole r>erfect working, breathing, happy 
 man. Tf one single cell among these num- 
 berless billions becomes injured, every 
 other cell in this body will rush to the 
 rescue and repair the injury, or the whole 
 organism is likely to become diseased and 
 to disintegrate, and finallv to perish. I 
 would have the whole organism live a splen- 
 did, full, hap-ov life, by making it possible 
 for every cell making up the aggregate of 
 this bodv to be well fed, well exercised and 
 well rested.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 303 
 
 "I love life. This is some more of the 
 great selfishness of Socialism. How may 
 I obtain that life? That has ever been the 
 race question through all the ages. My 
 answer is, let man organize socially for the 
 perfection of economic conditions which 
 will make for life. What are conditions'? 
 Social contact among men a Society com- 
 posed of the creators of wealth a Society 
 of one class a Society in which the inter- 
 ests of one will be the interests of all a 
 Social Society. 
 
 "The science of Socialism is the science 
 of Self of Life. If you want a more tech- 
 nical definition go to the Latin. There you 
 will find what 'social' means (companion). 
 The 'ism' suffix being simply a term con- 
 struction, the value of which is to signify 
 that state of companionship which recog- 
 nizes more than one companion a collec- 
 tion of companions a society of compan- 
 ions Socialism. 
 
 " 'Brotherly love' is not Socialism. So- 
 cialism will not be achieved because of such 
 fine sentimental phraseology. Socialism 
 will be first, and will pave the way to broth- 
 erly love. Socialism will obtain in the 
 affairs of men because of selfishness, and 
 because of selfishness only the selfishness 
 that is as broad as space and as generous 
 as sunshine. Selfishness is the vital essence 
 of all force, and Force is the very ego of 
 all things not dead.
 
 304 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "There used to be a peculiar reasoning 
 among working people to the effect that, 
 'should the worker get the full product of 
 his toil as Socialism proposes, he would 
 suddenly lose all desire to live, become lazy 
 and dissipated, and finally lay down and 
 die from starvation!' Every Socialist has 
 been importuned a thousand times to de- 
 sist from his disasterous course, because, it 
 was urged, unless those who do all the work 
 of the world are perpetually robbed of 
 eight-tenths of what their hands create, 
 there would be no ' incentive ' and all hands 
 would become discouraged and go on a pro- 
 tracted drunk! 
 
 "This same intellectual mastodon used to 
 assure us that, to work for another for 
 seventeen per cent, of one's labor product 
 were quite the proper thing because it gave 
 one work! But to have an industrial plan 
 whereby the worker worked for himself 
 collectively, retaining all of the one hun- 
 dred per cent, of his created wealth, would 
 be to ' divide up!' 
 
 "I have lain awake of nights trying to 
 analyze and classify this marvelous men- 
 tality, but in vain. In all science there is 
 no chemistry to analyze such a brain, and I 
 very much doubt if posterity will be able 
 to solve the dark mystery during the active 
 cycles of earth's futurity. 
 . "Come on board the Agitator and I will 
 show you what Life means. I will show
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 305 
 
 you Tune. I will show you Individuality. 
 I will show you Peace, Harmony, Selfish- 
 ness and Love. There is where we work 
 at all of these. We are all trained indi- 
 viduals. There we make no 'mistakes.' 
 No punishments are inflicted there. We 
 are guilty of no 'sins' or 'crimes.' There 
 you will find Knowledge. There you will 
 become acquainted with Science. There 
 you will observe Balance. On board that 
 ship the obstructions are all removed. 
 'Self -denial' is not written in our code. 
 We know no styles or fashions. 'Morals' 
 and 'immorals' are not down in our vo- 
 cabulary. There are no different qualities 
 with us, everything is of the best quality 
 everything is good. 
 
 "We are out for life. With us it is 'good 
 Lord' and 'good Devil,' just so neither 
 comes between us and life. Self-culture 
 and organization keep us in perfect tune 
 with our economic interests, and everybody 
 smiles. 
 
 "There are no long faces in our com- 
 pany. Neither have we any special hours 
 for devil charming. When the devil sees 
 us coming he hunts a new latitude and 
 boxes his compass for a stern view. Or- 
 ders, as such, are unknown under the dis- 
 cipline we maintain; but signals there be 
 which are understood and heeded, it means 
 safety. Safety means greater life selfish- 
 ness.
 
 306 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "We are all workers aboard the Agita- 
 tor. But we are all agreed upon some- 
 thing. Every man is self -trained and self- 
 disciplined, we have an objective point a 
 goal in view. When we start that ship we 
 first have decided that we want to go some- 
 where. Then we all go that particular 
 way. One-half of us do not try to run the 
 ship northward while the other half battle 
 with the first in the effort to drive her in a 
 southerly direction. In our feeble-minded 
 imagination, we fancy that every man Jack 
 of us is equally necessary in accomplishing 
 any desired result with every other man 
 Jack of us. Thus we are not brought to a 
 'dead level,' but to a live level. 
 
 " There is no graded parading of aris- 
 tocratic dignity in our world. We are men. 
 
 "I invented the Agitator and the Comet 
 because I could not help inventing them. 
 Creation is purely a selfish motive with 
 me. Constructive work makes me happy, 
 and I want to be happy. I resolved to give 
 my inventions to mankind, so that, by mak- 
 ing the happiness general I would have 
 some chance of getting mine. Anything 
 short of such a plan is short of life, is 
 short of liberty, is short of individuality. 
 And anything short of individual happi- 
 ness, in any degree, is slavery, and slavery 
 in all its forms must go." 
 
 In the very front row and in the end seat 
 on the left of the center aisle, was seated a
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 307 
 
 little scrub of a man, who fidgeted con- 
 stantly, never for an instant taking his eyes 
 off the speaker, except occasionally to flash 
 an evil glance at Jason Sands. Immediately 
 back of him sat two gentlemen in black 
 broadcloth. The youthful orator had not 
 noticed them, probably because of his ultra- 
 enthusiasm; but they had not escaped his 
 father. From his bitter experiences with 
 this sleek species, coupled with the thou- 
 sand other dangers which for forty years 
 had kept him primed and cocked for trouble, 
 the alert Jason knew he could classify them 
 the moment he laid eyes on the cut-throat 
 trio. From where he sat he could size 
 them up; and he whispered his suspicions 
 to the Aztec doctor, only to be rebuked by 
 Jack Philips with a mild fling at his "over- 
 sensitiveness. " But Joe Hautier pricked 
 up his ears, and, though no one saw him do 
 it, slipped a hand inside his spotless linen 
 coat. Symbols sat up from dozing on 
 Toy's lap and ventured that there was 
 "sumpling doing." He had detected the 
 faint clicking sounds and recognized them 
 as the same clicking sounds he had heard 
 the night before, when the captain gave the 
 secret signal that "boiled" old Mullock 
 and his revenue tub Terror in Norton 
 Sound. Instantly with the clicking sounds 
 flew open a small shutter in the lighthouse, 
 and the white illumination changed to the 
 soft garnet-emerald, then back again to the
 
 308 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 white. The changes were so rapid and so 
 soon over that none save the captain of the 
 Agitator, the inventor and the operator in 
 the lighthouse noticed the thin, needle-like 
 point of white that shot for a fraction of 
 a second through the garnet-emerald glow 
 and touched the crown of the fidgety man 
 in the front row. Moreover, Captain Joe, 
 the inventor and the lighthouse operator 
 alone knew that the needle-like ray was a 
 "rangefinder." 
 
 The meeting was warming to its close. 
 The inspired speaker had poured forth his 
 best effort, dropping periods rapidly and 
 pungently. The one-hundred piece orches- 
 tra was essaying its instruments, and the 
 thousand male and female singers were 
 shuffling their music for the Marseillaise 
 in the grand finale. That human sea of 
 twenty thousand heads was billowing and 
 rolling to the classical eloquence of the 
 scholarly discourse. They had followed 
 him back through all the sad plethora of 
 a thousand years of grinding toil and sor- 
 row. Warming with the warmth of his 
 child love, and burning with him in the 
 wild fire of his dynamic portrayal of the 
 myriad wrongs of each robber regime. The 
 climax came when, rising to hitherto unsur- 
 mounted heights he eulogized his father's 
 name in a recapitulation of the perilous 
 and discouraging events culminating in 
 their recent reunion. And referring to
 
 TIIK TORCH OF REASON. 309 
 
 his giant white-haired sire as the Spartacus 
 of the Social Revolution he concluded, with 
 sweetest sarcasm: "There is a much par- 
 roted mouthing more or less popular, 
 characterized as 'hero-worship.' It is a 
 baneful and contagious disease! I do not 
 know its originator, but I think I have 
 located its cause. It appears to be a germ 
 malady whose bacteria belong to the papo- 
 tenacio family, which are always largest 
 at the feed end. Strangely enough, the 
 germ is giffonic, existing only in the woof 
 of fright-wigs worn by those who parrot 
 it. If appearances are a criterion, none of 
 these fearsome, stentorian-tongued guar- 
 dians of approbate piety appear in any 
 immediate danger of becoming objects of 
 attack by this particular imaginary pesti- 
 lence. For sake of argument, it were gener- 
 ous to agree with the hero-worship 
 Nemesis, that heroes never existed, and 
 that bravery never existed; but there were 
 charity in such acquiescence! Some day 
 I am going to write a short treatise on 
 Jealousy. Then you will see the un- 
 lime-lighted 'parrots' hunting a new classi- 
 fication ! 
 
 "You will never find a hero among 
 mockers." 
 
 With this last cool challenge to the fault- 
 finding destructionists, and with the right- 
 eous pride, generation-proof and genera- 
 tion-inherited, flushing cheek and flashing
 
 310 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 from eye, he pointed to where his father 
 the victor of a thousand unsought battles 
 was seated, and with clarion resonance, 
 cried: "Behold a hero!" 
 
 They were magic words. They brought 
 the crowd to its feet as if impelled by steel 
 springs. Up went the yell: "Speech!" 
 " Speech!" " Jason Sands!" " Jason 
 Sands!" 
 
 Jason heard the clamor, and with swift 
 retrospection he swept back over the years 
 to the street corner and the soap box. Hur- 
 riedly he compared his early digressions in 
 the midst of many a motley crowd to the 
 conversational excellence of his son's poig- 
 nant rhetoric, and wondered if he could 
 really make a speech. But there was no 
 denying them. "I'm in for it," he ac- 
 quiesced, and with the throng madly hur- 
 rahing he made his way to his son's side, 
 and with both crutches under his left arm, 
 he raised his great right hand for silence. 
 It could be seen that his huge bulk shook 
 with great emotion. The crowd still yelled, 
 and he leaned and rested half his weight 
 on his x son's shoulder. 
 
 The old Spartan was fighting another 
 battle. Was it to be his last! Like a 
 storm-struck ship on a hidden reef for a 
 moment he floundered, then righted on the 
 crest of a mighty wave of fresh enthusiasm, 
 and stood motionless before them like an 
 adamantine sentinel on a storm-swept shore.
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 311 
 
 For fully ten minutes pandemonium 
 reigned. As one surge of applause upon 
 another rose and fell, an old glad twinkle 
 got in his eye, but he did not smile. All 
 the smile had gone out of him and was 
 buried and frozen in the north snows along 
 with his amputated foot. For twenty 
 years the only smile he had known was the 
 brute smile of battle; and with his last 
 great fight with the wolves had gone that 
 smile forever. 
 
 But who was hissing! Quimby knew, 
 for he had seen them at last the two 
 well-nourished gentlemen in black broad- 
 cloth, and he remembered the threat of 
 Father Munne. With lips parted in a 
 hideous snarl, their fat faces blue with 
 hate, they hissed both son and father while 
 twenty thousand others cheered. The little 
 fidgety man in front exhibited unmistakable 
 signs of fear; but as no attention was paid 
 to the hissing, he sank a little lower in his 
 seat and the two men on the stage stood 
 motionless. 
 
 There was a lull, followed by the in- 
 troduction. Came another stunning out- 
 burst, then silence. In a deep bass voice, 
 clear as a glass bell, but with just the 
 slightest tremolo in it, the old rebel gladia- 
 tor began. 
 
 "Why would you hear me?" he protested. 
 "Look at me! I am an old tree! I grew 
 high up on the mountain. I have faced the 
 blast of torrent and tempest; and I have
 
 312 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 stood firmly against both quake and deluge. 
 But it is autumn. My limbs are shat- 
 tered and my trunk rift with the stroke 
 of strife. Over the hill the sun for me 
 is going down. It will rise on the morrow, 
 but only for him (laying his gnarled right 
 hand on his son's auburn head). Winter 
 is at hand; and when it comes, like an 
 old tree I shall fall in the snow. 
 
 "It is good to be here, and it. is good to 
 be loved. I have found my son, or rather 
 he has found me, 'and I shall live with him 
 on his strange ship; but when the hour 
 strikes, he will take me back to Her. I 
 have tried to live to see Socialism, and now 
 my dream is coming true. 
 
 "You are all so happy! That is as it 
 should be. I am happy too what is left 
 of me for these boys have fulfilled the 
 promise, and surely 'ye shall inherit the 
 earth' have inherited the earth. This 
 grand demonstration proves to me that 
 those who cried out in the wilderness cried 
 not in vain. 
 
 T _ 
 
 "Blasphemy- 
 
 " Devil," interrupted first one and then 
 the other of the two groomed gentlemen 
 in the black broadcloth, leaping to their 
 feet with clenched fists and bloodshot eyes. 
 " 'Ere! 'ere!" remonstrated the yellow- 
 haired Englishman, and a dead silence like 
 the premonition of doom fell upon the 
 house. Jason and his son stood like petri-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 313 
 
 fied trees, and Captain Hautier, followed 
 by Spanto and Philips jumped into the 
 audience from their box, just as the little 
 fidgety man jerked a huge black revolver 
 from somewhere about his person in the 
 act of dropping a shot into the duo on the 
 stage, when the blackness of an ocean cave 
 displaced the colored lights, and a thin, 
 needle-like shaft of lightning-blue white, 
 flashed, meteor-like from the lighthouse 
 straight, with unerring accuracy, and struck 
 the loaded gun in mid-air. There was a 
 puff of white smoke and a faint sound 
 like flushed powder; a splash of molten 
 steel and lead on the aluminum floor, 
 together with the charred remains of the 
 right hand of the little fidgety man burned 
 off at the wrist! 
 
 Amid the hysterical screams of fainting 
 women and cries of "fire" and "murder" 
 from excited men, the operator in the light- 
 house touched two keys, one labeled 
 "LIGHT," the other "PANIC." Captain 
 Joe and the doctor made a spring for the 
 stage, just as the lights came on; but 
 Philips did not understand, and was so 
 caught with the crowd in the amphitheater. 
 With the return of the lights, out dropped 
 the whole bottom of the coliseum, taking 
 the entire audience with it. Down, down, 
 down into darkness it fell, so rapidly that 
 every tongue was stilled and every breath 
 stayed with the indescribable sensation of 
 dropping feet first into a bottomless pit!
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 FOUR YEARS AROUND THE WORLD. 
 
 I stood, at twilight, while the pall 
 
 Of battlements their shadows flung 
 Athwart the bullet-eaten wall, 
 
 Where dying Communards had sung; 
 And there in fantasy, like ghosts, 
 
 The murdered myriads arose, 
 And marshalling their battered hosts, 
 
 Forever tyrants to depose, 
 Unfurled the Banner of the Free 
 The blood-red Flag of Liberty ! 
 
 Ten seconds after the bottom fell out of 
 the coliseum, Jack Philips found himself 
 afloat in a huge barge along with twenty 
 thousand others on a subterranean lake. 
 And in ten minutes more the barge had 
 become the bottom of the coliseum again, 
 and he and the rest were seated as before, 
 while the music and singers rendered the 
 grand old Marseillaise. But neither the 
 little fidgety man nor the two groomed 
 gentlemen in black broadcloth were present ! 
 
 It was just one more of the life-saving 
 inventions of the New Time. It operated 
 to prevent disaster in case of accident of 
 whatever name or nature. Everything 
 was invention under the new order, and 
 it was surprising how many geniuses were 
 bobbing up, now that profit in human labor 
 was in Canada a thing of brutal history. 
 
 (314)
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 315 
 
 To appreciate this new device, one had 
 but to recall the many holocausts under 
 Capitalism, including the Pemberton mill, 
 the Columbus school, the Bellville convent, 
 the Iroquois theatre, and the Triangle 
 shirtwaist factory. In all of these, as in 
 thousands of others now forgotten, hun- 
 dreds had been burned and crushed to 
 death for no other reason than that safety 
 devices cost a little money. 
 
 None of the buildings of the Co-opera- 
 tors were inflammable, but the heads of 
 men were still inflammable, and there was 
 no precaution too great to be undertaken 
 by the Socialists. 
 
 It was no trouble to have these subter- 
 ranean lakes and gardens, driveways or 
 tunnels. With the electro-radium ray, a 
 mountain could be fused into gas and made 
 to disappear in a few minutes ; and to burn 
 tunnels and cavities in the earth for any 
 purpose was but to play the ray on the 
 desired point. All matter being simply 
 congealed gas, and gas being lighter than 
 air, all one had to do to get rid of matter 
 was to know the process by which it became 
 reduced to its original state. It was simply 
 a question of getting the fire hot enough. 
 When the ray was turned on a granite 
 wall or a clay bank, the stone or clay 
 glowed, turned white, then with a sputter- 
 ing hiss retreated and vanished before the 
 terrific heat like snow struck with a stream
 
 316 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 of hot water. Thus ditches were dug, 
 mines sunk, and surface lands leveled. 
 Also all the foul fever swamps and stagnant 
 pools were in this way eliminated and des- 
 troyed. 
 
 It was this same fire-force that propelled 
 the Agitator and the Comet. Back of the 
 thin, semi-circular slits in their hulls, which 
 slits looked like thumb-nail marks on a wa- 
 termelon, or spoon bowl thrusts in the but- 
 ter, were aluminum-steel compartments into 
 which was forced a highly combustible 
 gas made from earth and sea water, and 
 stored in hydraulic tanks abroad. Each 
 semi-circular slit slanted astern, and had 
 the invention consisted of this alone, with 
 the compartments filled with air instead 
 of the highly combustible gas, a maximum 
 speed of a hundred miles an hour would 
 have been as easy as running at a ten-knot 
 clip under steam or gasoline with any of 
 the old-fashioned tubs of commerce. Think, 
 then, of the awful resistance of this ex- 
 plosive gas coming in contact with the water 
 and being ignited by the electro-radium 
 ray as it escaped! 
 
 Quimby had seen rockets cleave the sky, 
 and with a little study he came to know 
 the force of a burning stream of gas. All 
 the aerial crafts he built were submarines 
 as well, and when running at full speed 
 the exploding gas operated so rapidly and 
 fiercely that the ships themselves never
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 317 
 
 got time to touch the water at all. It 
 was blown back faster than its own pres- 
 sure could act against the displacement of 
 the craft. They burned vacuums in either 
 water or air, and through vacuums of their 
 own burning they traveled; thus eliminat- 
 ing friction, their speed was regulated only 
 according to desire. Its limits had never 
 been tested, as no one could be found rash 
 enough to undertake the possibility of 
 stopping after such a test. This was the 
 way of lightning. It was, indeed, a system 
 of rapid transit. 
 
 The untutored never would have sus- 
 pected that the entire seating capacity of the 
 I. I. Ds' theatres were built upon boats, 
 and that these boats in turn were resting 
 on ball-bearing toboggan slides, fifty per 
 cent, out of perpendicular, and a hundred 
 feet above underground lakes, seas or 
 rivers. When the keyboard operator in 
 the lighthouse touched the ivory disk la- 
 beled " PANIC," he released an electric 
 clutch that held suspended the coliseum's 
 auditorium as the human hand may seize 
 and hold on to an iron ring. To over- 
 power and manacle the godly trio that 
 had caused the trouble, clutch and draw 
 up the audience to its original place, was 
 the work of but moments. Compressed air 
 did the trick, and compressed air never 
 failed. 
 
 It seemed there was no escape for these
 
 318 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 scientists, these ungodly heretics, these 
 inventors who were continually upsetting 
 the accepted order of things with their un- 
 understandable mechanical devices and 
 their "devilish" theories concerning or- 
 ganic life. Wherever they went it was 
 the same. Trouble was ever there to greet 
 them. They tried to avoid it by every 
 conceivable precaution and kindness, but 
 the disturbers tracked them like hungry 
 wolves. It were ever so. Past history 
 was full of it. Men, like animals, had al- 
 ways shied at things they were too ignorant 
 to comprehend, and these the cunning 
 preyed upon by perpetuating their foolish 
 fears. 
 
 Four years, it was, since that little 
 episode in Victoria, and the Agitator, 
 stowed with motion picture films, curios, 
 historic data and wood and stone specimens 
 from the far and hidden archives of earth, 
 was lying heavily from her over-weight 
 in the landlocked harbor of St. Johns, 
 Newfoundland. 
 
 It was September. They had spoken 
 the "White Squadron" of the Gloucester 
 fishermen, home-bound, off the Banks the 
 day before, for the weather is not fine for 
 cod fishing on the Grand Banks of New- 
 foundland after September. Gloucester 
 still lived by fishing, and still ate meat; 
 for was it not a part of the great United 
 States?
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 319 
 
 But Newfoundland, once but an unde- 
 veloped island, inhabited ever so sparsely 
 by rough fisher folk, uncultured and poor 
 with the poverty of dirt, was now a ve- 
 ritable tropical paradise, and one of the 
 most popular summer resorts on the North 
 Atlantic Coast. Egg-shaped lay St. Johns 
 just behind a winrow-like range of fossil- 
 sandstone mountains that overhung the 
 South coast, reached through a narrow 
 cut in Signal Mountain, which cut looked 
 as if it had been sawed out with a cross- 
 cut saw. 
 
 Seal and cod fisheries had been the 
 island's chief industries back in the days 
 of civilized barbarism; but now the seal 
 oil tanks were gone, and Water street, with 
 its ramshackle canneries and stinking fish 
 offal, was a transformation to beautiful 
 palm gardens, with sparkling fountains 
 and automobile boulevards. 
 
 Up the hill, north of the harbor, where 
 the quaint old city used to lean toward 
 the sea, terraces of magnificent cement 
 and colored glass mansions dotted the slope, 
 surrounded by shade trees and flower 
 gardens, and all kept green and growing 
 both summer and winter by means of the 
 electro-radium ray. Cold, wintry winds 
 screeched and howled down the bleak coast 
 in winter, with all their customary fury; 
 but when they struck the screen of "live 
 light" that ran around the cit}^ like a
 
 320 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Chinese wall, the coldest blizzards became 
 summer zephyrs, and snow storms turned 
 to warm showers in the heart of zero 
 weather. 
 
 This was modern Newfoundland. It 
 was some of the " modernism" feared and 
 fought by the regalian candle-gloomers 
 with their incense nonsense and their tom- 
 tom, torn-foolery of the worm-eaten yester- 
 day. But there was one primal relic of 
 the weak-kneed past that Newfoundland 
 still clung to and cherished. How hardly 
 may we censure her, when we recall that 
 the aforesaid relic came to her honestly 
 down the back stairs of a long line of 
 ancestral back-moss and obsolete monkey- 
 shines? The relic was the town crier! 
 The office had been a lineal perpetuation 
 for three hundred years. Ever since the 
 first hobgoblin yarns of witchcraft lore 
 sent their meandering ghosts excursioning 
 through the superstituous brains of their 
 long since moldy forebears, the town crier 
 of St. Johns had been the annually re- 
 appointed joke. Regularly each hour 
 through the sleeping streets tottered his 
 shriveled form, lantern in hand, his long 
 white whiskers gyrating, like hoar-moss 
 in the wind from his palsied jaw. He 
 was always a good old man too old to be 
 anything but good and his voice always 
 trembled like the gurgle of death. 
 
 It was more than twenty years since
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 321 
 
 Jason and old "Thimble-rig" Harrington 
 had played in the STAR OF THE SEA 
 HALL, but the crier was the same old 
 crier, and he looked just the same. Time 
 apparently had wrought no change in him. 
 All changes in him had been made and he 
 was beyond change. 
 
 They had put up at THE KNIGHTS' 
 HOME, a Water street hostelry of Dicken- 
 sonian antiquity, where the servant girls 
 were required to carry the guests' trunks 
 upstairs to their rooms, and servant girls 
 at that time got "two-and-six" a month! 
 
 Every nightly hour, in a wheezy mono- 
 tone, the whole town was awakened by the 
 crier on his lonely rounds, with the follow- 
 ing or similar assinine intelligence droned 
 out in a protracted drawl that sounded 
 for all the world like a squeeky gate hinge 
 in an east wind: " E-e-e-e-eleven o'clock, 
 and a-a-a-a-11 is well, and all is well, and 
 all is well except a drowned goat in the 
 harbor. H-e-e-e's dead." 
 
 They had been around the world the 
 Agitator and her party and in three 
 months they would be tied up at St. 
 Louis, on the Mississippi River. 
 
 From Victoria, just four years ago, they 
 had cruised down the Pacific Coast to San 
 Francisco, thence to Honolulu the Philip- 
 pines, Australia, New Zealand and around 
 the Horn. Cutting in and out among the ten 
 thousand islands of the tropic and semi-
 
 322 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 tropic Pacific, had eaten up the first year. 
 But the motion pictures secured were the 
 rarest and most valuable ever collected. 
 Added to these were the wonderful deep 
 sea shells and other marine curiosities of 
 the South Seas. The Agitator could dive 
 to any depth, and with her powerful lights 
 turning Neptune's treasure chambers into 
 noon-day, they robbed the jewel caskets 
 of Amphitrite of their choicest pearls and 
 photographed the strange marine life for 
 the motion picture schools of the new 
 Democracy. 
 
 From Tierra Del Fuego they slipped 
 up the east coast of South America to 
 Buenos Aires, Rio De Janeiro and into 
 the South Atlantic ocean to the island of 
 St. Helena, the speck of rock in the vast 
 expanse of blue ocean made famous by the 
 exile and disgrace to its lonely shores of 
 the murderer Napoleon in 1815. Here a 
 blear-eyed, tip-seeking old fraud conducted 
 the visitors to the "very spot" where the 
 Corsican beast was wont to sit dreaming 
 France-ward, pointing out, with officious 
 dignity, the "very rock" upon which the 
 conquered conqueror loved to sit, daddling 
 his royal toes in the ticklesome sudsy surf. 
 
 Up the Congo next they sailed. Then 
 back around Cape Town to Madagascar, 
 Zanzibar, Ceylon and Bombay. 
 
 Here they were in India, the land where 
 religion had become mayhem, and where
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 323 
 
 social cast ranged from the strata of straw 
 with its insigna of cow dung, to bejewlled 
 Gaekwar in his robe of gold, his harem 
 and slaves, sipping the wine of pearls and 
 sitting above the law. Here it was at 
 Delhi, back in 1911, that 200,000,000 sub- 
 jugated starvelings laid belly down with 
 faces in the dust, and spent $100,000,000, to 
 rehearse the coronation farce of England's 
 bigamist king the last parasitic monarch 
 ever crowned and while that barbaric 
 fantasma was being staged, 6,000 of India's 
 poor surrendered their lives to the Pale 
 Lady of Starvation. Westward and north- 
 ward the course now lay, through the gulf 
 of Aden and into the Red Sea. 
 
 In the Congo they did not tarry. One 
 month was long enough for them. Quimby 
 Sands wanted to go there to confirm the 
 tales of cruelty told of old King Leopold 
 to the natives. Here he found a million 
 square miles of tropical paradise being 
 ravished of its natural beauties and re- 
 sources as with a pestilence. Whole na- 
 tions of blacks were still groaning under 
 the yoke of chattel slavery, tens of thou- 
 sands of whom had been maimed for life 
 by the uniformed Myrmidons of this old 
 bloody beast King Leopold of Belgium. 
 
 "Go up the Congo," Jason had advised 
 his son, "and you will see sights that will 
 make your blood run cold." Jason knew, 
 for he had been shanghaied aboard a
 
 324 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 French blackbirder on the Gold Coast back 
 in the '90s, and the thoughts of the "nig- 
 ger" blood he had seen wantonly spilled 
 nauseated and unnerved him. 
 
 For the slightest disobedience or irregu- 
 larity, a hand or foot was chopped oft'; 
 and for any diminution in the quantity 
 or quality of service rendered subsequently, 
 oif came the head of the poor unfortunate 
 to satisfy the cruel lust of one of Capital- 
 ism's most successful Christian gentlemen. 
 All this was being done in the civilized 
 process of "developing" the country. Of 
 course, it was because Leopold was a great 
 and good king that he so loved these help- 
 less colored slaves! He loved them in the 
 same sense and degree that the American 
 wage-slave is loved by his Wall Street 
 masters: It is because they love him so 
 that they "give" him work! And it is 
 because they love him so that they give 
 him a "lockout" and the police club when- 
 ever the market is supplied and there is 
 no longer a profit in loving him. 
 
 The Congo country was an open store- 
 house of good things free-lying on the 
 bosom of earth, to be had for the taking. 
 So old King Leopold furnished the finan- 
 cial backing of the Henry M. Stanley ex- 
 pedition of robbery and blood, which, in 
 1877, did spotter service for him, and paved 
 the way for the international wolf-pack 
 known as the African International As-
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 325 
 
 sociation. With this Capitalistic machine 
 greased with the gore and sweat of both 
 black and white slaves, at a conference in 
 Berlin in 1885, fourteen great Powers were 
 agreed upon the methods and tactics by 
 which they were to pour their mercenaries 
 and hirelings into the Congo to exploit 
 it of its riches. This pact, or greater 
 wolf -pack, was called the "Great Charter 
 of the Congo Free State." Which, trans- 
 lated into understandable diction, meant, the 
 free license of fourteen nations to legally 
 devastate and murder, enslave, rob and lay 
 waste to one of the richest lands under the 
 shining sun. 
 
 But the Congo was not alone. What 
 of the Boer war? England " Merry Eng- 
 land" -it was which slaughtered and well- 
 nigh exterminated a whole nation of peace- 
 ful happy farmers in that awful war of 
 commercial piracy. Jason was in New 
 Orleans at the time, and was commissioned 
 by the government to go up the Mississippi 
 River for mules, which mules were to be 
 sold to the British government and shipped 
 to South Africa. All capitalist govern- 
 ments were the same, and all were engaged 
 in the same business of enslaving the work- 
 ing class and in keeping the people divided 
 that they might the more easily control 
 and legally rob them. 
 
 But it was different now. All the great 
 nations were Co-operative Industrial
 
 326 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Democracies. Socialism had come every- 
 where at about the same time. One ex- 
 ception there was, however: the great 
 United States! The most enslaved and 
 capital-ridden Autocracy on earth, the 
 people were sound asleep, dreaming the 
 sweet but archaic dreams that their grand- 
 fathers had dreamed of liberty from the 
 tyrant rule of a foreign king. 
 
 It was their very dreams of liberty that 
 kept them enslaved and asleep. Their 
 liberty was liberty in their dreams only. 
 How could they know that they were asleep 
 when they trusted all their thinking to 
 their rich masters? Their masters told 
 them they were wide awake, and that they 
 were "free-born voting sovereigns." How, 
 then, could they know that they were 
 slaves? Didn't their masters know best? 
 Look at them! They wore sleek black 
 clothes and plug hats and all that sort of 
 thing. Of course, they were the smartest, 
 elsewise how could they wear diamonds 
 and stop at the best hotels ? But they were 
 waking up that is, the children were. 
 The Red Cadets was proof of this. 
 
 Through the Suez Canal, past Cairo and 
 into the Mediterranean, then up the Nile 
 they explored, and with the aid of the 
 Comet and her powerful ray, they were 
 able to give to the world the secret of the 
 Pyramids and the Sphinx. The tombs of 
 Cheops and his successors they were, and
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 327 
 
 were made of cement, instead of blocks 
 of stone, as was commonly but erroneously 
 supposed. 
 
 In those days, when these kings' tombs 
 were built, the soul was said to be simply 
 the breath the only thing given up at 
 death and it was supposed to be breathed 
 up, or to go into some beast, bird, reptile 
 or vermin anything that happened to be 
 nearest at the moment of its flight. This 
 creeping, crawling or fluttering thing then, 
 according to theory, hustled away with its 
 precious charge to somewhere or other, 
 anywhere wherever Heaven happened to be 
 located temporarily, for the convenience 
 of the sorceresses who lived by teaching it. 
 After 5,000 years of meandering about the 
 country in the aforesaid fashion, it was 
 supposed to be brought back to its original 
 owner and breathed again into the nostrils, 
 when, straightway he would become himself 
 or herself again, as the case might be. 
 
 In order to have all of this fine melo- 
 dramatic phantasm staged and opened on 
 schedule time, of course, the carcasses 
 of these cruel old tyrants had to be mum- 
 mified and entombed. 
 
 But that was the 'belief of the tune, and 
 it answered as well as anything to keep 
 the ignorant submissive and satisfied with 
 their misery. Besides, it gave the slaves 
 work! Pyramids and sphinxs had to be 
 built, otherwise how could they preserve
 
 328 THE TOECH OF REASON. 
 
 and have to worship the carion of their 
 beloved rulers'? All of this about the sor- 
 ceresses and their accepted fetish was in 
 the books, and the books were on the shelves 
 of the Public Libraries of every nation on 
 earth; but there they stayed, dust-laden, 
 and were never read. 
 
 For a thousand miles through the sleepy 
 Land of Egypt up the sluggish Nile with 
 first Agitator, then Comet, they explored, 
 and the sights of ancient wreck and ruin, 
 when the shaved pates with their temporal 
 power had taxed the people either to death 
 or out of the country, filled them with 
 shame and sadness. There were the stately 
 halls and temples, upon whose vast walls 
 still clung the priceless paintings and 
 wonderful engravures of two thousand 
 years ago; and upon whose crumbling 
 floors wild beasts munched the red bones 
 of their fresh-killed prey. On the broad 
 cement steps, still intact, sprawled slimy 
 crocodiles, basking in the silent desert sun, 
 and from behind fallen columns in the 
 swale the brooding mud hen left her nest 
 to squawk frightfully away among the 
 water reeds. 
 
 Next it was through the historic old 
 Dardanelles and the Turkish Bosphorus 
 at Constantinople, and into the Black Sea. 
 To Naples and Rome they cruised in a 
 day. It was from this latter ancient city 
 that the Pope had been driven out to take
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 329 
 
 refuge from the wrath of his long-suffering 
 people in the United States. Thither he 
 had hied himself at the behest of his 
 American allies, the Wall Street Adminis- 
 tration. Taking up his new berth in the 
 great $3,500,000 cathedral at St. Louis, 
 his business was to unionize all remaining 
 religious creeds under Roman Catholic dic- 
 tatorship. This accomplished, Church and 
 State formed a clandestine collusion for 
 the purpose of combating Socialism. All 
 this were inevitable. The dynasties and 
 systems of earth had ever germinated with- 
 in themselves the fires of their own dissolu- 
 tion. It was history. This, then, was the 
 last stand of the Beast. It marked the 
 beginning of the end. This, the fall of the 
 Papacy, happened in the year of 1914. 
 
 They visited Marseilles and historic old 
 Toulon in South France, then whirled 
 around through the Gibraltar Strait. Here, 
 in response to a request from the Comrades 
 of the surrounding country, the Agitator 
 gave them a hand in the demolishing of 
 that famous, or infamous rock, which Great 
 Britain for a century had boasted could 
 not be taken. 
 
 Modern civilization had decreed that it 
 must be done away with to aid posterity 
 in forgetting the crimes of war's brutal 
 history. Wars were no more and the causes 
 of war lingered only as a shuddery memory 
 of the nightmare past.
 
 330 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Running a half-mile out to sea, the Agita- 
 tor focused first her range finder, then 
 turned on the mighty electro-radium pillar 
 in its most violent form. The night was 
 dark and the " fireworks" splendid. The 
 performance lasted fully a minute. The 
 noise was beyond description it was awful ! 
 All the thunderbolts of time loaded into 
 one huge bomb and exploded without warn- 
 ing could not have matched it. Imagine 
 it if you can; but then, there are some 
 things beyond imagination. Gibraltar, a 
 solid mountain of rock, fused into gas 
 in a minute! It must have been beyond 
 belief back a half-century. This brought 
 down a torrent of rain; and when morning 
 came the great Eock of Gibraltar was no 
 more. 
 
 France, in 1910, polled* 1,106,047 So- 
 cialists votes and seated 76 members in 
 her Parliament. This was the shot that 
 toppled the throne of greed. But greed 
 was heavily entrenched, and only for the 
 fact that the workers were united did 
 they win the third Commune. This time 
 it was not a "Paris" Commune, but a 
 French Commune. They had learned 
 their lesson well these French hewers of 
 wood and drawers of water. No more 
 reaction for them. The Paris shambles of 
 '71 was remembered. 
 
 (* Official figures presented to the author by Morris 
 Hillquit International Secretary of the Socialist party in 
 1011.)
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 331 
 
 When the Sands party arrived, all Paris, 
 yea, all France, was in celebration of the 
 new victory, and the coming of the Ameri- 
 cans was welcomed with the best that 
 human labor afforded. What impressed 
 Jason Sands most was the sacred devotion 
 with which these Frenchmen consecrated 
 their lives to principle and cause. The 
 spirit of it fired him. It was in the air. 
 The sun reflected it. The birds sang of 
 it. The warm showers bathed the earth 
 with it. It was the soul of the French 
 Revolution. He had heard his father 
 speak of it, for his people, on his father's 
 side, were French, and had been driven 
 out of France for having taken part in 
 the slaughter of the aristocrats in that 
 same revolution. He had always felt it 
 in the inner man of him, but he had never 
 lived it before. Here one could sense it 
 with every breath. Men trod lightly the 
 pavements pavements that had run red 
 because labor had had to learn its lessons 
 in red. Women still shuddered at the cry 
 of children, and mothers paled wide-eyed 
 to see a petal fall from a red French rose. 
 
 Standing in the Square Du Pere-La- 
 choise, his attention was riveted on what 
 at first looked like an incomplete bit of 
 masonry an unfinished wall. Upon closer 
 approach it proved to be a monument 
 erected sacred to the memory of the mar- 
 tyred Communards, 40,000 of whom the
 
 332 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 masters had lined up against a deadwall 
 and shot to death. This monument was 
 calculated to immortalize a section of the 
 very deadwall against which the brains and 
 hearts of those 40,000 Socialists and their 
 wives and babies had been shot out. There 
 were the bullet holes which had eaten deep 
 into the very stone of that deadwall. 
 Wonderfully wrought in bas-relief upon 
 that wall-monument, and reflecting the 
 silent horror and hopeless, expectant 
 doom of those victims of a tyrant's wrath, 
 the modern sculptor had portrayed all but 
 the crackle of musketry and moan of death. 
 
 Here was a mother sinking to her knees, 
 a sucking babe clasped to her nude breast, 
 both shot through with a dozen holes. On 
 this square of cold stone, a young herculene 
 son of France, his head defiantly thrown 
 back with honest pride in that he had 
 been chosen to die for the Commune, stands 
 holding apart his shirt front to receive 
 the volley of lead lead that had been 
 mined and molded by workingmen! Here 
 was a severed hand; there a mutilated 
 face; on the next cube a dying patriarch, 
 his bald skull riven and torn where the 
 leaden missiles had ploughed it through. 
 
 But all this was only so much stone. 
 Like what must the real thing have been! 
 History says they uttered no cowardly 
 alarm. But these cold stones did cry out, 
 more eloquent cried they in their silence
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 333 
 
 than rang the death sentence that sent 
 their righteous souls into eternity. 
 
 Jason felt a hand laid gently on his 
 right arm, and looking down he recog- 
 nized the form, but not the features of 
 Captain Hautier. Joe was at home in 
 Paris, but the Commune had turned him 
 adrift. "Come," he said, "I will show 
 you where my father stood and faced them, 
 cursing their craven souls to Hell, after 
 the cowards in uniform, who obey orders, 
 had pumped into him a pound of lead. 
 He was ironed to my mother and my sister, 
 and when their brains splashed upon his 
 broad breast, he held them in his mighty 
 arms until they shot him down. But I 
 was too young; they overlooked me in the 
 cradle where her tender care had laid me." 
 
 They were now at the very deadwall 
 which the sculptor of the memorial monu- 
 ment had tried to imitate. Here came 
 the working class of Paris once a year to 
 decorate the wall in memory of their 
 martyred comrades. Some of the faded 
 decorations still clung to pegs driven into 
 the bullet holes. Withered garlands of 
 flowers, crosses and wreaths there were, 
 whose crumpled petals littered the ground 
 at its base. Jason looked at Joe and beheld 
 the face, not of the blvthe navigator of the 
 Acfitator, but of a lion at bay. It was 
 but a flash across that intervening vista 
 to those days of slaughter. As he stood
 
 334 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 before that mural sentinel, which loomed, 
 a silent witness to a nation's crime, he 
 saw not sculptured faces and breasts of 
 stone, but the living and livid mutilated 
 flesh and bone of those murdered Com- 
 munards. Every floral cross and wreath 
 became a rigid form; and into the dark 
 orifices where leaden missiles had gouged 
 out the solid stone, came the horror stare 
 of virgin 's eyes, alternating with the stead- 
 fast gaze of the militant heroes who had 
 scorned the blindfold rag. 
 
 He saw his father as his mother and 
 sister must have seen him, a battered god, 
 glowing with triumph in the hour of defeat ; 
 crushed but never conquered; killed, per- 
 chance, but living still, while the corpses 
 fell beside him with everv volley from the 
 firing squad, in the mad dream that ran 
 riot through his imaginative brain. Fan- 
 tasy possessed him; and mingled with the 
 hoarse curses of the veterans grown old in 
 toil, he could hear the death-gasp of the 
 women and children shot down like herded 
 beasts in the dust. 
 
 Born with the blood-infusion of the 
 Commune in his veins a heritage nurtured 
 with his mother's milk he was a Com- 
 munard; and he was living the reincarnated 
 battles of his crucified corn-patriots, and 
 awaiting in his fancy, as did his sire in 
 reality, for the volley that should bring 
 him down. Yonder rode the haughty com-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 335 
 
 mander, whose sin-ill voice rang cruelly 
 in the sun-risen dawn, as between the 
 long lines of manacled citizens his black 
 charger pranced. "Step out!" he could 
 hear the buzzard hiss, "you look intelligent; 
 step out!" Which mandate meant: you 
 are to be shot to death against a deadwall ! 
 And the citizen thus addressed would take 
 three paces forward. "Away with him" 
 or her, would scream . . . .* And thus per- 
 ished 40,000 Paris workfolk, whose ultra- 
 optimism and lack of self-wisdom had cost 
 them both their lives and their cause. 
 
 That was forty years ago ; but its history 
 could never die. "Step out, you look in- 
 telligent," unconsciously lisped the ashen 
 lips of the Frenchman ; and Jason repeated 
 mechanically, "step out, you look intel- 
 ligent!" To be intelligent, that was the 
 crime, for to be intelligent was to be a 
 menace to the authority of tyranny. 
 
 Jason thought of the Dick Military Law 
 in America, with its mandate of "shoot 
 or be shot at the order of the President!" 
 Then a sickness came stealing over him, 
 and Joe saw in his face that he had aged. 
 
 It was twilight when they turned to 
 go, and with the falling shadows and falling 
 dew came strange whisperings through the 
 
 (The military fiend who gave the orders to have the 
 Communards shot, and whose name, for mercy's sake, is here 
 suppressed, because he subsequently became a Socialist and a 
 member of the French Parliament.)
 
 336 THE TORCH OP REASON. 
 
 stilly night, whisperings such as only Com- 
 munards may hear. 
 
 Through the English Channel they sailed 
 and up the Thames to London, then into 
 the Baltic Sea to St. Petersburg, where the 
 last of the Russian butchers had been 
 driven into the sea. The German Empire 
 next they visited, after which a year was 
 spent among the lesser nations, teaching 
 them co-operation and helping them on to 
 their new Socialistic feet. 
 
 In Berlin they visited the great national 
 Zoo, and had the pleasure of making the 
 acquaintance of " Dutch" Bill, the subdued 
 "war lord" and deposed Emperor, who had 
 been given a job as animal feeder. For 
 Bill just simply could not live away from 
 both blood and gunpowder, and the com- 
 rades were disposed to be generous. 
 
 Now here they were in the waters of 
 Newfoundland, with but one more great 
 mission unperformed. This accomplished, 
 Jason Sands, together with his son, would 
 revisit the old home high up among the 
 New Hampshire mountains. 
 
 In each port visited, they had been the 
 recipients of every known form of welcome 
 from the united hosts of the I. I. Ds. As 
 they sailed out past the "links" into the 
 open sea, their farewell from St. Johns 
 was no less demonstrative. Jason watched 
 the receding city on the hill, aflame with
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 337 
 
 red silk banners, suddenly cut off from 
 view as they rounded the southwestern 
 promontory. St. Pierre, Miquelon, loomed 
 up before them as they dropped Cape Race 
 and shot across Placentia Bay. Jason re- 
 membered that other September back there 
 on the "Broken Bone," when he had 
 packed sack and fought wolves that night 
 on the ice-wall. Also he thought of Leland 
 Tannerhill, and wondered what he must be 
 thinking of him and his promise to be home 
 early in that September now four years 
 agone. 
 
 But it was of Ben Page that he most 
 was thinking. What of his old partner, 
 whom he had left at the top of the world 
 and alone ? Suppose Ben had followed him 
 and fell in with the grey devils he had 
 baffled? Or what if he had never returned 
 from the "Hedgehog?" How could he 
 know that Leland had ever received that 
 letter? Perhaps Ben had succeeded in get- 
 ting out, and that he had made his way to 
 Raven Roost in safety, and that he was 
 still there waiting for him! He reproved 
 himself that he had not cleared up this 
 matter at once and set himself right with 
 his conscience and his old friends. But 
 here they were foaming past St. Pierre, the 
 Agitator throwing up a white crest of boil- 
 ing spray in a wake that aimed northward 
 of Cape Ray and the Anticosti Islands.
 
 338 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 It was one of those dreamy, sunny after- 
 noons when men are glad with life. The 
 sea, oft so wild and turbulent here in the 
 St. Lawrence Gulf, rolled drowsily and 
 peacefully, while myriads of feathered sea 
 things of every name and nature squawked 
 and scaled the cliffs and sky, af right at the 
 strange porpoise-like monster that ripped 
 so swiftly through them as they skimmed 
 the foam-crested swells. 
 
 Miquelon was deserted. Once the ren- 
 dezvous of "wool-pullers," with the coming 
 of Socialism smuggling was a trade that no 
 longer paid; consequently the business was 
 abandoned. St. Pierre was the headquar- 
 ters and had belonged to France. A bald 
 knob of barren rock, without a leaf or 
 shrub of green to relieve the forbidding 
 aspect of its ashen grey, it was an unin- 
 viting haven to any whose ideals rose 
 higher than the code of the blackjack and 
 the ethics of the thief. Here was "made," 
 bottled and labeled with the importers' la- 
 bel of a fictitious French winer, "BEST 
 OLD EXTRA DEY CHAMPAGNE," 
 etc., which sold well to the tin horn sports 
 of Boston and New York as the "clear 
 quill!" 
 
 Smugglers were seldom caught. They 
 were indeed "wool-pullers." How could 
 they be expected to be punished when the 
 officials of every government on the civil-
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 339 
 
 ized earth were the ringleaders of the 
 smuggler fraternity, and who furnished the 
 srovernment stamp of cancellation at the 
 "port of entry" to the moonshiners to be 
 used as needed? 
 
 As they feathered foam through the 
 Strait of Belle Isle and dashed into the 
 Labrador Current, Jason acquainted Cap- 
 tain Joe with his wish, and to his surprise 
 he found the brusque navigator eager for 
 the adventure. The crew, also, he found 
 ready to a man for the search, although 
 they had been absent years from their re- 
 spective homes without rest or furlough. 
 It was only a matter of a few thousand 
 miles, his son reassured him, a mere outing 
 of not more than a week at the outside. 
 Besides, it was right on their way to the 
 north pole, whither they were bound. 
 
 They would find Ben Page, positively 
 declared Quimby Sands to his adoring 
 father, for nothing could elude the eye of 
 the little Comet, and he would pilot her 
 himself. Jason should go along, and if 
 still in the North country, they would bring 
 him safely back. 
 
 Through Davis Strait and Baffin's Bay 
 and out into the frozen Arctic Ocean sped 
 the wonderful thing of fire, frightening 
 the Eskimos along the old trail of the 
 former (fake) pole hunters, melting her way 
 as she went. Ice was no hindrance to the
 
 340 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 progress of the Agitator. She could dissi- 
 pate an ice floe ten miles in advance with 
 her finder charged and focused, and it was 
 beautiful the way she mowed down the 
 bergs. 
 
 They had squandered a full thirty days' 
 running in and out among the bays and 
 islands, from the Hudson Bay to Beaufort 
 Sea, astonishing and amusing the natives, 
 and being in turn entertained by them, 
 Tales of frightful cruelty and exploitation 
 of them by the pole-fakers they told. They 
 were not pole-liunters, but thieves. They 
 came to the settlements with their ships 
 laden to the waterline with cheap trash for 
 trading. A package of needles costing ten 
 cents in Boston or New York fetched a 
 polar bear skin; and for a cast-iron sheath- 
 knife an Eskimo gave up a black fox. 
 Candy, whisky and tobacco of the cheapest 
 quality, these great American humbugs had 
 swapped off on the helpless and unsophisti- 
 cated children of the snows, carrying away 
 in return all their store of fur, ivory and 
 curios, along with all the best dogs, sledges 
 and young men. 
 
 Each year the ships came laden with 
 trashy trinkets, departing to leave behind 
 the pallor of poverty, shaming the cold red 
 glow of the somber midnight sun. There 
 was no limit to Capitalism. It reached its 
 taloned tentacles out to the remotest cor- 
 ners of earth, feeling among the cold crags
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 341 
 
 and colder icebergs, it cruelly picked the 
 pockets of the simple frost folk, leaving 
 them to strive hungrily and forlornly 
 through the frozen six months night. 
 
 Then back would go the "explorer," or 
 rather, the exploiters, to civilization, to be 
 wined and dined and decorated with col- 
 lege degrees, insignias of honor and gold 
 braid. Society women kissed them; news- 
 papers lauded them; cities presented them 
 with their keys, and the rostrum welcomed 
 them. To one of these eminent pole-finders, 
 the Thieves' League of St. Louis once gave 
 $20,000 for a lecture at its centennial cele- 
 bration. Later some one yelled "fake!" 
 whereupon the Thieves' League came out 
 with the astonishing information to the ef- 
 fect that they had known all along he was 
 a fake, but that they knew he would draw a 
 crowd ! 
 
 All this was said to be scientific research ! 
 And the people fell for it regularly, as they 
 fell for all the rest of the snides and hum- 
 bugs upon which their muddled mentalities 
 were annually fed. 
 
 But all that thing was a brainstorm of 
 history. Here was the Agitator at the 
 magnetic vortex under the North Star. 
 They had found Ben Page, frozen to death, 
 and he had been dead in the snow four 
 years. Now it was a dash for the pole. 
 
 It was the last of the summer solstice in 
 the land of the midnight sun, and over the
 
 342 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 frozen end of the world was coming the 
 long cold sleep. 
 
 They were in latitude 85 north, on the 
 75th meridian. Here both mercury and the 
 spirit glasses froze, and the cold was im- 
 measurable. Everything was dark with the 
 blackness of ink, save for the Aurora Bo- 
 realis, which flashed only at intervals, then 
 subsided, like the geysers of the Yellow- 
 stone. With the power of all her electro- 
 radium currents playing full blast into the 
 ice-pack, and with Jack Philips, Doctor 
 Spanto and his Indian wife, Jason Sands, 
 his son and little Yama Yama huddled 
 around the mirror scope in the operating 
 room, Captain Joe signaled Billy Self for 
 speed, and away they shot, straight into a 
 mountain of ice and snow.
 
 "At full speed straight into a mountain of ice!"
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 THE RAWHIDE THONG. 
 
 Farewell ! Farewell ! the sands run low, 
 
 The Hand of Time the Hour hath marked; 
 
 A doleful knell tolls o'er the snow 
 As on a mystic sea, embarked 
 
 On phantom ship, goes out into the Night 
 A spectral voyager on his spectral flight ! 
 
 Dimly in a window on the hillside, a 
 smoky lamp burned low into the gray 
 dawn. Faithful and long it had kept its 
 beacon vigil for one who never came. 
 Down the bald mountain screeched the 
 wintry winds, piling the white snow high 
 against the oaken door and sifting in un- 
 welcomely through the generous crevices of 
 the weather-beaten old mansion, it built 
 white pyramids on the worn floor and 
 frosted the black coals in the cold fireplace. 
 
 The window was thick with frost; but 
 the warmth of the smoky little lamp had 
 kept its glowing shape melted through 
 though the night was cold. 
 
 A lone mouse, spurned on by hunger, 
 came out of her hole in the corner, scam- 
 pered timidly toward the open kitchen 
 door, struck the thin frost flakes and scam- 
 pered back again to disappear into the cel- 
 lar from whence she came. 
 
 (343)
 
 344 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 It was a bitter north-easter in the New 
 Hampshire hills, the fiercest of all the year. 
 
 Stretched upon an ancient patchwork 
 coverlet, a great brown hand jerked pal- 
 siedly. It was not as brown as in other 
 days, and where once the horns of honest 
 toil thickened the broad palm, the flabby 
 yellow skin now hung loosely around the 
 hubbly bones. On a pillow, frayed, and 
 soiled with age and unceasing service, 
 shook feebly from side to side a white head 
 across whose sunken temple ran a deep red 
 scar. 
 
 It was Leland Tannerhill! 
 
 On the night the packages came from 
 Alaska, bringing the letters from Jason 
 Sands and Ben Page, Leland had trimmed 
 and filled the little lamp and placed it in 
 the window where his old friend might see 
 it when he should come over the hill a mile 
 away. Vaguely he knew that a welcome 
 beacon in the window of a loved one had 
 lightened many a weary foot, though none 
 had ever gleamed for him. Stanley Lark 
 had marveled at the delicate pains with 
 which the thoughtful farmer polished the 
 globe and turned the wick just so high ere 
 they left for the lecture on that eventful 
 night; but when again he turned into the 
 lane by the red schoolhouse, that lamp beck- 
 oned a joyous greeting to him. 
 
 When the shyster lawyer, Jibbs, fled the 
 town after hurling the missile that felled
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 345 
 
 the good old man, he left the village in a 
 state of awful terror and confusion. Never 
 had there been such excitement. Rumors, 
 red and terrible, were rife on every tongue. 
 Murder, arson, abduction and robbery were 
 included in the program of crime, and all 
 these were systematically charged to and 
 fastened momentarily on the Socialists! 
 Next morning out came the Aberrant with 
 a lying Extra which wound up with the 
 usual capitalistic coloring in a flaring ar- 
 ticle with a full page caption and all in 
 heavy black type: 
 
 SOCIALIST RIOTERS TURN LEC- 
 TURE INTO HOLOCAUST 
 OF MURDER. 
 
 GUN FIGHTER FROM TEXAS MEETS His 
 
 MATCH IN BLOODY DUEL WITH OUR 
 
 HEROIC SHERIFF LARDING! 
 
 OLD TURNCOAT TANNERHILL, THE RAVEN 
 
 ROOST HERMIT, BEATEN AND 
 
 LEFT FOR DEAD! 
 
 Madison Jibbs Missing, Windows Shat- 
 tered with Flying Lead. Six Maimed 
 Men in Hospital! Many Arrests Al- 
 ready Made, with More to Follow! 
 
 On another page appeared the following 
 editorial, as if one malevolent lie had to be 
 backed up by another:
 
 346 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 " FODDER FOR THE NOOSE AND 
 
 THE DUNGEON. 
 <<.- The fact ig ^ L e i an( i TannerMll 
 
 is and always has been a drunkard. We 
 say it literally and unequivocatingly a 
 low-down drunkard. 
 
 "On Saturday noon he drove up to the 
 Tavern, his General Lyon trotter all af oam, 
 and so beastly drunk that he could not 
 stand. Falling out of his buggy into the 
 arms of the proprietor, he had to be car- 
 ried inside and put to bed. Only for the 
 charity of kindly disposed citizens a no- 
 table characteristic of our people, by the 
 way his spent and affrighted animal would 
 have run away, so eager it seemed to be 
 rid of its cruel master. Evidence of the 
 horrible beating it had received revealed 
 itself in the long rope-like welts that ran 
 from flank to withers the length of its beau- 
 tiful black body. It is a crying shame that, 
 under the virtuous folds of Old Glory and 
 our sacred Republican institutions, so 
 shameful an outrage can find tolerance in 
 our model city. 
 
 "Now, we feel it won't be necessary for 
 the Aberrant to dwell further on the un- 
 godly record of this old hypocrite. The 
 history of the Tannerhills and the Sands' 
 is too well known to require further com- 
 ment. However, suffice it to say in passing, 
 and lest we forget, that old TannerhilPs 
 red-headed sister was notoriously a com-
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 347 
 
 mon bawd. After wrecking the life of our 
 most respected and beloved citizen and 
 banker, Mr. Pert Perry, whom she with 
 her cattish cunning succeeded in infatuat- 
 ing, she died having a bastard kid by Jason 
 Sands. This Jason Sands, by the way, was 
 another of the same stripe of vermin and 
 great cronies with the Tannerhills until he 
 ran away to avoid fathering the brat. Since 
 his disappearing act twenty years or more 
 ago, no trace of him has ever reached these 
 parts. Rumor has it, however, that he 
 worked all over the country mostly in shoe 
 factories under the alias of Alfred Allen; 
 but this has never been confirmed. 
 
 "At the Town Hall last night, mob vio- 
 lence and red-throated anarchy ran riot. 
 The Socialists-anarchists, in the height 
 of a florid outburst from the big Texan 
 fire eater, leaped to their feet, shot out the 
 lights, and in the turmoil of mad confusion 
 following shouts of 'to hell with the con- 
 stitution'; 'down with women and chil- 
 dren'; 'divide up the property'; 'damn the 
 capitalists,' etc., they succeeded in fatally 
 wounding old Tannerhill one of their ac- 
 cursed dupes; damaging the Town Hall 
 the city's property to the tune of hun- 
 dreds of dollars, and in some mysterious 
 manner making away with our most prom- 
 ising young lawyer, Madison Jibbs. The 
 two Boston boys are lying at death's door 
 in the Hardback hospital, and a disgrace
 
 348 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 has been heaped upon this pious com- 
 munity that a hundred years cannot efface. 
 "A further account of the devilish doings 
 of these bloody disturbers of the public 
 confidence and morality will be found on 
 another page in this issue. It is the hope 
 of the editor of this, the people's faithful 
 journal, that all good citizens will unite 
 in a grand effort to bring the law to bear, 
 purge our skirts of this crying shame and 
 live down the disgrace we have so inno- 
 cently suffered at the hands of these cloven- 
 hoofed degenerates. Let this God-fearing 
 people arise and scour the country for these 
 foreign terrorists, that they may be brought 
 to justice as an example and warning to 
 others of their ilk." 
 
 This was the Aberrant. Nay, this was 
 the Press. Thus it was that public opin- 
 ion was moulded and made moldy by the 
 lying Scribes and Pharisees of Capitalism. 
 From out their whited sepulchres through 
 these vitriol-tongued mouthpieces issued 
 forth such as this and voluminous other vi- 
 tuperative misinformation, until the un- 
 thinking populace had become prejudiced, 
 poisoned, and turned like tempered steel 
 against both truth and reason. 
 
 But the Aberrant was not a marker in 
 comparison with the daily press. There 
 were pandering sycophants in the editorial 
 sanctums of these mercenary old journal- 
 istic prostitutes beside which the puerile
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 349 
 
 one-horse editor of the Aberrant looked 
 like an angel chick just pipping the shell. 
 For four of the bitterest months that ever 
 mortal flesh and blood bore up under, 
 Leland Tannerhill clung to life. When the 
 bloody stone brought him down, Rec Cotton 
 saw and knew the thing to be done. Rec 
 was a happy-go-lucky good fellow, who 
 knew how to both laugh and fight. His 
 heart was big and always in the right place. 
 He had known Leland Tannerhill since his 
 first memories, and he knew he was a good 
 man. While others wrung their hands and 
 whined their "poor fellows" and "too 
 bads" into ears that heard not, Rec lit out 
 for a doctor and to fetch Black Raven. 
 
 With the hurt hurriedly dressed, his head 
 swathed in bandages improvised from the 
 Texan's suit case, Leland absolutely refused 
 to stay, announcing that he was ready and 
 feeling able to take the eight-mile ride back 
 home. Rec offered to go along and drive; 
 but the plainsman needed no introduction 
 to horses, and with his wounded comrade 
 securely encircled in his long left arm, he 
 straightened the eager young stallion 
 around the north-east corner back of the 
 old brick Post Office and headed straight 
 for Raven Roost. 
 
 The moon was just dropping down be- 
 hind the Bridgewater mountains. Like a 
 huge prehistoric serpent lay the long, nar- 
 row mill pond above the old grist mill dam.
 
 350 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Crouching black and shadowy along the 
 roadside, dorsaled and scaled with snags 
 and stumps, it looked like a sleeping dragon 
 mounted by sleeping spooks. The colt was 
 fresh and only the darker objects were visi- 
 ble, momentarily, as they sped on into the 
 night. 
 
 "Give him his head, Comrade; I always 
 do. Kave knows the way and never makes 
 a blunder.' Hosses sees in the night," 
 weakly volunteered the wounded man, and 
 Stanley let a foot of the lines slip through 
 his fingers. That was a familiar sign, and 
 the horse understood. He evinced his grati- 
 tude by a playful toss of the head and a 
 marked increase in speed. 
 
 It was late, as time is reckoned in the 
 country, and they had a straight road. 
 Black Raven, though only a colt, was one 
 of those intelligent animals which learn 
 from experience how to take advantage of 
 reserve energy. When he cut around Al 
 Willoughby's and pitched over the gravelly 
 knoll above Eben Howe's, he was trotting 
 beautifully, taking the little buggy along 
 with its two heavy occupants smoothly with 
 his great strength, and at a three-minute 
 clip, which he had never for once slackened. 
 But when he lit into the stretch of straight, 
 level road at the foot of Winding Hill, the 
 splendid creature fairly flew! He seemed 
 scarcely to touch the ground. With this 
 spurt of speed was generated a momentum
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 351 
 
 which carried them half way to the summit, 
 and within one pitchpole of the old water- 
 ing-trough. This gained, he drank deeply 
 of the gurgling water that flowed freely out 
 of a cool spring in the hillside and tumbled 
 from a wooden spout into the mossy trough, 
 to go spilling generously over the brim and 
 off down the mountain on its winding way 
 to the lake. 
 
 The Westerner knew how to handle trou- 
 ble. He had been there before. Up to this 
 point in the journey little had been said, 
 for there really was nothing relevant to 
 talk about of which both men were not 
 equally familiar. Besides, neither man was 
 in a very talkative mood. 
 
 The night was cool, but Stanley was hot 
 hot in more ways than one and he 
 wanted some of that laughing water that 
 he knew was cold and sweet and pure. 
 
 Wishing to appear conservatively un- 
 solicitous, though inwardly he was deeply 
 concerned for his companion's condition, he 
 ventured, offhandedly: "How goes the bat- 
 tle, old boy; shall we have a drink ?" To 
 his great amazement the only response was 
 a childish giggle, uncanny and machine- 
 like! More than anything else, it resem- 
 bled the mechanical jangle of a phonograph 
 reproducing the record of a laughing boy. 
 The next thing Stanley knew, and without 
 warning, over the wagon wheel went Le- 
 land Tannerhill, with the agility of a mon-
 
 352 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 key, falling face down where the trough 
 overflowed in the weeds and mud. 
 
 To prevent this last calamity were im- 
 possible, so unexpectedly had it occurred. 
 The Texas leaped after the delirate suf- 
 ferer; the colt ran away, and there they 
 were! 
 
 With the horse and buggy gone, and in 
 the dark, the task of getting the helpless 
 and wounded man home was no holiday 
 celebration, even for a man of Stanley 
 Lark's size and strength. He could toss a 
 bale of cotton, or shoulder a mule ; but here 
 was a man who was his match, and the man 
 was out of his head! He babbled like a 
 schoolboy, laughed like a maniac, and ab- 
 solutely refused to budge an inch away 
 from that old watering trough. 
 
 The aim of the shyster, Jibbs, had been 
 at him, Stanley knew that. That it had 
 found a different mark mattered not in 
 the least to the cowardly perpetrator. The 
 stone had done its work, and the cur had 
 made good his escape. 
 
 "Here, Jason. Catch him! Catch him! 
 that green frog. Cracky! ain't it hot? 
 Let's peel off and get'n the tub!" These 
 and other childish incoherences were some 
 of the wild wanderings voiced in rapid suc- 
 cession, as the demented victim of a would- 
 be assassin, in fancy, played again as he 
 had played there in his boyhood with his 
 one male companion in the shade by the
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 353 
 
 old watering-trough. He was living back 
 in the yesteryears of his youth, and Stanley 
 Lark was Jason Sands of course! Who 
 else could he be ? For he never played with 
 any other boy. 
 
 It mattered not that it was dark. He 
 guessed he knew where he was and what he 
 was doing ! It was hot out there in the sun, 
 he told his companion, and when they 
 wanted him to spread hay they could sing 
 out! He addressed Stanley as "Jase," and 
 they were going to have some fun in that 
 old trough and that's all there was about it! 
 
 The Socialist agitator knew something of 
 crazy people. Strategy counted for more 
 than force in a crisis like this, he decided, so 
 began overhauling his wits for a cunning to 
 match the cunning of insanity. The situa- 
 tion was becoming clear to him. He must 
 humor his unfortunate comrade, take ad- 
 vantage of every opening, and gradually 
 win him around deftly with some sort of 
 harmless deception, now that he was help- 
 lessly a madman, and therefore irrespon- 
 sible. 
 
 They were high up on the hillside and the 
 sky was clear. The moon had gone down; 
 but large objects were more or less dis- 
 tinctly visible in the starlight, mingled with 
 the shadowy forms of the trees by the road- 
 side. Stanley could make out that Leland 
 was getting his clothes off, and he hadn't as 
 yet taken that drink of water. Here was a
 
 354 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 chance to test a trick and he lost no time in 
 availing himself of it. 
 
 "Come on, Leal, let's have a drink 'fore 
 we get in," he invited, assuming his most 
 careless manner, speaking rapidly at the 
 same time and in his most captivating, boy- 
 ish tones. His change of manner acted like 
 magic. The battle was won. It was now 
 only a question of time and the application 
 of tactics. 
 
 "All right, Jase; you first. Catch it out 
 of the spout; tastes better," came the in- 
 sant rejoinder, and Stanley smiled in spite 
 of himself and obeyed the command. 
 
 Nothing like that drink of crystal water 
 that sparkled coldly in the autumn star- 
 shine had ever passed his lips ! In the years 
 that came and went he often thought of it, 
 and once while lost in a sand storm on the 
 funeral trail across the baked desert of 
 Death Valley, the memory of it came to 
 him, with his tongue black and swollen, 
 driving him water mad. 
 
 He was still drinking of it when his in- 
 jured companion, giggling and prattling, 
 advanced to the far side of the overflowing 
 trough and leaned forward, white and nude 
 as an iceberg. What was to be done! It 
 would never do to let a sick man jump into 
 that trough. It was like ice water. It 
 might mean his death. Raven Boost was 
 not so far; why not seize and overpower 
 him at once and stop the farcical per-
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 355 
 
 f ormance ? He had taken the case in hand, 
 promising to see his friend through; but 
 he had not bargained for such as this. 
 Nevertheless, he had gone on record. And 
 a sick man a comrade was his charge. 
 
 He never knew just why he did it, but 
 the thought flashed up in his brain like 
 lightning, and like lightning out flashed his 
 hands into the trough, splashing gallons of 
 the cold water flush in the other's face. It 
 was an heroic remedy. But, and as its 
 author ever after maintained, its admin- 
 istration was, if not cowardly, then unbrave, 
 to say the least, and startling. However, it 
 did the work as, most probably, nothing else 
 under the circumstances could have done. 
 
 What transpired during the next half 
 hour always was a mystery to Stanley Lark. 
 But it was all very clear to Leland Tanner- 
 hill. With the douche of cold water came 
 the return of sanity, and with this departed 
 every ounce of his great physical strength. 
 Uttering a piteous groan, he clapped both 
 hands to his bruised temple and tottered 
 backward. But his alert guardian was 
 there, and in some mysterious way 
 cushioned the fall. 
 
 During the lucid intervals between 
 periods of delirium spanning the black 
 chasm from September to December, wait- 
 ing for the fulfillment of Jason Sands' 
 promise, the one inspiring memory had 
 been the splendid heroism and staunch
 
 356 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 friendship of Stanley Lark. Stanley had 
 stayed with him a whole week after the un- 
 fortunate Town Hall calamity, cancelling 
 his lecture dates, he worked manfully and 
 alone to restore him to his former self; 
 for, in a measure, he could not help feeling 
 partly to blame along with the shyster 
 lawyer Jibbs. Had he not invited him to 
 that fatal lecture the thing might not have 
 happened. 
 
 Leland never forgot with what apparent 
 ease and patient tenderness the brawny 
 plainsman lifted him and bore him home 
 in his arms that night from the watering- 
 trough. Black Raven had gone straight to 
 the big barn doors and waited. It was his 
 first runaway, and it was a good thing they 
 had left the gate open at the foot of the 
 lane, Leland told his rescuer, when the 
 affair was over and he lay restfully once 
 more in his old-fashioned rope bed. 
 
 Stanley's first thought upon reaching 
 Raven Roost was for a doctor. But when 
 he made known to Leland his intention to 
 return to the village for one the rugged 
 mountain hermit protested vigorously. 
 "What's the use, friend," he objected. "I 
 ain't goin' ter be sick? I'm jist kinder 
 laid off fer'er spell, 'pears like. Tain't no 
 marter ter make a great touse about. Be- 
 sides, I hain't had no doctor a pill-putterin' 
 'round here since no knowin' when. I 
 never did have much use fer 'em myself,
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 357 
 
 since the fever had me under cover. Old 
 Doctor Tucker used to come over the moun- 
 tain from Hardback ter see mother, and 
 they had him for Erm; but he hain't been 
 here since they went, and most likely he's 
 been took off his self by this time. We've 
 all got ter go at the apinted time, brother. 
 Don't be af eared. I ain't, but I do wish 
 Jase would come fust; someway suthin' 
 tells me I hain't long fer ter stay now, and 
 mebbe God knows best." 
 
 The next day was the Holy Sabbath. 
 
 Over in Ashworth the mill whistles were 
 silent, but there was an unusual stir in the 
 sleepy streets and the church bells rang 
 with excxessive vigor and persistence. 
 Especially furious clanged the great bell in 
 the tall steeple of the Catholic House of 
 God on the hill. There was something in 
 the wind, everybody knew that. They al- 
 ways rang that way for a fire, and once 
 they had done so when a Bengal tiger es- 
 caped from the Dingaling Sisters Circus; 
 but on this quiet September Sabbath morn- 
 ing there were neither circuses nor fires in 
 town. What did it mean? 
 
 There was " Dirty Dowie" and young 
 Ramo the rummv out with the Aberrant 
 Extra! Evidently it was a good thing 
 for them. They were tearing wildly through 
 the streets, madlv yelling, "A-a-a-a-b'rran, 
 tuxtry. A-a-a-all about tV Socialist riot!" 
 It seemed their very lives depended on the
 
 358 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 sale of each and every single accursed copy. 
 
 It was a great message that went up to 
 God from the gold-crossed spire of the 
 Ashworth Catholic Church on that autumn 
 Sunday morning! Father Glennon, the 
 good priest, was at his best. He told his 
 gentle flock all about the wicked Socialists 
 and what Socialism was! Many of the 
 more progressive of the bead-prayers had 
 attended the forbidden lecture the night 
 before, and now they were attending an- 
 other. They had disobeyed the injunction 
 of the priest-craft, and the holy father had 
 gotten wind of it. The very air was preg- 
 nant with forebodings of dire calamity! 
 Every ear was strained, all were wide-eyed, 
 and every mouth hung open. 
 
 Father Glennon knew what Socialism 
 was! He told them so! That was proof 
 enough ! All they had to do was to believe 
 it, and this they did, in total It was im- 
 mense ! And it could be seen that the virus 
 took! It was like swill cast before hungry 
 swine; they ate it up head, hide, horns 
 and tail! 
 
 Of course, that he had never read not 
 even seen a single scientific work on the 
 philosophy of Socialism made not the 
 slightest difference. Socialism was not in- 
 cluded in the canons of the toe-suckers, 
 and that was enough to know about it! 
 Papal encyclics always contained references 
 to it, of late, but such references were only
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 359 
 
 for the purpose of admonishing that this 
 evil thing, Socialism, must not be thought 
 about nor read. 
 
 Father Glennon was a good man. He had 
 never committed murder, as far as was 
 known, and that half of younger Hinkly- 
 ville resembled him only intensified the 
 loyalty of the young wives of his parish, 
 and aroused no suspicion in the minds of 
 their scapular-charmed husbands. Besides, 
 he was good looking, fat and oily. Well 
 nourished, he looked satisfied and exuded 
 an opulential fragrance that lent charm 
 to the external grace of his unctuous avoir- 
 dupois. In other words, he was bland and 
 solid, and his appearance made a "hit." 
 Moreover, he was dearly beloved and highly 
 respected, as good men should be. That his 
 word was taken for law was not to be won- 
 dered at. So, when he told his congregation 
 that the Socialists were not men but devils, 
 who could be rash enough to doubt him ? 
 
 To the rich thieves comprising the busi- 
 ness element of his Rome-ruled herd, he 
 turned, with the dangerous intelligence that 
 Socialism would destroy incentive! To the 
 slaving beasts of burden the "ninety 
 and nine" per cent. he loudly proclaimed 
 that Socialism would compel them to 
 "divide up!" The humor of the paradox, 
 singularly enough, was lost on the farmed- 
 out intelligence of his insolvent citizenry. 
 None of them owned anything, the most of
 
 360 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 them owed something, but none of them 
 knew that all of them were less than thirty 
 days from the poorhouse, should they 
 chance to lose their precious jobs! 
 
 All the Aberrant had said he repeated to 
 them. Then he told them a whole lot of 
 other things for which the Aberrant hadn't 
 the space. Socialism was ungodly, he ex- 
 plained. He would prove it to them, all 
 unmindful of the superfluity of such proof. 
 To do this he quoted adequately from the 
 hierarchical screeds, wherein, as by the 
 Holy Bible, anything can be proved, dis- 
 proved, defended or condemned. 
 
 He told them that Socialism was 
 born in a barroom on a free-lunch counter; 
 sired, he said, by delirium tremens; wet- 
 nursed by anarchy and christened in a mug 
 of sour beer! O, he had its pedigree all 
 right, he assured them of that, even if he 
 hadn't any respect for his tongue! He 
 characterized Socialism as the "Red Spec- 
 tre of Discontent," and said it was rapidly 
 rearing its horned head over the "glorious 
 land of the free" like a destroying angel! 
 
 At this his worshippers were horrified, 
 and looked it. They stared at one another, 
 shuddered and crossed themselves, an old 
 woman fainted and the good priest trooped 
 bravely on! When the holy man of God 
 had finished, the Socialist philosophy was 
 demolished; all the agitators, including 
 Stanley Lark, had been drawn and quar-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 361 
 
 tered, burned at the stake or hanged, as 
 pleased his pious fancy, and the avenging 
 God of Romanism rode triumphant astride 
 a white thunder cloud over a chastened and 
 humble world! 
 
 The editor of the Aberrant was not a 
 Catholic. But he was a capitalist from his 
 throat up and he was there. He knew on 
 which side his bread was buttered! All the 
 Protestant churches were poor, having 
 dwindled until their following consisted of 
 the venerable old, a few female scandal- 
 mongers of the middle aged and their 
 adopted and impressed progeny, and a few 
 sallow things of the masculine gender but- 
 toned up neatly in black frock coats. But 
 their was scarcely a healthy-looking indi- 
 vidual among the extraneous farrago of in- 
 sipid human tailings. While on the con- 
 trary, the Catholic church was powerful; 
 had and knew how to get the "stuff," and 
 could "deliver the goods" on election day. 
 
 It was a beautiful fall Sabbath up on the 
 wooded hills, and Stanley slept like an 
 anchor in a calm. At ten o 'clock he slipped 
 off the old hair lounge, and the fall awoke 
 him. But Leland slept on. The Texan did 
 the chores after the manner of the West; 
 rustled up a prodigious layout of coarse 
 but wholesome grub for two, then he called 
 Leland. Hearing no response, he repeated 
 the summons several times. Finally he 
 re-entered the room where the bachelor of
 
 362 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 sorrows lay still in the soft shaded light, 
 laid a hand gently on the white forehead 
 and spoke. There was no movement or 
 sound to indicate that he had heard, and the 
 effort was repeated, this time a little louder, 
 and accompanied by a gentle shaking of the 
 head. Still there came no indication of 
 consciousness, and the only sign of life 
 manifest was in the deep-drawn breathing 
 that lifted the huge chest evenly with the 
 respiratory puissance of a sleeping god. 
 
 At 12 o'clock Stanley went back to the 
 kitchen and attacked the lunch. He knew 
 he was hungry; but never before had he 
 eaten like that. In just fifteen minutes he 
 had swept the board of everything but the 
 dishes, going back twice to the brick oven 
 for more beans and oh! such beans! 
 Baked beans, that's what they were, and 
 they were such baked beans as only a New 
 Englander can bake. Stanley had spoken 
 in every town, city and jerk-water cross- 
 roads in the United States, and he had 
 eaten some baked beans! He had come to 
 know that the term was an elastic one, 
 possessed of as many meanings as there 
 were states, and as many variations of each 
 separate meaning as there were towns in 
 each separate state. The cooking of beans, 
 like the shaping of intelligence, was largely 
 environmental. On the plains they were 
 whatever the packing houses had happened 
 to wrap tin around, and were labeled
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 363 
 
 "Boston Baked Beans," whether canned in 
 Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City or 
 Honolulu. 
 
 Raven Roost mansion, like all the old 
 puritanic homes, was built to stand. Its 
 frame was of oak timbers a foot square, 
 hewn and mortised by hand in the days 
 before saw mills and machinery were known 
 in the land. In each of the four corners 
 stood an oaken pillar two feet in diameter 
 at the base, tapering to twelve inches at the 
 top. Out into the finished rooms protruded 
 the sharp angles of these great posts, pre- 
 senting the appearance of the architecture 
 of a wooden ship. The ten-foot brick 
 chimney with its four separate compart- 
 ments was built pyramidal up from a twen- 
 ty-foot base on the very cellar bottom. In 
 each of the four great rooms on the main 
 floor an open fireplace served the double 
 purpose of supplying warmth in winter and 
 ventilation in summer. Built into the 
 chimney above the one in the kitchen was 
 a big brick oven big enough to accommo- 
 date a cord-wood stick, and variously used 
 to smoke hams, try out fat in killing time, 
 and as a hiding place for the jam. Also 
 it was here that the regular Saturday baked 
 beans and brown bread were cooked; and 
 as Leland Tannerhill was more vegetarian 
 than cannibal, it was more for this than for 
 any other purpose that he had kept it in
 
 364 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 commission after the advent of the modern 
 cooking range. 
 
 Ever since the Pilgrim Fathers first 
 hacked rye among the stumps and stones on 
 the New England coast, it had been the 
 custom each Friday morning to heat up the 
 brick oven. This heating up process had 
 become a fine art among the old standbys, 
 and consisted of a stuffing with dry beach 
 or maple, cordwood length, touching off 
 with a handful of pitchwood, then to be 
 left alone, the dampers set just so, and just 
 so long. The gathering of this pitchwood 
 was also an important factor in the process 
 of bean baking, and a year's supply of it 
 was always sagaciously laid in store from 
 the roots of dead Norway pines on the 
 mountain. 
 
 Each Friday night at bed time the ashes 
 had to be drawn, and with the great oven 
 a cherry red, the beans and brown bread 
 were sealed up in it and left without further 
 attention for twenty-four hours. 
 
 "Bakin' beans in the ground may be well 
 enough fer some folks; but give me my old 
 brick oven and plenty o' good dry wood, 
 and come rain or snow they ain't no outs 
 about it, and it never falls," Leland had 
 boasted the night before, as he dumped a 
 pint of red molasses on top of an eight- 
 quart stone pot of yellow-eyes and clamped 
 down the lid. "Some par-boils 'em fust, 
 but thet spiles 'em fer me. I allus soak 
 'em over night, 'n soak a pound of half fat
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 365 
 
 and half lean pork ter get the salt out, then 
 slap the whole thing into this 'ere old pot, 
 fill 'er up with water 'n add the West Injie 
 last." 
 
 Leland had been a day behind in heating 
 up .the oven on this occasion, and Stanley 
 had been a witness to the remarkable per- 
 formance of "banking beans and brown 
 bread the last thing they did before leaving 
 the night before for the lecture in the 
 Town Hall. He had seen and eaten what 
 was called baked beans, which same con- 
 sisted of what was left after making bean 
 soup, strained and baked an hour or two 
 in a biscuit tin along with a few thin strips 
 of bacon for flavoring, and called "Herald" 
 on the menus in their eating houses. Also 
 he knew that the cowboys fried them; but 
 the St. Louis method had always puzzled 
 him. "Baked beans in the city that wanted 
 "a million" always tasted the way a gar- 
 bage wagon smells, and might easily have 
 been mistaken for bits of raw potato 
 warmed im in greasy dishwater. No wonder 
 thov slandered Boston. Any one who had 
 ever been obliged to satisfy hunger with 
 this inimitable concoction should be par- 
 doned for such slander. 
 
 "Them yarler-eves is the Torsey beau, 
 gi'n father by old Mountain Pete. He 
 traded a jug o* sap beer fer the seed with 
 Torsey, way back, and I tell you what they 
 do boat all arid don't you forgot it. Thet 
 old Bracked pot has baked a hundred bushel
 
 366 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 on 'em. Jason Sands lias eat 'em out o' 
 
 thet air, and Erm, she " Here Leland 
 
 had broken off in his baked bean reminis- 
 cences, drawing the back of his hand across 
 his eyes pitiously as he braced the long iron 
 poker against the high oven door. When 
 Stanley drew them forth at noon the next 
 day and poured them out steaming into a 
 brown earthen crock, they were hot, fat and 
 juicy, each bean retaining its shape intact, 
 inviting with their rich, nut-brown color, 
 fragrant with a rare appetizing odor, and 
 mellow as the ripe lips of first love. Stanley 
 Lark never forgot those baked beans; but 
 often in his speeches he would refer to the 
 incident, and always with a longing, a long- 
 ing that came regularly on each Saturday 
 night but that was never thereafter 
 satisfied. 
 
 At 7 o'clock Leland awoke, as far as out- 
 ward appearances indicated, well as ever. 
 As might be expected, however, there was a 
 bad swelling in the left temple and great 
 soreness of the whole side of his head; but 
 he chatted good-naturedly, ate a remark- 
 ably big supper, and when the bell in the 
 little church over among the white stones 
 began ringing for the regular Sunday even- 
 ing service, he took down the little black 
 bible from the mantel shelf and cast an in- 
 viting look at his comrade from the south- 
 west. How could Stanley Lark refuse him? 
 Here was an innocent and pious man, a 
 man who believed on a personal God Al-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 367 
 
 mighty, worshipping him as he was taught 
 in childhood to do and revering what was 
 said to be His Holy Word as he found it 
 in the little black bible, and firmly believ- 
 ing in a home for the good and faithful 
 over the Black Ocean. 
 
 It had been many a day since Stanley 
 Lark sat in a pew. The son of a preacher, 
 he was raised a Christian, all the dogma of 
 capitalistic orthodoxy having been crammed 
 into him, he could recall a time when he 
 was pickled with religion from outer cuticle 
 to inner caecum. He had eaten it, drunk 
 of it, walked under its iron rod and slept 
 on a bed of it. Moreover, it subsequently 
 had oozed from his very pores like sweat 
 until he both smelled and tasted of it. They 
 early saw that he was made of good preach 
 timber, and so straightway packed him off 
 to a college of theology from which he 
 graduated with highest honors. Then began 
 his pulpit career. It was a rapid cruise, 
 full of snags for his flock and soon over. 
 " Heresy," that was the charge, and at the 
 church meeting following he had been re- 
 quested to resign. " Socialism," it should 
 have been, but heresy they had called it, and 
 it sufficed as well as anything, just so he 
 was gotten rid of, for there was no place 
 in the pulpit for a Socialist. But there 
 was room in the Socialist movement for 
 preachers. And now here he was accompany- 
 ing Leland Tannerhill to the little country 
 church to hear God's appointed apostle
 
 368 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 teach of brotherly love, peace on earth and 
 good will among men, and how that the Son 
 of God rebuked the accusers of a Magdalene 
 with the challenge: "He who is without sin 
 among you, let him cast the first stone." 
 
 Before entering the maple growth by the 
 deep-worn path at the corner of the old 
 house, they gathered pinks and tea roses 
 which Leland insisted upon carrying, hand- 
 ling them caressingly and tenderly and pro- 
 tecting them with great care. At the far 
 end of the path thev came out of the woods 
 and climbed the little hill bv the same old 
 meeting house where Jason Sands had sung 
 in the choir with Erma when they were 
 young. 
 
 Between a weeping willow and a silver 
 birch they halted. Leland fell on his knees 
 and both men bared their heads. Chiseled 
 deep on a white headstone was the follow- 
 ing inscription in bold square letters: 
 
 ERMA 
 WIFE OF JASON SANDS 
 
 * 
 MATED IN PERFECT LOVE 
 
 4 i"A 
 
 >.* "Wi* 
 
 WEDDED IN SACRED 
 MATRIMONY 
 
 o 
 MARTYRED 
 
 & 
 
 SHE CAME HERE TO REST 
 DEC. 25th, 1890
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 369 
 
 Jason had had the stone lettered and ship- 
 ped from Boston to Leland, and Leland saw 
 to its erection in spite of the old folks, who 
 fought against it bitterly. It was the first 
 time he had ever crossed them, and the last. 
 The quarrel had hastened the inevitable, 
 Leland knew that, but no pang of remorse 
 had he ever felt because of it. He loved 
 his sweet sister because she was pure, and 
 good. Next to her came Jason, his one 
 male companion, who had claimed her for 
 his mate. His dead father and mother had 
 loved their children, but they were old 
 and set, and in their senility they had tried 
 to apply archaic measures to new ideas, 
 which has ever been the error of the race. 
 
 Placing the flowers with trembling hands 
 on her grave, the bereaved brother raised 
 the little black bible over her sleeping clay 
 and cried out in tremulous tones: "O 
 blessed Jesus, if you be still the friend o' 
 sich as we, and hain't gi'n us all over to 
 Satan ter be destroyed, help her Jason, and 
 pint out the way to me fer to come here 
 whole beside her at last. I know she's 
 waitin', and I want her to meet me vender 
 if I'm fit ter go. Give me strength, Lord, 
 and I'll try to hold out. It ain't askin' 
 much. Amen." 
 
 Leland never missed the Sunday evening: 
 service. He always sat alone in the old 
 family pew, unnoticed by the better-than- 
 thou congregation, especially since the
 
 370 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 young city minister came. But to-night 
 the Tannerhill pew was the center of at- 
 traction. It was coming, Stanley could see 
 that! The minister had a telephone, the 
 only one between Raven Roost and Ash- 
 worth, and the wires were still smoking. 
 Unsophisticated and ever optimistic, Le- 
 land noticed nothing unusual in the 
 leopardine demeanor of the dapper little 
 divine, as he eyed him coldly from his seat 
 behind the old pulpit. 
 
 Stanley swept the interior of the musty 
 old sanctuary with swift perception. Down 
 in front sat the "summer folks" from the 
 cities, their costly opera capes flung care- 
 lessly over white shoulders. They looked 
 out of place among the rustics, but they it 
 had been who had brought the young 
 preacher from the city, and the checks he 
 got cashed at The Bridge bore the name of 
 a well-known banking syndicate of Boston. 
 That the head of the aforesaid banking in- 
 stitution was a notorious stock gambler who 
 trafficed in the very bread of starving 
 millions detracted not at all from the en- 
 joyment of his tainted pelf. 
 
 After the usual prelude of a half hour's 
 doleful psalm singing, the holy disciple of 
 the meek and lowly Carpenter of Nazareth 
 arose. Deftly and with suave legerdemain 
 he slyly juggled the typewritten manuscript 
 on the open bible before him, and the ex- 
 preacher from Texas whispered to Leland
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 371 
 
 that it was going to be a "boiler plate" 
 sermon. 
 
 "By their fruits ye shall know them." 
 
 The text was uttered evidently with the 
 most studied nonchalance, deliberate, clean 
 cut, and painfully slow. He seemed look- 
 ing at nothing in particular, but before the 
 sting had had time to soak through the skin, 
 the godly man turned his little black eyes 
 without moving his head sharply in the 
 direction of the Raven Roost hermit and 
 the Socialist agitator from Texas. Every- 
 body looked hard at the man with the ban- 
 dage around his head, the jaw of the Texan 
 shot out perceptibly as he ran his huge right 
 hand through his mop of thick black hair. It 
 looked like cloudy weather under his lower- 
 ing: brow, and the painted and powdered 
 down-country ladies fidgetted nervously in 
 their cushioned pews. 
 
 With great displav of righteous certi- 
 tude and ultra-pietv the preacher read from 
 the seventh chapter of St. Matthew, and 
 when he came to the fifteenth verse wherein 
 it is written: "Beware of false prophets, 
 which come to you in sheep's clothing, but 
 inwardlv they are ravening wolves," he cast 
 more significant glances askance at them, 
 and both Leland and Stanlev felt that thev 
 were the innocent objects of a preconized, 
 malignant, but discreet attack. 
 
 Leland Tannerhill felt a great weight 
 pressing down upon hi**? The past had
 
 372 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 been a deep black void; but here was a 
 minister of the Gospel in a brazen attempt 
 at thwarting the purpose of the Scriptures, 
 twisting the words of the Savior to fit his 
 studied ends and for the evident reason 
 that two men were present in the House of 
 God who differed from his masters on sub- 
 jects of economic policy. It looked like a 
 great sin to him, and with his mind's eye, 
 knowing that he had always lived a clean 
 honest life, he looked into the future and be- 
 held for him but a vast desolation. He 
 turned silently and sadly to his companion 
 who was too absorbed in what was being said 
 to notice him. 
 
 "Ye shall know them by their fruits, " 
 again came the sneer. This time there 
 could positively be no mistake. He meant 
 them, that was certain. He told the spell- 
 bound congregation to look about them for 
 the fruits of the evil tree. On the marvelous 
 prosperity of the country he expatiated 
 with great elaboration. He called their at- 
 tention to our wonderful commercial devel- 
 opment, and our elastic financial system, 
 and the victorious strides we were making 
 with our glorious army and navy in subju- 
 gating and converting the naked and un- 
 armed natives of isolated islands in the 
 distant seas. 
 
 He referred to the Mexican revolution, 
 then in progress, as an example of the in- 
 gratitude and irresponsibility of the masses
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 373 
 
 when given too much liberty. He blamed 
 the Mexican government for its too liberal 
 policy and for not making with the sword 
 a more positive demonstration of power 
 and authority over its unworthy subjects! 
 
 After making it perfectly clear that the 
 United States could lick anything this side 
 of Hell, he soared oratorically among the 
 asteroids to eulogize our divinely appointed 
 captains of industry. They were the real 
 laboring class, he told them ! Without these 
 be jeweled libertines to sit, cushioned and 
 pampered at the top, "the lazy vagabonds 
 who go from place to place stirring up class 
 hatred and preaching revolution would all 
 starve to death! an end they richly de- 
 served," he fumed. 
 
 Then he came right out and said openly 
 just what he meant. "Last night," he re- 
 sumed heroically, "the germ of the 'red pes- 
 tilence' of Socialism was inoculated into 
 our peaceful community. It was trans- 
 mitted from its dark cave by one of its 
 hobo army of disgruntled agitators who go 
 about sowing the tares of discontent be- 
 tween capital and labor." 
 
 By this time Leland was thoroughly 
 aroused, and it was with difficulty that his 
 friend restrained him. But the godly gen- 
 tleman of the cloth valiantly persevered in 
 his exhaustive re-Ab errant ation of all that 
 had been said and printed in Ashworth 
 earlier in the dav.
 
 374 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 A fast and deflagrate talker, was the 
 Right Rev. Yancel Lea. O, and he was 
 going good now! "Capital and Labor are 
 brothers," he announced, positively. "Their 
 interests are identical!" he declared em- 
 phatically, his pig-squeal voice keyed away 
 up. 
 
 'Cordin ter thet I must be a twin ter 
 Het Shepherd's sawmill, and you're no less 
 related ter thet air newfangled milk 
 skimmer you told about, ' ' whispered Leland 
 to his companion. But Stanley Lark 
 heeded him not. This was no new thing to 
 him, but, nevertheless, it was a rare sermon 
 and he could afford to lose none of its fine 
 significance. But when the ecclesiastic fol- 
 lower-in-His-steps tiptoed airily to the apex 
 of his mushy verbiage and away from all 
 semblance to things Godly, the .Westerner 
 yawned audibly, shook his head with dis- 
 gust and reached for his Stetson. 
 
 With the dedalian dexterity of a mephis- 
 tophelian prestidigitator compounded with 
 the genuflection of an obeisant fawn, the 
 Right Rev. Lea coolly aligned God with 
 Wall Street's gang of blacklegs. That was 
 the limit for Leland. He could stand it no 
 longer. He had calmly listened while both 
 he and his new-found friend, together with 
 Socialism and all the Socialists, were being 
 unmercifully and unrighteously grilled, 
 outraged and slandered ; but when in abuse 
 of his exalted station he culminated in the
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 375 
 
 glorification of the bloody Shylocks of 
 Mammon, placing them on a par with the 
 Creator, the soul of him revolted. Even 
 lie could turn at last Leland Tannerhill 
 the man who had never struck a blow and 
 on whose tongue no spiteful word had ever 
 trespassed. The crisis came when, in the 
 midst of a deignous incantation the re- 
 spected minister of the Gospel declared the 
 Morgans, Rockefellers, Leopolds, Gugen- 
 himes, et al, the Chosen Few and special 
 appointees of God Almighty. The Father 
 so loved his children, who were too corrupt 
 and sinful to be trusted, that he had seen 
 fit to intrust the property interests of the 
 country to a few wise men! These, he in- 
 formed his hearers, were to be the well- 
 nourished custodians of the nation's wealth; 
 sponsors for the government; shapers of 
 the social destiny, and political representa- 
 tives of the disinherited working classes! 
 
 Leland waited for no more. Jerking his 
 Comrade to his feet unceremoniously, he 
 halted long enough to free his volatile mind 
 and to feast his eyes one last time on the 
 scene, ere they bolted from the profaned 
 sanctuary, never to return. 
 
 With farewell speculation, he calmly sur- 
 veyed the old place of worship once so dear 
 to him. There was the new pipe organ, the 
 new colored window, electric lights on the 
 old chandelier where once burned tallow 
 candles of his mother's own dipping, and
 
 376 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 the great high-backed, stuffed chair. All 
 these had come with the rich summerers 
 who had donated them conditionally with 
 the stipulation that they select and pay the 
 preacher ! 
 
 Far up above the altar under a crown of 
 thorns looked down the compassionate eyes 
 of the Crucified One of Calvary. Leland 
 beamed upon the benign visage on the can- 
 vas with sinking heart. The sorrowful eyes 
 seemed more sorrowful than when his poor 
 sister now sleeping out in the old church- 
 yard had painted and hung it there. The 
 picture was a present from Erma to the 
 little church she loved, on the event of its 
 fiftieth anniversary. How often, O, how 
 often had he sat before it and read this 
 commandment of good will emblazoned in 
 crimson letters there: 
 
 "LOVE YE ONE ANOTHER." 
 
 He was reading it once again, this for the 
 last time! 
 
 Turning now resolutely to the Cyprian 
 functionary, the Tannerhill hermit, both 
 voice and frame shaking with the righteous 
 indignation of inburning protest, bitterly 
 exclaimed: "I ain't minded fer to disturb 
 no religious service; but this 'ere gatherin' 
 's nothin' but a convention o' shop keepers 
 and hypocrites. It may be thet God Al- 
 mighty's sold out to the trusts, mortgaged 
 Heaven and gone into politics; but it'll take 
 more'n your tootin' ter make me believe
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 377 
 
 it, yer pizen coward. Where honest folks 
 used ter come fer to offer thanksgivin' to 
 the Heavenly Father, you've been polished 
 up and shipped in all wound and sot like 
 an alarm clock, ter go off with yer lyin' 
 tongue, a blasphemin' God and bargainin' 
 the souls of his children ter the Devil. Out 
 o' God's temple you've made an auction 
 block fer ter supply grist ter whoremongers 
 and thieves. It ain't no longer a House o' 
 God, but a hell-hole o' Satan. I've been 
 comin' here fer ter bless my Maker in my 
 simple way fer more'n forty year, half on't 
 alone. But I've got my belly full. You 
 can take yer gold plated religion and go- 
 to Hell! I'm agoin' home, and I ain't 
 acomin' back! 
 
 "I tell ye, Texas, the church is agin us," 
 he lamented to his companion as they 
 stalked forth together into the moonlit 
 night. 
 
 "The church is against us, Comrade, but 
 the people don't know it," was the melan- 
 choly rejoinder. 
 
 "It usen't to be so, years ago as I remem- 
 ber; but it seems like everything purty 
 much is altered now, and the rich 'pears 
 ter be the whole show." Stopping suddenly 
 as if a new idea had occurred to him, he 
 laid a still trembling hand on his friend's 
 arm and meditated half inquiringly aloud: 
 "I wonder how thet air sanctimonious 
 skunk got wind o' last night's doin's? He
 
 378 THE TORCH OP REASON. 
 
 never goes to Ashworth on a Sunday 
 mornin', and they hain't been a team pass 
 or some on us would a seen it." 
 
 "Phone," was the other's laconic reply. 
 " Every preacher now days has a telephone. 
 It's a part of the paraphernalia of their 
 capitalistic churchianity. Somebody inter- 
 ested in perpetuating the existing social 
 order called him up and put him next. 
 There'll be more to it, or I'm a stray mav- 
 erick in a salten sink." 
 
 As they stepped from the maple orchard 
 at the corner of the house and rounded the 
 old wellcurb, Leland paused, removed his 
 hat and turned a last look in the direction 
 of the scene just left behind. Then he 
 heaved a long, deep sigh! " Good-bye," he 
 said at length, " good-bye!" 
 
 Stanley went straight to the well, drew 
 up a spilling bucket of ice-cold water a 
 hundred feet from under ground for the 
 waterpail on the sinkboard, while Leland 
 was lighting the kitchen lamp. 
 
 Their eyes fell upon it both at the same 
 time. There it lay, face up on the kitchen 
 table The Aberrant! How did it get 
 there, and why? It was Sunday, and no 
 mail was ever delivered on the Sabbath. 
 Furthermore, the thing was a weekly, is- 
 sued on Thursday. But this was an 
 "EXTRA!" dated Sunday that very day! 
 
 This it was, more than the non-arrival of 
 his old chum from Alaska that had done
 
 "You may take your gold-plated religion and go to Hell! 
 I'm a'goin' home and I ain't a'comin' back!"
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 379 
 
 it. It was all clear to him now. No longer 
 was he at variance with the policy of Jason 
 Sands the fighter. Jason was right; it 
 was a living fight and a fight to live. There 
 were opposing forces in Society. The lines 
 were clearly drawn and one had to choose. 
 It was an unwelcome awakening, but it was 
 an awakening that had to come. The sad- 
 dest part of it was in that it had come too 
 late. 
 
 Opening the little black Bible after the 
 Aberrant had been read through by both 
 of them, he came, strangely enough, upon 
 these words: "He who is not for me is 
 against me." 
 
 From that day on the decline of him had 
 been rapid and sure. 
 
 Leland Tannerhall was no fighter. On 
 the contrary, his was a love nature. He 
 saw, or tried to see, only the good in men. 
 He preferred to think well of those who 
 reviled him. But he had stood up under 
 too great a burden all too long. 
 
 That night Stanley Lark was awakened 
 by the ravings of a madman. Before re- 
 tiring, he had played and sung to him, and 
 now the music was in his ears again, and 
 he thought it was his dead sister Erma. 
 "Sing me 'THE HOME OF THE SOUL/ 
 Twink." (Twinkle, a pet name he used to 
 call her by when they played and sang to- 
 gether before the organ came.) "Play it 
 soft-like so's not ter drown the singinV'
 
 380 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 he called from the bedroom, and Stanley 
 understood. 
 
 First it was the singing, then it was over 
 to Jason's; down in the meadow; at the 
 old watering-trough, or playing hide-and- 
 seek as on rainy days they had played in 
 the haymows and up on the great beams in 
 the old barn. It was surprising with what 
 rapidity his mind would wander, as he lived 
 over the whole vista of their vanished child- 
 hood, in the springtime of a barren life, 
 romping among the flowers and the new- 
 mown hay, or coasting on their double- 
 runner under the moonlight on the glare 
 crust in winter. There would be days and 
 nights of it. Then he would return to 
 himself as sane and as sound apparently 
 as ever. But Stanley could see that he was 
 going, and he regretted that he could not 
 stay with him all the way through. But 
 there was Ignorance vast and monumen- 
 tal Ignorance to combat, in the battle of 
 Reason against Wrong, and he had to be 
 up and doing. 
 
 With the first re-appearance of delirium, 
 Stanley threw the harness on to Black 
 Raven and struck for a doctor. He urged 
 that splendid animal over the road to Ash- 
 worth as no man had ever driven him be- 
 fore. The handsome beast seemed to know, 
 and entered into the spirit of the quest with 
 a speed to shame the urging. Driving 
 straight to the Holiness Tavern, he depu-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 381 
 
 tized Rec Cotton and together they went 
 the rounds for help ; but not a doctor in the 
 village would promise, right out, to go! 
 They drew back from the sweet-mannered 
 Socialist, wide-eyed, and in evident terror! 
 The pulpit and the press had done their 
 work! 
 
 But Rec Cotton would go, and he would 
 continue to go twice a week, and Jennie 
 Drew would go along and help as best she 
 could. In this way the stock would be cared 
 for and the poor man made comfortable, 
 and when the end should come there would 
 be willing hands to minister to his last 
 
 needs. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It was the 24th of December, the night 
 before Christmas. The three day's bliz- 
 zard that had blocked all traffic and frozen 
 the whole rural community indoors was 
 subsiding, though the cold was still intense. 
 The palsied hand was silent, now, and the 
 soft blue eyes that once beamed warmly 
 with honesty and full of kindness were 
 deep-sunken in dark sockets under the 
 white forehead. 
 
 In the window, the smoky little lamp had 
 burned out, and the tracks of rodents were 
 more numerous in the thinly sifted snow 
 on the bedroom floor. 
 
 Slowly and painfully a ghost-like form 
 raised upright and sat, like one risen from 
 the dead, among the patchwork quilts.
 
 382 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Then the form arose and tottered across 
 the snow-carpeted room to the window, 
 scraped a peek-hole through the frost with 
 a thick thumb-nail and peered out across 
 the white mantled fields; but there was no 
 light in the little church over on the bleak 
 hillside, nor was there a sign of life in 
 all the world as far as he could see. Over 
 him came creeping a terrible loneliness a 
 loneliness that was akin to the grave. 
 
 With one hand against the wall for sup- 
 port, the other hanging heavily at his side, 
 he made his way to the kitchen, refilled and 
 lighted the little lamp, looked at the clock 
 and into his Levitt's almanac and re- 
 entered the bedroom. Yes, it was Christ- 
 inas Eve. Soon the little meeting-house 
 would be aglow with many candles, and out 
 through the frosty night would peal forth 
 the Christmas carols, ringing out the glad 
 tidings in joyous memory of Him who died 
 for men. But he would not be there! He 
 had never been absent from the annual 
 Christmas festival in all his life. This 
 was his first miss. Alas, it was destined not 
 to be the only one! 
 
 Once more he hobbled to the window, all 
 unmindful of the cold and of the snow upon 
 which his bare feet fell without causing 
 him any pain. They were frozen solid to 
 the ankles and thumped upon the worn 
 floor boards like muffled stones. In his 
 legs below the knees there was no feeling,
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 383 
 
 and over him was slowly falling a blissful 
 drowsiness, mingled with the numb warmth 
 which comes surely with the freezing of 
 the blood. 
 
 The bells were ringing now, and through 
 the narrow windows of the little house of 
 worship that long he had loved so well 
 streamed the many-colored glow of the fes- 
 tive illuminations. He listened for the 
 sleigh-bells as he had listened for them so 
 often, and watched wistfully down the 
 drifted road for the lanterns to flit past, 
 as he had seen them flitting past when 
 Christmas bells were happy harbingers of 
 love and joy to him. But the sleigh-bells 
 never came. The lanterns never passed. 
 But the drowsiness persisted, in spite of the 
 unmistakable evidence that he had slept a 
 long time. 
 
 His mind was clearer now, and he looked 
 at his white left hand and at his whiter 
 lifeless feet, and he knew that he was 
 freezing ! 
 
 Back to its place in the window he car- 
 ried and carefully sat the smoky little lamp, 
 looked out a last time at the lights on the 
 hillside, and with trembling voice feebly 
 soliloquized: "It may be thet the Lamb o' 
 God is allus with them thet worship him. 
 But he ain't over there, neither be I. But 
 Erm, you be over there! O Erm, darlin' 
 Erm! And I'll be there soon, too, dear
 
 384 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 little Twinkle, for I guess my waitin' is 
 'bout over and my time has come." 
 
 Turning in the dim, uncertain light until 
 he faced her picture over the organ, long 
 he gazed upon it with unspeakable venera- 
 tion and longing. Next he opened the old 
 plush-covered album and turning to the 
 double picture of his sister and her lover, 
 he invoked the blessing of God on them 
 both and climbed back into bed, just as 
 Rec Cotton and Jennie Drew pushed open 
 the oaken doom and burst into the cold 
 kitchen. They had been snowed in the 
 night before at Little Squam Bridge, and 
 had just gotten through. 
 
 Like Trojans they worked over their de- 
 mented frost-bitten Comrade, and finally 
 with the old house heated from the four 
 fireplaces, the frost drawn and his feet 
 and left hand treated with as much 
 knowledge and care as they possessed and 
 could give, they took turns on watch, sit- 
 ting up with him until daylight, when they 
 left for fresh supplies over a trackless road 
 eight miles back to Ashworth. 
 
 Leland Tannerhill had suffered pain be- 
 fore; but with the feeling slowly working 
 back into the thawed feet and hand, noth- 
 ing like description of the excruciating 
 agony of this was mortally possible. Swol- 
 len to thrice their normal size, and with 
 the thawed blood scalding like hot water,
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 385 
 
 his feet felt like they were burning in boots 
 run full of molten lead, and his hand might 
 well have been in a red-hot vise. 
 
 Why could not the morbid hallucinations 
 return! How much could flesh and blood 
 endure ? If only the snow had been deeper ! 
 Why could they not have left him yet a 
 little longer? 
 
 "Them pins ain't never goin' ter come 
 'round right, thet's sartin," he declared 
 positively to himself after his friends had 
 gone. And when at eventide he lay and 
 watched the red sun slip down coldly be- 
 hind Plymouth Mountain, he knew it was 
 setting, for him, for the last time. 
 
 " December the twenty-fifth," he said 
 aloud, when the last of the red rim had all 
 but disappeared and the long, slate-colored 
 shadows from the nude trees began falling 
 dismally athwart the rime meadow. "Nigh 
 two thousand years ago ter-day you come 
 ter bring peace, and they driv spikes 
 through your feet and hands and gi'n ye 
 gall ter drink; and if ye was ter come ter- 
 day they wouldn't nail ye ter the cross 
 they'd print suthin' agin ye in their lyin' 
 yaller press, and the p'lice would run ye 
 in," he avowed bitterly, his gaze fixed on 
 the Hallowed Child in a frame above the 
 mantel. It was another of Erma's paint- 
 ings wrought when she was in her early 
 teens. Sitting upright as best he could in
 
 386 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 his extremity, he continued, the passion of 
 his rended soul firing him into one last 
 mighty travail. "Ye come to 'em with 
 love and peace in yer heart and they mur- 
 dered ye. ' ' He was on his swollen feet now 
 and looking out over the valley where a 
 certain head-stone stood stark and white 
 amid the whiter snows. He began again, 
 running back over the years and finally 
 breaking out woefully: " Christmas day, 
 nineteen hunder'd and ten! Jist twenty 
 year ago to-day, Erm, since we laid you 
 ter rest yender, and now I'm comin' too!" 
 Turning again to the picture of Jesus 
 Christ, he fell on his swollen knees before 
 it and cried out in a wild, unnatural voice 
 where the waning sunset fell in golden flood 
 upon the floor: "Lord, Lord! Hear me jist 
 this once. I know it's an awful sin, and I 
 guess you'll have hard work ter fergive me 
 fer what I'm goin' ter do; but I'm goin' 
 ter do it if ye send me ter Hell, fer I've 
 stood it as long as I can and the wust can't 
 be harder 'n this 'ere I'm sufferin'. Mebbe 
 I hain't been good ernough fer ter enter in 
 where you be, and if I hain't then I 
 won't complain; but I want to go 
 where Erm is, fer I've come ter realize thet 
 most probably Jase is gone too, and if 
 thet's so, then they be together, where ever 
 they may be. I ain't af eared of the Judg- 
 ment, fer I've done the best I knowed. I 
 ask it now fer Jesus' sake. Amen."
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 387 
 
 With this the last of the Tannerhills 
 arose, lighted the smoky little lamp in the 
 window, hobbled laboriously to the old 
 clock in the kitchen, opened the door in the 
 bottom and drew forth the rawhide thong!
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE SURRENDER OF THE FROST KlNG. 
 
 Aflame, how coldly, through the artic night, 
 
 Her merry dancers flirting with Jack Frost, 
 Queen Borealis flashes up her light 
 
 A silent Lorealei to farer lost 
 Amid the snows! And 'decked with crystal gem 
 
 Like fairy sovereign on her Polar Throne, 
 Sans royal court or royal diadem. 
 
 But 'neath the North Star's purple all alone, 
 The fallen farer cries, and cries in vain! 
 
 Wake, Genius ! Ho ! far through the brumal chill 
 Thy brother calls! Bid him arise again 
 
 A triumph to thy re-awakened will. 
 
 Six men, patient but expectant, peered 
 through the mammoth glass cylinder, but 
 no man spoke. The cylinder was ten feet 
 in length by five feet in diameter, to which 
 was attached four small hose-like tubes. 
 The six men were Quimby Sands, Jason 
 Sands, Dr. Spanto, Jack Philips and two 
 of the Agitator's chief Physic Scientists. 
 Inside the glass cylinder lay a projectile- 
 shaped block of ice, inside of which again 
 was frozen as clear as moss-agate, the fur- 
 clad body of a man. The man frozen inside 
 the block of ice lying inside the glass cylin- 
 der was the unfortunate prospector, Ben 
 Page. 
 
 It was while on his way to No. 5 Carry 
 with the packages for Leland Tannerhill, 
 
 (388)
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 389 
 
 that Ben had run afoul of wolves the 
 remnant of the same pack that had es- 
 corted Jason Sands to his cliff bed only a 
 few nights before. 
 
 No. 5 Carry was a new government post 
 on the Drinkwater River, where the mail 
 sledges crossed the divide between Nome 
 and Gold City, a mere twenty miles 
 from the Broken Bone. The wolves 
 were unusually bad, having suffered two 
 crushing defeats without tasting the 
 sweet flesh of man, and Ben was obliged 
 to take to the higher ground above 
 the timber line to evade them. Here 
 he encountered a fierce blizzard in which 
 he lost his way and froze to death 
 in the blinding snow. An Indian dog 
 musher from the Carry, out for rabbits, 
 found and brought in his pack, sent the 
 packages on their way through the pass, 
 and made a diligent but fruitless search 
 for the owner. Four years later a party of 
 Canadian government surveyors came 
 upon the body, frozen fast in a glacier, ten 
 thousand feet below the scene of its death, 
 whither an avalanche had swept it. 
 
 It was the first thing the Comet with her 
 all-piercing eye had discovered these Ca- 
 nadian government surveyors in the act of 
 melting out that frozen body from the gla- 
 cier by means of heaping dry wood on a 
 fire made against the river of ice.
 
 390 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 With a thin ray of charged light, the 
 Comet sawed out the block of ice contain- 
 ing the body, hoisted it aboard, and in 
 twenty minutes it was resting inside the 
 glass experimental cylinder on the Agi- 
 tator. 
 
 With the correct adjustment of tempera- 
 ture, tune, air and light from the four 
 tubes and the exterior, the glass cylinder 
 suspended inside its cushioned chamber, the 
 body was to be left in its frozen state until 
 they should return to St. Louis, or such 
 time as their entire attention could be 
 given to its resurrection. For it were a 
 ticklish undertaking, this experimenting 
 with the dead, and there must be no haste 
 and no mistake. The young wizard had 
 always wanted to try it, and now here was 
 the supreme test of man's mastery over 
 the elements : to bring back a life from the 
 infallible decree of the Frost King. 
 
 And why not? 
 
 The good priest at the Carry had come 
 out to say the last rites, the grave had been 
 dug, and all was in readiness for the ever- 
 lasting burial of one whom Orthodoxy pro- 
 claimed was hopelessly a dead man. 
 
 "Not so fast," challenged the new 
 Science. "Here we have a healthy, per- 
 fect animal mechanism, rendered tempo- 
 rarily inoperative through too close con- 
 tact with the peculiar chemistry of cold.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 391 
 
 Every cell in this man's body retains its 
 every faculty. There is not a broken 
 wheel or a clogged gear in the entire hu- 
 man machine. Nothing has taken place 
 within it, nor without it, but a suspension 
 of animation as a result of the perfectly 
 natural crystallization, under unnatural en- 
 vironmental conditions, of the electro- 
 chemical circulation which supplies that 
 warmth necessary to its functional activity. 
 This is what you with your conventional 
 criminal ignorance are pleased to term 
 death. For thousand of years you have 
 been proclaiming death to all mankind, at 
 the same time damning souls of the dead 
 to Hell, or praying them to Heaven, ac- 
 cording to certain specifications and price. 
 There is nothing dead in the Universe." 
 Thus spake the inventor of the new fire 
 crafts, while the befurred and bewiskered 
 miners, awe-stricken, stared at him stand- 
 ing in his white linen uniform just where 
 a cornucopia of soft light from the Comet 
 hedged his little party about. 
 
 The good priest wrathfully objected to 
 the removal of the body, claiming that it 
 were desecration of God's holy will to thus 
 defile these mortal bones from which the 
 soul was departed now four long years. 
 "It is not given to us of inferior dust to 
 raise the dead in this generation," he for- 
 bade, "and you shall not profane the law
 
 392 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 by practicing your modern hocus-pocus on 
 the silent remains of this beloved child of 
 God." 
 
 Having in advance received his fee in 
 generous measure from the yellow dust of 
 the miners and surveyors, he demanded his 
 priestly prerogative of purgatorial soul- 
 herd, and proceeded to administer the last 
 rites forthwith and unopposed. Then a 
 miner's meeting hurriedly convened, the 
 decision of which was to the effect that the 
 body should go with Jason Sands. Where- 
 upon, and without further ado the tackle 
 was fastened in the ice block, the body and 
 crew hauled aboard and the power trimmed 
 for speed. 
 
 As the Agitator headed for the North 
 Pole, Jason told a story of a live frog 
 blasted out of a block of granite. The 
 strange phenomenon appeared strikingly 
 analogous to his son's remarkable theory 
 concerning bodies rendered rigid and inac- 
 tive as a result of sudden freezing. 
 
 "I was working in a quarry at Concord, 
 N. H., back in the '80s, when the thing 
 happened," he began. "Sammie Brodie was 
 holding drill for me, for we took turn and 
 turn about striking. He called my attention 
 to it as the rock parted, or I surely never 
 would have believed it other than some of 
 his Irish trickery. In the slab split off there 
 was a small hollow space the size and shape 
 of half an egg, and as smooth as a wolf's
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 393 
 
 fang. In the other side crouched a white 
 frog, all hunched up and blinking in the 
 sunlight. Sam crossed himself, got off 
 something about 'the holy mither uv Moses' 
 and lit out for the lift." 
 
 " Perfectly legitimate evidence of the 
 theory of conditional, geological mutation," 
 interrupted his son. "It is proof positive 
 that this planet was not made as it now is, 
 but that there have developed decided 
 changes in its structural architecture. 
 Otherwise the granite might have been in 
 the frog instead of the frog in the granite. 
 Surely the earth was not made from frogs," 
 he asserted buoyantly. 
 
 "Violates the 'six days shalt thou labor' 
 injunction," vouchsafed Jack Philips ten- 
 tatively. 
 
 "Only in so far as intellectual compre- 
 hension extends, ' ' the other qualified. Then 
 by way of explanation: "Science possesses 
 knowledge, and all knowledge is, always has 
 been, and always will be in contempt of 
 judgment. To the scientist, every day in the 
 week is but another day. To the 'believers/ 
 there is what is said to be a 'Holy Sabbath.' 
 Formerly, and before the advent of the task- 
 master, men labored when they pleased, 
 rested when they pleased and played when 
 they pleased. The Sabbath Day, so-called, 
 is the invention of man and followed the in- 
 vention of clothing as a natural sequence. 
 It was a health measure. Something had to
 
 394 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 be done to make the hitherto naked tribes 
 change their clothes, which they were prone 
 to wear night and day alike once they had 
 gotten them firmly fixed upon themselves. 
 Of course the masters had them to sell, that's 
 why the slaves had to have them to wear. It 
 was the beginning of Capitalism. It came 
 along with religion. At that time there was 
 no need of clothing, for there was room 
 enough on the earth within the equatral zone 
 for all mankind which would still be true 
 were it not for the sad fact that the race 
 had been dehumanized and dispossessed. 
 
 "When the masters saw that their slaves 
 could not be induced to disrobe at night, 
 they invented the i Day of Rest. ' As things 
 were, the slaves would not change clothes 
 for divers reasons: First, herded together 
 as they were, there was no surety of one get- 
 ting his same outfit in the morning; sec- 
 ondly, they had not enough ambition left 
 after a day's drudgery on the soil, and for 
 the chief reason that they were covered with 
 sores caused by the unaccustomed contact 
 of the coarse clothing and the driver's lash. 
 
 "Now about that time it was ordained 
 that not only should the Holy Sabbath be a 
 day of rest and worship, but also it must 
 be a day of cleanliness and clothes chang- 
 ing ! So the slaves had to have another suit 
 of clothes two suits, if you please! Of 
 course this put them further in debt to their 
 masters, but they didn't catch on. It was a
 
 TTIE TORCH OF REASON. 395 
 
 new canon of sanitation, made mandatory, 
 any violation of which was punishable with 
 death. Thus Society got to take a bath, the 
 very thing it most needed. " 
 
 From this the discussion led off through 
 all the vast multitude of theories and myth- 
 ologies, from before Adam to star dust, 
 finally winding up where it began, with the 
 frozen man and the hundred-thousand-year- 
 old frog. 
 
 It was all in the books, he told them. But 
 the experiment he was about to try was not 
 in the books, though it was destined to be. 
 If a frog can be hibernated in his bed of 
 mud that had crystallized into a solid gran- 
 ite mountain and kept alive a hundred thou- 
 sand years from such Eocene epoch, and if a 
 frozen fish could be thawed out and re- 
 turned to its former state of health and ac- 
 tivity after having been frozen all winter 
 in an iceberg, why in the name of human 
 reason should it seem illogical to hope for a 
 chance for Ben Page ? 
 
 *While standing with tolerant acquies- 
 cence by the open grave they had dug for the 
 frozen miner, the thought struck him : why 
 not manufacture human food from earth? 
 There it was, just earth, mixed through with 
 charcoal from their fires. Trees, plants, 
 vegetables even the grasses knew enough 
 to make their food supply from earth, why 
 not man? Man was of chemical construc- 
 tion the same as the plant life. So was the 
 earth.
 
 396 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Here was the nucleus for a new invention 
 the greatest of all those yet brought out. 
 It would revolutionize the world of in- 
 dustry. It would be a sixty per cent, saver 
 in human labor. 
 
 Making human food from earth ! He ran 
 over the sentence in his mind, then slipped a 
 hand inside his linen coat; and when the 
 Comet left with Ben Page in the ice block, 
 she also had on board a hundred pounds of 
 the clean earth melted out of the frozen 
 river bank. 
 
 At the North Pole they learned that no 
 man had ever been there before. Also they 
 discovered the age-long secret of the Aurora 
 Borealis. No man could have journeyed to 
 the "big nail" before, because it must have 
 been absolutely inaccessible to man with any 
 other means of transportation less adequate 
 than either the Agitator or the Comet. 
 
 Standing like a paper cone, miles in cir- 
 cumference and miles in heighth directly 
 over the center of the magnetic axis, was a 
 mountainous peak of perpetual ice and 
 snow. Of course, no sun ever reached the 
 base of this tower of frost, consequently 
 there was falling upon it a never-ending 
 storm of snow. Here was a point, where, 
 save for the Aurora Borealis, Night, never- 
 ending, somber Night, held her silent, un- 
 disputed sway. 
 
 Into and through and beyond the pole 
 burned the great fire-ship, then back again
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 397 
 
 and into the ice-packed Arctic Ocean. 
 There was nothing mysterious not even 
 interesting in the trip through the Polar 
 Cone, more than the noise of cracking, 
 bursting and falling ice, and the wonderful 
 color effects produced by the power ray in 
 contact with the ice and snow as it was 
 fused into gas and consumed. That day- 
 light could never reach the region was no 
 enigma to one understanding the correlative 
 positions of the earth and sun in their re- 
 spective life cycles, each around the other. 
 The said-to-be magnetic attraction as 
 demonstrated in the " magnetic" needle, was 
 no other force than that of cold and heat. 
 Also it was this same force of temperature 
 which accounted for the attraction of gravi- 
 tation that kept the earth suspended in 
 space. Heat, the expellant force, pushing 
 the heavy end of the needle farthest away, 
 with the expellation of the heat-expanded 
 ether, while Cold, the attractive force, 
 gathering the heat-dried vapors to its cen- 
 tral and coldest point, this was the secret of 
 "magnetic" attraction, gravitation and 
 solar cycle phenomena. There was neither 
 magnetism nor magnetic force situated at 
 the poles. Of course, owing to its compara- 
 tive close proximity to the earth, none of 
 the heat-condensing rays from the focal 
 center of the solar body were possible of 
 effectively generating warmth at either of 
 the Polar extremities. But there were
 
 398 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 sources of light other than the sun in this 
 icen wonder world. Volcanoes of all sizes 
 and in all stages of eruption and recru- 
 descence spasmodically burst forth from the 
 very depths of the frozen ocean, almost 
 momentarily, and as spasmodically subsided 
 and disappeared. The Pillar was sent up 
 and of what it saw there could be no mis- 
 take. Mountains, red hot, pushed up 
 through ice a hundred feet thick, burst, 
 srmrted their white-hot vomit miles into 
 the frost-laden ether amid sounds unthink- 
 able, and with indescribable auroral beauty. 
 Volcanoes were not actually the Aurora 
 Borealis; but they contributed a power of 
 parhelian magnificence thereto, forming 
 what might be said, somewhat paradoxi- 
 cally, to be a sort of extraneous adjunct to 
 the major phenomena. With a huge cone 
 of ever-falling snow r crystals sifting over 
 the frozen end of earth for a radius of a 
 hundred miles, hanging 1 far over all like a 
 cloud of diamond dust shot through with 
 the far distant rays of the cold red sun, 
 this was the Aurora Borealis. But this 
 was not all. What of the volcanoes with 
 their clouds of earth ashes resetting, zenith- 
 poised, in a rainbow-like semi-circle inter- 
 mingled, multi-hued and gorgeous, with the 
 crvstalline veil of brumal midnight 
 splendor! With the red rays of the unseen 
 sun from the other side of the globe mirag- 
 ing his crimson-purple coronet against this
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 399 
 
 gauzy fluff of ashes and frost, and with the 
 constantly moving vapors wafting these 
 hanging gardens of hoar lace fitfully like 
 breakers on an ocean swell, it seemed that 
 all the rainbows from eons pristine to yawn- 
 ing futurity were regimented into one 
 vast victorious amalgamation of celestial 
 effulgence. 
 
 As the Agitator emerged from her self- 
 melted tunnel in the ice cone, the Comet 
 came forth, loaded and primed with her 
 night cameras for motion pictures of the 
 beautiful Northern Lights. It was just in 
 time to catch a new eruption right in their 
 wake and less than a hundred fathoms dis- 
 tant. This was followed by another and 
 another, until, like an Indian headdress, a 
 circle of active volcanoes completely en- 
 circling the boreal center, spurted up 
 smoke, ashes and glowing lava like a 
 myriad-tongued serpent hissing his red- 
 mouthed warning at the dancing arch of 
 blue-mantled glory. 
 
 As the eruptions continued and the 
 tongues of vivid flame licked up the black 
 night, belching, spitting and gushing lava, 
 cinders, smoke and fire against the canopy 
 of indescribable coloring that reached from 
 horizon to horizon, nothing like an ade- 
 quate description of it, nor of the sensation 
 it effected on the mind, is even mildly pos- 
 sible. There were all the known colors, and 
 colors unknown. And such blending of
 
 400 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 hues! With the volcanic heat was gen- 
 erated a fierce wind. This wind had the 
 effect of moving, drifting and mingling 
 smoke, ashes, snow and the ever-crystalliz- 
 ing vapors into millions of unimaginable 
 shapes, positions and density, until the eyes 
 tired and the senses staggered under strain 
 of all its wondrous grandeur. There was 
 no moment when all the colors were not 
 partially visible ; but they were ever-variat- 
 ing, deepening, fading and changing places, 
 as if the whole vast expanse of astral in- 
 finity were peopled with countless throngs 
 of toe-dancing fairies, garbed in velvety 
 butterfly chromatics of changeable flowing 
 silk. Let one imagine all this bristling 
 through with countless billions of dazzling 
 prisms of streaming, trembling light! Let 
 one imagine all this, then double his imagi- 
 nation, multiply it by a million, and he will 
 get but a faint idea of an Aurora Borealis 
 as seen from the magnetic axis under the 
 North Star. 
 
 But there were other fish to fry. 
 
 It was in December, 1914. 
 
 They had been around the world; they 
 had opened the sealed vault of the North 
 Pole; they had Ben Page on board, frozen 
 up in ice, and they were bound for St. 
 Louis, the journey's end. 
 
 They knew that the Mexican Revolution 
 had failed. True, the marionette, Diaz, had 
 been operated to resign by his Wall Street
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 401 
 
 manipulators, and allowed to escape out of 
 the country he had for thirty years 
 drenched in innocent blood. And he had 
 been allowed to take with him the golden 
 millions crystallized from the heart pained 
 blood of his gasping slaves. But Capital- 
 ism had remained. Which went to show 
 that the Socialist Revolution as projected 
 by the heroic handful of unconquerable 
 martyrs had been anticipated and had 
 failed. It had failed, not because it lacked 
 either in numbers or capital, arms, or 
 righteousness of cause. It had failed for 
 the good and sufficient reason that it was 
 aimed at the Beast and was led by such 
 god-men as Ricardo Flores Magon, L. 
 Gutterez de Lara, Liberado Rivera, An- 
 tonio I. Villarreal and their American sym- 
 pathizers all revolutionary Socialists. 
 Added to which reasons was the fact that 
 the political grafters of the Great United 
 States of America, true to their traditions, 
 transported her armed m3 r rmidons to the 
 land of sunshine and tears to thwart them, 
 and to aid their gambler-masters in per- 
 petuating tyranny. 
 
 Counter to the real revolution, they had 
 fostered, aided and abetted a false revolu- 
 tion to deceive the patriots and thwart the 
 purpose of the real movement of emancipa- 
 tion. This fake revolution was led by 
 traitors to the common people. These 
 leaders were in favor at Wall Street and
 
 402 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Mexico City, and so Wall Street permitted, 
 temporarily, the false revolution which 
 simply gave the people a change of masters, 
 to succeed. 
 
 And then began the fiendish crime of se- 
 cretly and publicly murdering the real 
 social revolutionists by the new fake Mexi- 
 can government. Wherever found on Mexi- 
 can soil, these true patriots were lynched and 
 strung up, shot to death or otherwise made 
 away with, and as an accessory to this in- 
 human practice of murdering political op- 
 ponents as was also practiced by the demon, 
 Diaz, the great United States lent her police 
 and military power. No man was free to 
 walk the streets, nor was he safe in his own 
 home. Upon any trumped-up charge, men 
 were seized and torn from their loved ones, 
 thrown into prison without process of law, 
 held indefinitely without trial to be turned 
 over to the froth-f anged human hj^enas who 
 awaited them just across the Mexican 
 frontier. 
 
 This was the method of Russia. Also it 
 was the method of Spain and the rest of the 
 barbaric Autocracies. Thus it was that 
 thousands of martyrs were brutally mur- 
 dered and their work for humanity re- 
 tarded, discredited or destroyed. 
 
 At Nome they learned that there was 
 trouble brewing by these same political 
 fakers, who, at the behest of their economic 
 masters, had succeeded in fermenting more
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 403 
 
 trouble in Mexico that the country might 
 safely be annexed to the United States 
 a criminal capitalistic conspiracy just re- 
 cently consummated. Also they learned at 
 Nome, that the great capitalistic United 
 States-by-the-grace-of -its-billion-dollar own- 
 ers, was at very serious loggerheads 
 with rapidly organizing labor. Putting 
 himself in communication with the Red 
 Cadets by means of the Af/itator's wireless 
 system, Quimby Sands learned that the 
 United States was in a terrible turmoil of 
 retrogressive political confusion. Engaged 
 in this gentle pastime of vote-catching voo- 
 dooism, were the "Gold Standard" Demo- 
 crats, the " Cross of Silver" Democrats, the 
 "dry" Democrats, the "wet" Democrats 
 and the "Africo-Jeffersonian" Democrats. 
 Then there came the Republicans: The 
 "Dinnerpail Foolers," The "Stand-pat- 
 ters," the "Insurgents" and the "High 
 tariff ers," and the "God Knows me toos" 
 all Republicans and all "wets." 
 
 Opposing these came the good but mis- 
 guided Prohibitionists, the ancient and 
 moss-covered Populists, the "Indepen- 
 dents," the fake "Labor Unionist" Party, 
 and what was said to be the "Suffragettes'* 
 whatever that may mean. One thing it 
 did not mean, however, it did not mean the 
 great, grand American Woman's Suffrage 
 Movement, composed of the very virtue of 
 motherhood and sisterhood of the useful
 
 404 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 home-loving women of the land. For these 
 women were doing an heroic and splendid 
 work. Awakened and aroused at last, they 
 were proving that they could organize, 
 finance and conduct political movements 
 without either the aid of a besodden mas- 
 culinity or the pampered mistress of a 
 labor-hating Belmont. 
 
 Following all of which persisted the 
 Single-taxers, with their slogan of "Back- 
 to-the-Land" (naked and empty-handed!). 
 
 It was a sorrowful jumble of conflicting 
 economic interests, finding expression on 
 the political field. Each particular group 
 acting individually and purely in self-in- 
 terest, or what it imagined was self-interest, 
 it was a woeful spectacle of muddle-brained 
 fanatacism annually paraded in the face 
 of a more muddle-brained Society as a 
 civilized example of " personal political 
 liberty!" Of course, the chief " pickings" 
 occurred only once in four years; but the 
 results were far-reaching, never-ending, 
 and constantly growing worse. 
 
 *At Victoria, Seattle, Portland and San 
 Francisco they were furnished with more 
 information concerning existing conditions, 
 and that the country was rapidly approach- 
 ing a mighty crisis there could be no gain- 
 saying. 
 
 Within this seething caldron of contem- 
 poraneous cross-purposes, where battled 
 blindly the misled factions of a society gone
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 405 
 
 mad, germinated the inevitable. Other 
 countries had passed through it, but the 
 United States the Great United States 
 had been the last. Another champion had 
 entered the political arena. It was the 
 mighty International Socialist Party. At 
 last it had come and was making itself felt 
 and heard. The Eed Cadets it was that had 
 hastened the day. As a result of their clas- 
 sified literature crusade came the Industrial 
 Co-operative Democrats. 
 
 Prior to this there were many Socialistic 
 parties, and many factions of each of these. 
 But the Great Cause the Great Life 
 Philosophy the one great World Socialist 
 Movement had come and remained, firmly 
 rooted in the rapidly developing and in- 
 evitably decadent capitalist system. 
 
 There had been many Socialistic parties 
 but only one Socialist movement. Many 
 interpretations had been proclaimed, but 
 there was but one Socialist philosophy. It 
 had been the same through all history an 
 idea accepted but misunderstood. 
 
 For a long time these several Socialistic 
 parties had wastefully fought each other, 
 and all the hundreds of factions had fought 
 each other, while the real enemy Capital- 
 ism looked on and grinned. This was be- 
 cause Socialism was of the working class 
 which had never been taught anything but 
 toil toil, and falsehood, and competition 
 and optimistic political acquiescence. With
 
 406 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 the awakening of the outraged conscience 
 had followed spasmodic rebellious resist- 
 ance to everything savoring of individual 
 usurpation, generating more momentum 
 with each explosion until anger and jeal- 
 ousy were aroused, often winding up their 
 local meetings in a chaos of misunderstand- 
 ing, intolerant personal abuse, and reac- 
 tionary internal divisions. Meanwhile, on 
 marched the enemy, the one enemy, the 
 only possible enemy Capitalism. 
 
 Imagine ten million Socialists, all pos- 
 sessing the franchise, all understanding the 
 correct interpretation of the Socialist 
 philosophy, and for twelve years only cast- 
 ing approximately, at the presidential elec- 
 tions, a measly 500,000 votes! And this 
 because of the sad fact that a few soldiers 
 in this vast army of peace, going out to 
 conquer the world with the armament of 
 love, secretly carried the poisoned poinard 
 of Jealousy for the heart of some possibly 
 over-zealous but none the less sincere com- 
 rade. But all this was changed now. With 
 the fierce and bloody war of Mexican an- 
 nexation had come the solidarity of union 
 and non-union labor. Quimby Sands had 
 written a pamphlet courageously telling 
 them to their faces of their faults, and they 
 profited by the frank castigation. It was 
 a mirror, so to speak, held up before them 
 and they looked into it boldly; for there 
 were neither cowards nor traitors among
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 407 
 
 these early social rebels, save for a high- 
 handed element which, if it could not rule 
 by fair means, was bound to ruin by foul. 
 These were the self-assertive egotists who 
 had caused the temporary disruptions, 
 which had resulted in driving the majority 
 of the active workers away from the meet- 
 ings and in many cases out of the party, 
 until the Socialist Party of that period had 
 become too small and hide-bound for the 
 Socialist movement. 
 
 It was this sort of thing that had so long 
 held down Socialist progress in the United 
 States. The most trustified and therefore 
 the fiercest reign of capitalistic tyranny 
 of any nation on earth, it very logically 
 follows that it should have been the first 
 government to fall under the Socialist 
 flag. Therefore, it was the boasted op- 
 timism of numberless exponents of the neAV 
 political economy, that such was bound to 
 be the case. 
 
 Alas for the optimism of the cock-sure 
 dogmatist ! 
 
 Logic was one thing, but the practical 
 application of a correct social philosophy 
 under adverse circumstances was quite 
 another. It was not at all hard to see that, 
 with the superior equipment in modern ma- 
 chinery of wealth production, America was 
 leading the world in the production of the 
 necessities of life. Nor was it hard to see 
 that with the absolute monopolization of
 
 408 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 all this machinery of wealth production 
 together with all the means of shipment, 
 travel, communication and raw supply, in- 
 cluding the very land itself, the wealth of 
 the nation was rapidly concentrating in the 
 hands of few, and fewer, until, it would 
 seem, with the complete dispossession of 
 the workers, a crisis must be reached when 
 the people would have to turn to Socialism 
 or perish of starvation. Also, and as the 
 cock-sure dogmatist would proclaim, it 
 would seem no more that good horse reason- 
 ing to assume that workers so dispossessed, 
 owned, body and soul and surely starving, 
 would seize upon Socialism as a drowning 
 man catches a straw. But they had reck- 
 oned without their host! 
 
 They had not considered the fact that 
 Capitalism, at that time, reigned through- 
 out the world. They had omitted giving 
 any attention to the Dick Military Law. 
 They forgot that the Supreme Court and 
 Federal Judiciary was the law of the land. 
 That the Catholic church maintained a 
 standing army of 3,000,000 men, armed to 
 the teeth and that every Catholic church 
 was an armory and an arsenal, boded no 
 menace as far as these " every thing-is-all- 
 right" comrades could see. That Capital- 
 ism was an international organization of 
 money changers whose interests were iden- 
 tical, and who would collaborate at last to 
 crush their rebellious slaves, were material
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 409 
 
 only for the jokesmiths. Oh, they were ex- 
 perts on the political chessboard, were these 
 big, love-hearted comrades; but they forgot 
 that the ballot was an instrument only lent 
 the workers for the purpose of making their 
 slavery appear like liberty, and for the ad- 
 ditional purpose of voting their masters 
 into power. That it could be withdrawn 
 or suspended at any time through a procla- 
 mation of martial law had never occurred 
 to them. Adding still to their amiss judg- 
 ment (unmerciful to say though it may 
 seem) was their jocular indifference con- 
 cerning the international matrimony 
 market for the traffic in royal titles. 
 
 The early Socialist-optimist could sense 
 no physical opposition to Socialism in the 
 pomegamic unions of American heiresses 
 with the leperous pimps of monarch- 
 ridden Europe. But to the latter school 
 the inter-marrying of domestic and for- 
 eign parasites carried with it a most menac- 
 ing significance. True, the other countries 
 had fallen into the Socialist lap; but 
 only after the workers had organized 
 themselves into one vast and complete 
 union, and then only at the last minute. 
 That they had organized in time to abort 
 the diabolical plots of the rulers to whole- 
 sale them to death by the soldiery, was not 
 the fault of the masters. Capital was 
 capital, and they were the capitalists. Who 
 could expect them to want their voluptuous
 
 410 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 sons and daughters to be reckoned citizens 
 under the Co-operative Commonwealth? 
 Why ! They might have to go to work ! To 
 think of it! Work! They give up power 
 and idleness for Work? Never! 
 
 Cruel as it may seem, yet it would not 
 be fair to omit just one more wrong point 
 in the methods of reasoning indulged in by 
 these good comrades of the chaotic and 
 obsolete past. They gave the orthodox 
 voter of the working classes credit for hav- 
 ing intelligence! They appealed to their 
 heads instead of to their stomachs. Their 
 stomachs were intelligent, knowing and 
 distinguishing the gnawing pangs of 
 hunger from the siren songs of the " pros- 
 perity" vaudeville artists; but the brain of 
 an American voting sovereign of that time 
 was so thoroughly imbued with patriotic 
 fervor that he couldn't tell the difference 
 between a judge-made labor injunction and 
 a side of trust-made beef. 
 
 But with the coming of the Red Cadets 
 came classified literature ; with classified 
 literature came Industrial Unionism the 
 unionism that unified the Industrial Co- 
 operative Democrats. With the perfection 
 of this mighty one union, into which was 
 swept every individual, male and female 
 who worked for -wages in the nation, fol- 
 lowed the consolidation of all liberal and 
 reform doctrinarians, as they came into 
 the great International Socialist Party,
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 411 
 
 one by one, leaving behind their petty 
 fidgetings, foolish jealousies and childish 
 fears. In other countries, whose cults, 
 sects, creeds, factions and budding politi- 
 cal bodies had been admitted boldly and 
 bodily; but that had been tried with dis- 
 astrous results here, and so only the indi- 
 vidual method of absorption by way of the 
 open door came to prevail, and with better 
 results. 
 
 The early struggles of the American So- 
 cialist movement had been fraught with 
 many harrying discouragements. There 
 had been as many brands of Socialist 
 preachment as there were theories concern- 
 ing the hereafter. A Socialist was a So- 
 cialist up to the point where it seemed to 
 conflict with some inherited or dyed-in-the- 
 wool belief or superstition, and there his 
 wires crossed. Also, there were many " So- 
 cialist" parties and near-parties in the 
 early days, which grew from the So- 
 cialist seed and thrived, or sprouted 
 and withered according to their scientific 
 or unscientific fundamentals. The seed of 
 Socialism fell upon many qualities of men- 
 tal soil. Some barren of reasoning, some 
 stony with ignorance, and some poisonous 
 with the stagnant slime of jealousy and un- 
 yielding prejudice. 
 
 Among some of the names of the various 
 Socialist parties, and names by which they 
 were slanderously called, were: The S. L.
 
 412 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Ps., the Christian Socialists, the Utopians, 
 "Impossiblists," the " Palliators, " the 
 " Compromisers," the Revolutionists, the 
 " Step-at-a-timers, " the Colonizers, the 
 Fabians, the " Intellectuals," the Fusion- 
 ists, the "Proletarians," the " Parlor So- 
 cialists," the International Socialist Party, 
 and the "Some-things Socialist." This 
 latter curiosity being attracted because of 
 an abiding hope that Socialism was bound 
 to become suddenly very popular, when it 
 would offer him an excellent shelter from 
 the wet. He wanted all the Socialists 
 wanted and more. He wanted Socialism 
 for what there was in it; but he wanted 
 Capitalism also, for the reason that he 
 feared Socialism would give him an honest 
 job of work and cut off his little private 
 graft. 
 
 Surely they were a generous array of 
 rebellious comrades. Each possessed of 
 many erroneous and conflicting abstract 
 opinions, but all agreed upon one point, 
 the one point the great vital point: the 
 fundamental declaration that, "whereas, 
 Labor creates all wealth, Labor shall pos- 
 sess the full value of its created product." 
 
 And so, up out of all the tumultuous, 
 blind, but ever-evolving yeast of history, 
 emerged over the industrial horizon the sun 
 haloed head of the modern progress-god 
 Organized, Educated, Co-operative Labor.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 413 
 
 But it was tardy in the coining. The 
 Giant had slept too long ! Wall Street with 
 its Pinkertons in the labor councils and its 
 marionettes in Washington, had the situa- 
 tion in hand or thought it had. But with 
 the annexation of Mexico had come a sharp, 
 short but terrible war with Japan in which 
 the United States had suffered an unmerci- 
 ful but richly deserved thrashing, and was 
 left humiliated, bankrupt and without a 
 navy. 
 
 America had fermented it primarily for 
 commercial exploitation; but it served two 
 other purposes as well. It helped to dis- 
 tract the attention of its voting sovereigns 
 from the capitalisic misrule of the masters 
 and from Socialist activity at home. 
 
 The masters believed more in slogans, 
 red fire, flags and rum, than they did in 
 progress. They had an old saw to the effect 
 that, "one should never swap horses while 
 crossing a stream." This had been paraded 
 before the ox-eyed herd for fifty years, and 
 was always resurrected just prior to each 
 Presidential election, for the effect it was 
 supposed to have in keeping the dominant 
 party perpetually in power. It was re- 
 markable the way they overworked these 
 slogans, rags, rum and fireworks. But that 
 the " stunt" really worked, was no less re- 
 markable! And these ring-nosed cattle 
 these mild-mannered voting, " free-born" 
 drifting slaves were said to be "men"!
 
 414 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 " Issues," this was the watchword of the 
 masters, and issues they invented and 
 pulled off with remarkable regularity and 
 precision whenever the green pastures were 
 outfed and the mild-eyed herd were idle 
 and starving. Such a condition was said 
 to be a period of "over-production" ! These 
 periodical overstockings of markets with 
 the wealth created by the mild-eyed heard 
 were always sources of great mystery to the 
 voting cattle. Whenever their hands were 
 idle and their stomachs empty, it was a 
 marvelous coincidence that the storehouses 
 were always filled to the bursting point; 
 and the phenomenon continued an unsolved 
 enigma, that the working citizenry of a na- 
 tion should starve amid rotting abundance 
 for the crime of having with their own 
 hands created too much wealth ! 
 
 "Hard times," would go up the blatant 
 plaint from the sand dunes of the Herd, 
 and straightway out on the Stage of 
 "Isses" would troop the whole puppet 
 show, including President, Senators, Chief, 
 "Justices" and all the rest of the hum- 
 bugs and chief humbugs, and then the play 
 would begin: 
 
 THE POLITICAL MONTE-BANK 
 
 PLAY: 
 Act I. 
 
 Scene Execution Mansion.
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 415 
 
 Enter President Taffy (on a raft). Picks 
 up queer-shaped skull labeled "LABOR," 
 shakes his head sadly (and incidentally his 
 300-pound paunch) and drawls, sleepily: 
 "Poor Yorick! He knew me (hie) well!" 
 
 (Voice from audience:) 
 
 "I say, Bill, when there's a drouth and 
 feed's short in the pasture, what's a poor 
 mule to do?" 
 
 (Thunder machine, amid great confusion 
 behind the scenes.) 
 
 Pres. Taffy: "God knows!" 
 Exit Pres. Taffy. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Scene Supreme Court. 
 
 Enter nine puppets in white wigs and 
 long black gowns. 
 
 Door opens and straw octopus enters la- 
 beled "STANDARD GREASE." 
 
 Chief in- justice Might, arising: "Gentle- 
 men of the Supreme Court, pay heed to my 
 rant. We shall now proceed to bust the 
 trusts" (presses spring on small Jack-in- 
 the-Box cabinet labeled T. R., cover flies 
 off, blank cartridges explode and red fire 
 ignites, as out of the box pops the " Big- 
 Stick," swatting the straw octopus in the 
 bustle, knocking it into the proverbial 
 cocked hat) . 
 
 Protracted cheers and laughter ! 
 
 Curtain.
 
 416 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 (Audience retires in order, and re-enter- 
 ing pasture, proceeds to grub peacefully 
 away at the tawny stubble praying the 
 while for rain.) 
 
 At his reception in San Francisco the 
 young wizard announced two wonderful 
 new discoveries; food from the earth, and 
 the process of goldmaking. 
 
 The scientist showed them tablets made 
 from chemicals extracted from the sack 
 of Alaskan earth and announced that the 
 stomach in its present form as a necessary 
 organ of the human body was destined 
 eventually to disappear. It was developed, 
 he said, as a result of the heavy loads 
 thrown into the esophagus, and would sub- 
 side gradually and permanently, when the 
 cause was removed and food supplied in 
 direct and pre-digested form. What was 
 the use of eating a pound of waste to get 
 an ounce of nutrition? Why expand the 
 stomach to balloon proportions with a 
 thimble-full of real food 1 ? With two quarts 
 of pure water and an ounce of the concen- 
 trated earth-food, an athlete could subsist 
 in perfect health and strength for twenty- 
 four hours. 
 
 He told them what every school boy and 
 girl knew where Socialism was known, and 
 what any physiology could prove: that the 
 human body was, in the main, pure water. 
 Then he proceeded to name the different 
 chemicals of which the human organism
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 417 
 
 was composed, and unmercifully scolded 
 them for their criminal ignorance of the 
 one vital science* the study of Self. Flesh 
 life was of the same stuff as plant life, 
 and the elements of all were to be found in 
 a handful of mud. Why not replace the 
 worn-out tissues direct from the source of 
 supply, instead of taking a life to get an 
 inferior article at third hand. ? 
 
 "If the captain of a ship discovers a 
 mast worn out, or in decay, does he proceed 
 to fill up the step with dirt, plant a spruce 
 tree seed there and then sit down to wait 
 for the tree to grow into a mast?" he in- 
 quired jestingly. Then he proceeded se- 
 riously with the answer. "No, not he. The 
 source of supply is visited, a tree cut from 
 the forest, the waste cut away and the mast 
 shaped and stepped after the manner of 
 men who know what is wanted and how to 
 obtain it. But when the human ship wears 
 and is consumed at a given point, its cap- 
 tain proceeds to scratch the earth among 
 the very substances his organism needs; 
 plants some seeds, cultivates a crop of 
 weeds, grass, corn and mangelwurzels, raises 
 a bull until he's four years old on the crops 
 he raised from the seed, then he kills the 
 bull like a coward and a murderer and 
 ignorantly eats him like a wild cannibal!" 
 
 Here he gave them the list of ingredients 
 of the body, and told his hearers that any 
 chemist could prepare enough food for a
 
 418 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 thousand men a year from ten square feet 
 of earth, and still have the earth. Here 
 was the list : carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, sul- 
 phur, phosphorus, chlorine, flourine, silicon, 
 sodium, potassium, lithium, calcium, mag- 
 nesium, iron and manganese. Traces of 
 other metals and minerals there were, but 
 the most important among the organic mat- 
 ter were the carbon dioxides, common salt, 
 and water. These men walked over ; starved 
 for want of, and mingled their bones among 
 because of their criminal ignorance of life. 
 "The time will surely come when a man 
 may live a thousand years; but before that 
 time comes, man will have studied and 
 learned some of the simple fundamentals 
 concerning the science of organic life," he 
 told them. 
 
 "The city of San Francisco is built upon 
 the crust of a vast gas bubble." he warned 
 them. "The centre of this earth is frozen 
 as hard as the hardest diamond; but near 
 the surface are numberless subterranean 
 lakes and rivers and caves. Also, there are 
 combustible fuels in great quantities and 
 profusion buried just below the surface 
 under the ephemeral stucco, where they are 
 constantly undergoing changes in obedience 
 to the Great Law." 
 
 Volcanoes, he informed his hearers, were 
 the result of bursting gas bubbles thrown 
 up above large deposits of these spontane- 
 ouslv combusted fuel mines. All moun-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 419 
 
 tains were the result of such combustion, 
 except the long range formations, which re- 
 sulted mainly from glacial activity, and 
 under such as these was stored the fuel 
 which caused all the siesmic disturbances. 
 There were the Sierras; they rested over 
 lakes and rivers of oil, beds of coal and 
 bubbles of gas. "There is a salt-water sink 
 a thousand feet deep right under this city," 
 he said, "and into it constantly plays the 
 harbor tides from the green Pacific. Occa- 
 sionally there falls from the concave roof 
 of this earth-bubble a few million tons of 
 washed down crust, and there is said to 
 have occurred an earthquake! No one ever 
 investigates to see what caused the shakeup, 
 and the soothsayers call it 'an act of Provi- 
 dence!' Such things have never been un- 
 derstood, scientifically, and so they were 
 feared and claimed by superstition. 
 
 "In 1906 this vicinity was severely 
 shaken by the collapse of one of these un- 
 derground caverns, and the prophets and 
 seers announced it a punishment from the 
 Divine Court for the sins of the grafters 
 (of the opposition political party!). The 
 city of San Francisco is destined to sink 
 out of sight and disappear under the placid 
 swell of the Pacific Ocean. It might be 
 saved, even now; but it would cost money! 
 It isn't worth it. It is too rotten. I shall 
 not build my habitation over a yawning 
 abyss of certain death."
 
 420 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 The discovery of the process for making 
 gold was somewhat of an accident. Know- 
 ing that all things were originally of gas, 
 and unto gas they could be made to return, 
 after watching the volcanic disturbances at 
 the Pole, he contrived a miniature volcano 
 in his laboratory on the Agitator, but his 
 hope of success was small indeed. 
 
 Into an electric crucible he had thrown a 
 quantity of chemicals, together with a hand- 
 ful of common salt, a lump of coal, some of 
 the earth he had taken from the river bank, 
 and all the different sweets, acids, carbons 
 and the baser metals, and added enough 
 sea water to make it a thick mud. Inside 
 a powerful glass vacuum he placed th3 
 crucible, attached the wires, drew off the 
 air and turned on the current. In thirty 
 seconds the stuff had risen from a smoking 
 mass of fiery incandescence to a sputtering 
 solar orb of unearthly heat and whiteness, 
 viewable only through colored glasses. The 
 glass vacuum had behaved beautifully. He 
 had wondered how long it would hold. 
 Would it hold intact to the end? It was 
 a breathless moment! For ten seconds 
 Quiinby Sands was one of many on the 
 anxious seat! His hand gripped the screw 
 of a valve, and when of a sudden the whole 
 sparkling, sizzling contents foamed up, 
 burst into billions of jets of colored light, 
 he waved back the company and jerked
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 421 
 
 open the valve. The stuff the valve re- 
 leased was a stream of liquified air re- 
 duced to a temperature so cold that water 
 frozen by it turned the edge of a steel 
 drill. 
 
 Of course there was an explosion, but it 
 had been anticipated and resulted in little 
 harm other than the loss of glass, and that 
 could easily be replaced. 
 
 It was the cold air that did it, just as 
 he had expected. There it was, a small, 
 irregular lump of rock the fused and re- 
 condensed contents of the crucible. Ah! 
 He was a god ! for had he not created earth I 
 
 Nervously he fell upon his new brain- 
 child. It was not hard to see that the mass 
 of stone was streaked with metals; but it 
 was not until after he had crushed and 
 separated it that he found the thing to be 
 nearly one-fourth pure yellow gold. 
 
 With the public announcement that there 
 was a man living who knew how to make 
 gold in any quantity, and for a few cents 
 a ton, the press got busy and the country 
 went wild. What of the'"Gold Standard,'' 
 the money market, the gold bonds, the na- 
 tional debts, payable in gold, and all the 
 hundred and one other dependencies of a 
 restricted and highly inflated standard of 
 monetary values? But Quimby Sands was 
 interested neither in mediums of exchange, 
 debts, credits nor riches. His was a mis- 
 sion of rescue the rescue of his fellowmen
 
 422 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 from the heavy yoke of that very yellow 
 thing gold. He would take it up with 
 them later. At present there was some 
 rapid work to be done. 
 
 They had planned to run down the coast 
 past Mexico, Guatamala, Honduras, Nica- 
 ragua and Costa Rica, slip through the 
 Panama Canal and make a swift run 
 through the Caribbean Sea, the Yucatan 
 Channel and across the Gulf of Mexico to 
 New Orleans. The trip up the Mississippi 
 to St. Louis could be made in a day, and 
 would end the long cruise. 
 
 But they got word through the Red 
 Cadets that there was a capitalist conspir- 
 acy on foot to trap them in the Grafter's 
 Ditch, and for no good purpose; so at a 
 suggestion from his father, young Sands 
 made a landing at San Juan Del Sur, Nic- 
 aragua, got in communication with the 
 government at Managu, one of the new 
 Co-operative Commonwealths, and in just 
 forty-eight hours perfected a commission to 
 dig the long proposed Nicaraguan Canal 
 from Brito, on the Pacific, to Lake Nic- 
 aragua, thence to Greyton, in the Caribbean 
 Sea, some one hundred miles. 
 
 The Agitator indicated the course from 
 a chart furnished by the government, and 
 the Comet did the work. Word had been 
 flashed on ahead to the natives to retire 
 from the zone of activity when the finder 
 ray should appear. With everything in
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 423 
 
 readiness, on New Year's Eve, up shot the 
 radium pillar and down came the finder in 
 in a thin fan-shaped angle, reaching from 
 coast to lake and lighting the way for the 
 Comet. And then the fun began. 
 
 Going up a half mile over the lighted 
 course, the little fire-fly adjusted the focus, 
 gave the signal, and turned on the current! 
 
 She began right at the very shore, fusing 
 ocean, forest, trees, rock and earth into gas, 
 and at the same time igniting and consum- 
 ing the gas; it was a sight describable only 
 by future minds. Away she sped, over the 
 course and back again, cutting a channel 
 a hundred feet wide and thirty feet below 
 sea level, from coast to lake, and in less 
 than an hour's time. Into this flowed the 
 sea, and in another hour the Agitator had 
 passed through, had crossed the lake ana 
 the performance had been repeated on the 
 other side through to the Caribbean. It was 
 a costless job, soon over, and it put the au- 
 cient ditch digging methods to everlasting 
 shame. 
 
 Of course the news spread, and many 
 receptions were planned by the people 
 along the route; but there was Ben Page 
 on board frozen up in ice, probably rairc- 
 trievably dead possibly not. They were 
 bound for St. Louis, and they were in a 
 hurry. 
 
 "Just a little more air today, and raise 
 the temperature half a degree," ordered
 
 424 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 the wizard prince. Then turning to the 
 five others, continued: "We will leave him 
 now with the experts and the captain. To- 
 morrow we will increase the temperature a 
 full degree, a full degree each day there- 
 after, doubling the dose every other day, 
 and with plenty of color, tune and air, in a 
 month we will have him out of the ice, and 
 in two months he will walk with me in 
 Forest Park." 
 
 They were lying now at the foot of the 
 west pier of the Eads Bridge, in the muddy 
 old Mississippi. The city had been tipped 
 off and the levee was lined with 300,000 
 souls. The Red Cadets, 50,000 strong, mar- 
 shalled Washington Avenue and Delmar 
 Boulevard from the river to University 
 City, where the American Woman's League, 
 the first great Woman's Democracy, was in 
 convention at Delmar G-arden. 
 
 There was much speaking, President 
 Lewis leading in the addresses of welcome. 
 Also there was much cheering by 100,000 
 women suffragists, members of the League. 
 The membership of this league were not all 
 Socialists, as yet, but they were all co- 
 operators, and many Red Cadets were the 
 sons and daughters of these splendid pro- 
 gressive women. They would all become 
 Socialists in time, Quimby Sands knew 
 that, for it was only the progressive who 
 had ever changed. Jason Sands was intro- 
 duced amid thunderous applause, and that
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 425 
 
 evening the Agitator gave her usual exhibi- 
 tion with the pillar and the ray, and the 
 climax was capped with the performance of 
 the Comet over the city. 
 
 One month later six men, the same six 
 who had placed him in the ice cabinet while 
 in the Arctic Ocean, gathered anxiously 
 around a glass table upon which rested the 
 nude body of Ben Page. There were spec- 
 tators present, including the Dean of the 
 Washington University Medical College; 
 Dean of the St. Louis College of Physicians 
 and Surgeons ; Editor Brumby of the Moon, 
 and the good priest from the St. Vitus 
 Rock Church. 
 
 With the drawing of the frost was ap- 
 plied the air-blast massage machines, the 
 high-power electric internal bath, the ex- 
 hileratory respirator, and a powerful col- 
 ored ray. Stimulants were administered 
 at intervals by the scientists aboard, and 
 the tune machines were regulated by the 
 junior Sands himself. There had been anx- 
 ious moments, which had increased to 
 hours, days and weeks, as the ice had dis- 
 appeared and the white frost came and 
 went and the cell life of this precious 
 human organism began to show color and 
 faint signs of returning life activity. 
 
 Imagine the scene of modest victory 
 among the little group of watching, work- 
 ing, pantomimic scientists, when at the 
 third hour after the bodily temperature
 
 426 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 bad been restored to normal, the cardio- 
 graph recorded a trace of collateral circula- 
 tion, followed almost immediately by a very 
 weak, but regular, action of the heart. 
 There was color in the cheeks now, and the 
 lungs were filling and expelling the breath 
 regularly with a watery rattle, which rattle 
 the oxygen machines soon relieved. 
 
 The young genius was bending down, 
 peering into the motionless features, when 
 Jason Sands swung his huge body along- 
 side his son with a single stride of his great 
 crutches, and whispered something in the 
 radiant youth's ear. There was a hurried 
 undertone conversation; the younger man 
 stepped back; the old warrior advanced to 
 the motionless figure of his old companion, 
 took both his hands in his own, looked 
 straight at the closed eyes and uttered a 
 loud, peculiar cry. It was, indeed, a pe- 
 culiar cry. It sounded like " Oo-o-wow-oo- 
 o-o-o," starting low with the "Go," and 
 rising higher and higher, until the highest 
 pitch poised almost at the breaking point 
 over the centre of the "wow," it slid down, 
 down over the "o-o-oV and off into the 
 deep chest of the man who had sounded 
 it. There was a slight, spasmodic jerking 
 of the finger tips, but aside from this Ben 
 Page gave no sign that he had heard. Three 
 times was the cry repeated. The last was 
 louder than the rest, and had in it all oi
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 427 
 
 both the courage and terror born of a 
 danger-inheritance; all the woes and an- 
 guish of a starving world of broken hopes 
 and broken hearts. And. it went out in a 
 mournful plaint, tremulous with despair, 
 and cold as the arctic glacier which for 
 four years had held Ben Page frozen in 
 its hyemal fangs. As the last gutteral 
 moan died away the old giant of the moun- 
 tains placed his lips close to the frost-bitten 
 patient and called sharply, in a loud voice: 
 "Ben! Ben! Ben Page! Wolves, Ben! 
 Wolves!" 
 
 They were magic words, freighted with 
 ominous dread. As the ear drums received 
 and vibrated the familiar sounds against 
 the sensitive discs of the brain cells, there 
 was a perceptible quivering of the lips ; the 
 sagging jaw came together with a sharp 
 clip; a tremor agitated the prostate form, 
 and the eyes of Ben Page opened, glared 
 about wildly, and rested upon other eyes- 
 eyes that were big, wide apart and shaded 
 by heavy snow-white brows. 
 
 There had been no prayers said, no stink- 
 pots twirled, no God-appeasing sacrifices 
 offered, nor other forms of superstitious 
 monkey-shining indulged in ; and a man had 
 been raised from the dead! 
 
 The deans proclaimed it a miracle; the 
 good priest from the St. Vitus Rock Church 
 denounced it as the Devil's doings, crossed
 
 428 THE TORCH OP REASON. 
 
 himself and fled from the ship. But Science 
 stood erect, looked Ignorance in the eye, 
 and said: "Be not afraid, it is I." 
 
 The next day Quimby and Jason Sands 
 were arrested for "practicing medicine 
 without a license ! ' ' 
 
 Absurd as it may seem, yet it is true, 
 nevertheless, that was the law. Of course, 
 that there were two deans present made no 
 difference. And that there were three grad- 
 uated physicians on board members of 
 the ship's company, was not sufficient ex- 
 cuse for evading the laws of the Great State 
 of Missouri! Hadn't Jason Sands admin- 
 istered the wolf call ? The fact of the mat- 
 ter was, that neither Quimby Sands nor 
 Jason Sands had any diploma to show that 
 they had paid a lot of money for a stereo- 
 typed permit to legally murder a sick man. 
 It was a law that the doctor trust lobbyed 
 through the Legislature, and under it never 
 again might an old woman lay in a supply 
 of herbs from the fields, nor poultice a boil 
 on her old man's nose. Neither might one 
 say, "try the exercise of mental self-con- 
 trol," for such advice constituted the 
 "practice of medicine," as had previously 
 been proven in the case of Prof. Evertz, 
 mental scientist, and was in violation of a 
 trust-made law of the Great State of Mis- 
 souri! But to be thrown into a medical 
 slot machine and ground out a licensed 
 physician, was to legalize anything with the
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 429 
 
 coin to kill a well man with impunity ; while 
 for a layman to raise the dead was a crime 
 against the Great State of Missouri! 
 
 When the trial came off, although DO case 
 was made against the defendants, mar- 
 velous to relate, both were ordered found 
 guilty before a jury in Judge Moth's Court 
 of Criminal Correction and fined fifty dol- 
 lars and costs! Ben Page was there as a 
 witness for the state, and required to testify 
 against his friends and benefactors. Ben 
 had read his subpoena over and over again, 
 wherein was this injunction: "Fail not to 
 be there at your peril," wrote, "Gk> to 
 hell" on the back of it and. mailed it back 
 to the court. But when the farce was 
 staged Ben was there, and got sent to the 
 city jail for six months for contempt of 
 court and for knocking five teeth down old 
 State's Attorney Basswood's throat for re- 
 ferring to Quimby Sands as "the lawless 
 son of an old backwoods hobo." 
 
 Here was more trouble. But there was 
 no help for it. Ben had to go. 
 
 There was no getting of Jason Sands 
 away from St. Louis as long as his resur- 
 rected former partner in the Broken Bone 
 Mine was in prison. It was the last straw. 
 Why could not Ben have foreborne! But 
 he would not censure him, for, had Ben not 
 done it, secretly in his own heart he knew 
 that he would have been there instead, and 
 most likely for a longer term. Besides,
 
 430 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Ben's experience with courts of jus- 
 tice" had been limited to the justice of 
 Right, in the court of Conscience, where 
 man bulks big and first above the dollar 
 sign. 
 
 The decline of Jason Sands from that 
 hour was rapid and sure. He had stood 
 the trip around the world remarkably well, 
 rallying from that awful wolf fight and the 
 loss of Ms limb and blood, with the finding 
 of his son ; but he had never been the same. 
 It had been a long, uphill pull. Over him 
 a leaden veil seemed falling to drag him 
 down. When he left the Broken Bone on 
 that pregnant April night back in 1910, his 
 one thought was of the old home ; but came 
 the reunion on the Agitator to modify this, 
 though the old longing still slumbered in 
 his heart. 
 
 One day lie called his son to his side, 
 looked long and lovingly into his glowing 
 face, and taking him fondly by the hand 
 said: "Quim, I hate to mar your happi- 
 ness, but your father's work is over! I can 
 feel it coming on me, a kind of sinking, and 
 a numbness gets in my veins, prickling like 
 needle points. I'm not laying down, Quim, 
 but I've told you bow it is, and you under- 
 stand. I wanted to go back there once 
 more where She is; but I guess it's too late. 
 I know you would have taken me, but I 
 could not say the word when you had so 
 much to do for others. You are a great
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 431 
 
 young man, and you are destined to be 
 greater. You are my son, my only son all 
 I have left in this world and I am well 
 pleased in you; but I shall have to leave 
 you before long, and it may be very soon. 
 Take care of Ben, Quim, and take care of 
 yourself; for there 's going to be war here! 
 Mark my word, boy, there's going to be 
 war! It will be an internal war, and it will 
 be here before another Presidential election 
 rolls around. It will be between Capital 
 and Labor. It will be the business of the 
 Boy Scouts to protect the property of the 
 rich and murder their fathers and brothers. 
 It will be bitter, revengeful and to a 
 finish." 
 
 "But, Father, you must not say you are 
 going to be ill. You forget that you are 
 on board the Agitator, and that we don't 
 permit the presence of the Gaunt Goddess 
 on this craft. Don't be alarmed. We will 
 pull you through, and when you feel well 
 enough, I will take you in the Comet bac 1 * 
 where your heart lies buried. And believe 
 me, Father, there will be no more war. 
 Trust that to the Rod Cadets," encouraged 
 the son warmly. 
 
 But the old man refused to be consoled, 
 and his illness came in spite of all that 
 could be done to prevent it. It was the 
 sequel to a partial stroke of valvular par- 
 alysis of the heart, caused partly by grief 
 and partly by excessive violent exertion.
 
 432 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 The sickness that should have killed all but 
 one in a million, held him down for sixteen 
 long months, during which there was never 
 a moment when he was not under the watch- 
 ful eye of modern Science. His life was 
 saved at last, and once more the mind had 
 mastered. 
 
 In the meantime Ben Page had served 
 his term, and then another six months for 
 licking the craven judge who had sent him 
 up. It was too much for Ben the St, Louis 
 idea of justice! Nor did he ever get it 
 quite figured out just how it all came about 
 that he found himself there; but one thing 
 he knew: he was not going to stay! He 
 would foot it back to Alaska, wolves or no 
 wolves. But when he learned that gold was 
 no longer mined, but manufactured, and 
 that there was no market for it now other 
 than as material for cooking utensils, 
 water-pipes and other devises of use and 
 ornamentation, he changed his mind and 
 agreed to accompany the Comet and her 
 party to New Hampshire, whither his old 
 chum Jason was bound. 
 
 It came in the spring of 1916. Jason was 
 right, there was going to be war! The 
 Western Federation of Miners, the I. W. 
 Ws. and the American Federation of Labor 
 had joined the Industrial Co-operative Dem- 
 ocrats on the industrial field, and declared 
 for Socialism, and the Socialist Party, on 
 the political field. At their May convention
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 433 
 
 in New York, the American Woman's Suf- 
 frage League had declared for Socialism, 
 and had endorsed the Socialist Party by 
 a standing vote, which was unanimous and 
 enthusiastic. Next came the American 
 Woman's League with its million members 
 all into the great International Socialist 
 Party. The pot was boiling now, and still 
 active were the Red Cadets, heaping the 
 dry fuel of classified Socialist propaganda 
 continually on the fire of the Social Revolu- 
 tion. They worked among their classmates 
 at school, invited them to their picnics, 
 platted off the towns and cities, assigned 
 wards, precincts, streets and block to va- 
 rious regiments, posts, companies and 
 commands, which saw to it that every indi- 
 vidual was known, classified and regularly 
 visited with papers, pamphlets, books and 
 music ; and it was wonderful the amount of 
 literature they sold. 
 
 Then came the Socialist convention in 
 St. Louis, in June, 1916. If the pot had 
 boiled before, it was foaming now! There 
 was harmony at last, and the entire Social- 
 ist ticket was bound to carry in November. 
 Capitalism was madly tearing its hair for 
 an issue. The "good men" (for bad of- 
 fices) bug was played out. They had 
 pulled off the last raw deal. They were at 
 the last ditch. Something must be done! 
 It would never do to let the Socialists win 
 at the polls! That would mean the end of
 
 434 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 capitalistic reign forever ! That would mean 
 that profits from human labor must cease! 
 Wall Street would have to shut up shop 
 and board up its windows! Graft would 
 be at an end. Child slavery could exist no 
 more. Poverty would vanish like mist be- 
 fore the noonday sun, and Labor would be- 
 come respectable. But overshadowing all 
 this like a terrible curse, hung the awful 
 threat of Socialism that it would put the 
 parasites to work earning their own living 
 at some sort of honest labor. It would never 
 do! It was preposterous! It was un- 
 Christian and un-Godly! It would destroy 
 their incentive to steal! It would bring 
 them all down to the dead level of those 
 from whose bended backs they had so long 
 sucked the blood of their sustenance like 
 bedbugs and lice! 
 
 Of course, it was optional whether they 
 shouid work or not; but the alternative was 
 death by starvation, and it would be up 
 to them. 
 
 And then the thing happened. The Dick 
 Military Law had made it possible. Morgan 
 had said that Labor should be dealt with with 
 an iron hand at the proper time. The real 
 purpose of the Boy Scouts was known at 
 last. Jason was a prophet. Government 
 spies had been busy ringing doorbells, and 
 every male citizen was spotted. The Beast 
 was arrogant, blind and drunken with 
 wealth and power. That its class had been
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 435 
 
 overthrown and driven out of every other 
 nation, taught this American Beast no les- 
 son. It had the guns and it proposed to 
 use them. Secretly, at first, in all the big 
 cities began to appear *he soldiers. Every 
 train brought a few more of these cowards 
 in their yellow cotton uniforms, yellow as 
 the yellow of their murderous hearts. The 
 ''Regulars" they were, and as Taft once 
 told the Cubans in a public speech, "they 
 were the scum and the off-scourings of the 
 civilized earth." They knew not why they 
 were in St. Louis, but they were there, and 
 the streets were full of them. That they 
 were there with full cartridge belts buckled 
 around their pretty waists outside their cor- 
 sets, and with shotted and bayonetted guns, 
 a two-foot hand scythe and a foot-and-a- 
 half automatic pistol at their hips, was the 
 only other thing they knew besides that 
 they were there to obey orders. That it 
 might be their fathers, mothers, sisters, 
 brothers or sweethearts whom they were to 
 kill, entered not into their understanding. 
 They had no understanding. There was 
 nothing in their little tin heads with wm>b 
 to understand anything but "orders" aihl 
 the smell of blood. They were soldiers ia 
 the "land of the free (lunch) and the home 
 of the brave." and were they not brave? 
 Let the order come to shoot, they would 
 show 'em ! They would shoot to kill !
 
 436 THE TORCH OP REASON. 
 
 And so it came to pass that Labor was to 
 massacre itself! It was the last and only 
 remaining method of preventing a Socialist 
 victory at the polls. Something was to be 
 started anything just to get them all into 
 a iight, when the workers and Socialist 
 agitators were to be corralled like a game 
 drive and shot to pieces like so many 
 rabbits. 
 
 Tt was a grand scheme, which consisted 
 of ;iagging labor until they should succeed 
 in nagging it into an open breach of the 
 peace, when the Maxims and muskets were 
 to spit iead and steel into the unarmed 
 hosts of toil from every street corner. They 
 had tried to pull the deal off twice before, 
 once when they kidnapped the Western 
 Federation of Miners' officials, and later 
 when the Interests succeeded in wringing 
 steieotyped confessions from the O'Mara 
 brothers with the aid of a $10,000,000 
 bribe, at Angels Grate, California. That 
 was back in the year of 1911, when a deep- 
 laid plot deeper than Labor knew was 
 consummated through years of devilish 
 dealings, leading all the way up from the 
 farming of dynamite bonds to the buying of 
 labor councils, pulpits, press, courts ani 
 lawyers even to the purchase of the 
 O'Maras, who, for a fee, and the promise 
 of a pardon after three years of prison 
 freedom, pleaded guilty to a foul and cow- 
 axdly detective's bloody crime.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 437 
 
 The purpose of all this was plain: In 
 order to successfully make war on Labor, 
 fii^t Labor must be discredited and public 
 opinion framed up on the side of steel and 
 rope and lead otherwise known as "law 
 and order." But about this time Progress 
 took another step forward. A co-operative 
 syndicate publishing company was formed, 
 for the purpose of printing and distributing 
 a local Socialist weekly newspaper in ever/ 
 town and village in the country. And so 
 the people got to hear both sides of thy 
 question and were able to judge accord- 
 ingly. 
 
 The coal and iron mines were now closed 
 down, and for three months not a wheel 
 had turned in any of the great steel mills. 
 There was a panic on, and Labor was locked 
 out from access to the means of life. Mil 
 lions of dispossessed workers and their 
 starving families were tramping the streets, 
 half -clad and menacing, while the store- 
 houses groaned with the bursting abund- 
 ance of the surplus wealth their own hands 
 had created. The press-made hero tw- 
 cumbrance of the White House for two 
 consecutive inflictions had been renomi- 
 nated and was running for a third term, 
 and organized labor was working feverishly 
 to hold back a threatened general strike. 
 
 In St. Louis the factories were closed and 
 the people were starving and sleeping out in 
 vacant lots and in graveyards. St. Louis was
 
 438 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 a great shoe manufacturing centre ; but there 
 was the Jackson-Green slave pen, which 
 turned out the " American Magdalene" shoe 
 for the Red Light trade, with windows and 
 doors closed and shuttered like a tomb. 
 
 It was here in this crashing inferno that 
 Jason Sands had worked ten hours a day, 
 operating a "Niggerhead" lasting machine 
 the one machine of all the machinery of 
 earth, known as the "man-killer" of wage- 
 slavery. It was the invention of a negro, 
 who died in an insane asylum after his in- 
 vention had been stolen from him. Hence 
 the appellation, "Niggerhead." It was the 
 invention of this machine which revolu- 
 tionized the shoe industry. And still they 
 say there are no revolutions but bloody 
 revolutions! For thousands of years all 
 shoes had been lasted by hand; and to pull 
 over and last 120 pairs in a day was con- 
 sidered the best of speed. "No machine 
 can ever be invented that will last a shoe," 
 the old hand-lasters would chuckle, when- 
 ever a new device would come into the fac- 
 tories to displace some archaic hand 
 method. But the "Niggerhead" came, and 
 with it went out the hand-laster, never to 
 return. With its cold steel jaws snapping 
 and biting into the leather, one man oper- 
 ating and three others pulling over, it could 
 turn out from 600 to 1,000 pairs a day, 
 where by hand only a beginning could be 
 made. Into these steel jaws often went
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON'. 439 
 
 the fingers of the operators, and on three 
 occasion had Jason's been bitten and 
 crushed to the bone in the sateless jaws 
 of this grim iron monster. This was the 
 machine invented by a poor negro, and 
 stolen by a rich capitalist, which made the 
 great Shoe Machinery Trust, a hundred 
 million dollar corporation, tribute to which 
 every human being in America, and in 
 nearly all the rest of the civilized world, 
 had paid, for more than twenty-five years 
 without a protest. 
 
 And then of a sudden the mask fell 
 from the Dick Military Law, when, on the 
 13th day of August, 1916, every Socialist 
 and trade unionist was visited with a mili- 
 tary order commanding him to report at 
 the Armory or militia headquarters im- 
 mediately, ready for active service ! It was 
 a nation-wide mandate, any non-observ- 
 ance of which, the summons read, would 
 be considered an act of treason, punishable 
 by court martial, at the hands of militia 
 officers only! It meant, "come and shoot 
 yourselves, or the Regulars will shoot you ! ' ' 
 
 " Shoot or be shot," was the urkus. But 
 we shall see how, with the coming of -the 
 Red Cadets, it was destined to be obeyed. 
 
 "Father, was my mother a very beautiful 
 woman?" 
 
 The Agitator had slipped her moorings 
 in the night and had dropped down the 
 river opposite Carondelet, and was lying
 
 440 THE TORCH OP REASON. 
 
 there on the bottom of the Mississippi, 
 when Quimby Sands drew up his chair be- 
 side his father's and asked the foregoing 
 startling question. For answer, his en- 
 feebled sire unbottoned Ms shirt at the 
 throat and drew forth a small, smoothly- 
 worn gold locket. Opening it with reverent 
 touch, he gazed silently upon the tiny da- 
 guerreotype in colors there, until a splash 
 of wet fell upon the hand that held it, then 
 he passed the locket without speaking to 
 his adoring son. 
 
 One hour later a streak of white fire 
 burst from the muddy bosom of the old 
 Mississippi, circled the beleaguered city, 
 scattered a ton of anti-war leaflets down on 
 the heads of the startled populace, opened 
 the current for full speed ahead and in a 
 jiffy was out of sight on her record run 
 straight for the hills of old New Hamp- 
 shire.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 NOT EVEN IN THE GRAVE ! 
 
 I saw an eagle soar a mountain by the sea 
 
 Long, long ago! 
 I saw an ancient, dead, and moss-grown tree 
 
 Fall in the snow! 
 To-day I stood again my son and I 
 
 The verdue 'mong, 
 Where that old monarch reigned, at last to die, 
 
 And saw a young, 
 Tall giant oak, that from his mould did rise 
 
 In grand attire, 
 To beckon vernal greetings to the skies 
 
 As did his sire. 
 Nor drifted snows, but springtime as of yore 
 
 When youth was gay. 
 Nor eagle, but a bird-man came to soar 
 
 The mount to-day! 
 
 When Eec Cotton and Jennie Drew, ac- 
 companied by the entire membership of the 
 struggling little local at Ashworth, came 
 over the brow of the western ridge next 
 morning, they were radiant with cheerful- 
 ness, optimism and hope. People who are 
 accustomed to hardship and danger are slow 
 to admit defeat. Little did they dream of 
 what had transpired the night just passing ; 
 but as they drew nearer the commotion 
 among the chickens and stock attracted 
 their attention and quickened their pace.
 
 442 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 The snow was slumpy, and they came up 
 the drifted lane single file and with labo- 
 rious tread. Rec was in the lead and at the 
 corner of the old mansion he paused, turned 
 to the others and pointed without speaking 
 at a faint red glow shining through a small 
 clear spot in the frosty west window. Then 
 they rushed the oaken door and stormed 
 into the bleak old house. It was empty, 
 silent, and cold! 
 
 On the kitchen table lay a letter in a 
 soiled, unstamped envelope. The envelope 
 had been opened a long time since, for it 
 was addressed in a feminine hand to Jason 
 Sands. It was one of the bundle of letters 
 that had come from Alaska, and Jennie 
 Drew hesitated, almost guiltily, as she 
 scanned its contents. There were many 
 soiled thumb marks around the margin, and 
 below a pretty butterfly printed in colors 
 she read these words in faded violet ink : 
 "Raven Boost, Oct. 18, 1890. 
 
 "Jason, Dearest one Come over to the 
 husking, Saturday night, love. Leland will 
 see about the music, and I shall make the 
 pumpkin pies. Belle and Fred are coming, 
 and there'll be fun, O, my husband! 
 
 "I've put three red ears in one shock and 
 marked it for you and I. O you rogue ! 
 
 "God bless and keep you, my dear, big 
 boy. "ERMA." 
 
 Jennie was greatly moved and clearly 
 disappointed, and was folding the letter to
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 443 
 
 put it back in its soiled envelope when she 
 caught sight of something written coarsely 
 in pencil on the back, and read: 
 
 "To Whoever Finds This: 
 
 "I know it's wrong fer ter do it, but 
 they ain't no more to stay fer, and I'm 
 agoin' where peace is. You will find what's 
 left of me in the barn, and I want to be 
 laid away in the lot yender where the others 
 be at rest. I ain't agoin' to Heaven, fer 
 God is agin this ear thing; but I've been as 
 good as they'd let me be, and it comes hard 
 to be driv out of the world. Erma went 
 asmilin' and is restin' peaceful. And Jason 
 will never come. 
 
 "I hain't no will, but what's left of mine 
 arfter settlin' up I want Stanley Lark to 
 have; fer he'll use it doin' the will of 
 Humanity's God. 
 
 "Them thet's been at outs with me is 
 fergi'n, but I've been crucified and driv 
 out. Be good to Black Raven and Old 
 Bess; they hain't never had no abuse, and 
 they be all thet'll miss me when I'm gone. 
 "Goodbye, 
 " L. B. TANNERHILL." 
 
 Jennie had just finished reading the 
 awful missive when the men rushed in from 
 the barn to confirm the sad tidings. There 
 they had found the body, lifeless and rigid, 
 hanging from the great beams by the raw- 
 hide thong.
 
 444 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 There was a fuss over the property, re- 
 sulting in the town stepping in and taking 
 possession. Of course the Socialists were 
 powerless to sustain their claim, there being 
 neither date nor witness to the alleged will. 
 Moreover, they made the testator out an 
 irresponsible victim of insanity, although 
 the physician who dressed his wound in the 
 Town Hall gave controversial testimony. 
 That the old man was perfectly sane when 
 he wrote that letter there was never the 
 slightest doubt in any man's mind; but 
 there was "pickings" on a dead man's 
 bones and the vultures had beaks with 
 which to tear! 
 
 It was at about this time that the Lake- 
 port-Lakeshore & Bald Mountain Railway 
 Co. was organized at Boston, a corporation 
 with $100,000,000 capital. That its chief 
 stockholders were the very millionaires who 
 summered at The Bridge was considered a 
 great feather in the social cap of that hi- 
 bernating country bailiwick. Opening offices 
 in Lakeport, The Weirs, Meredith Village, 
 Centre Harbor and Ashworth, it began the 
 sale of stock with the most supercilious 
 sang-froid, and in high-handed contempt of 
 the fact that no franchise had as yet been 
 granted it, it possessed no charter, and no 
 assurance that it could ever get permission 
 from the state to lay a rail. 
 
 But the L. L. & B. M. R. B. Co. knew its 
 business !
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 445 
 
 With a snug block of one thousand shares 
 tucked away in his inside pocket, any other 
 preacher less mercenary than the Right 
 Kev. Yancel Lea must also have been "in- 
 spired" to preach long-winded sermons in 
 favor of the "wonderful civilizing influ- 
 ences of railroads" passing through a rural 
 community! All commentaries bearing on 
 the dangers, noise, and disfiguring effects 
 on the beautiful mountain landscape were 
 ventured only by the honest farmers scat- 
 tered along the route, and these fell flat and 
 unheeded on the groomed ears of the 
 bloated politicians, like winnowed chaff on 
 a stagnant pool. 
 
 In the year 1916 the much discussed 
 "Lakeshore," as it had boiled down to, had 
 completed its line around Lake Winnepe- 
 saukee from Laconia to North Sandwich 
 west of Red Hill, and rooted up its ugly 
 trail the length of the beautiful north- 
 western boundary of the old Squam Lake 
 to the Tannerhill uplands. All opposition 
 had subsided and its victory was complete. 
 And so, when it leaked out that a hundred 
 foot cut had been surveyed right through 
 the middle of the old mountain graveyard, 
 a threatened storm of protest arose, but was 
 quickly preached down. 
 
 That deacon Jedediah Cousins had re- 
 ceived a complimentary hundred shares of 
 the L. L. & B. M. R. R. preferred, was a 
 secret that had never leaked out. As a
 
 446 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 matter of fact, the company had bribed or 
 gotten " removed" every public servant, 
 from hogreeve to state Senator, with from 
 one, to ten thousand shares of its stock ; and 
 that's the way the L. L. & B. M. R. R. Bill 
 came to be passed in the state legislature. 
 
 In Ashworth, where six years before, 
 Stanley Lark had delivered the speech that 
 brought down the wrath of the god of Cap- 
 italism and the Aberrant, there was a link 
 in the chain of the Red Cadets, a chapter 
 of the American Woman's League, a key 
 of the Industrial Co-operative Democrats, 
 and the membership of all carried the red 
 card of the Socalist Party. The local had 
 grown until it had assimilated the majority 
 and the best of every political party, con- 
 trolled the schools, and dominated every 
 sect, religious creed and secret society, and 
 had become "respectable," with the respect- 
 ability of numerical strength! It was on 
 every tongue, that the Socialists were bound 
 to sweep everything at the coming election ; 
 and that's why, more than for any other 
 reason, they had become popular. 
 
 As the day approached for the annual 
 Labor Day picnic, excitement ran high. As 
 usual, there was to be a week of it in their 
 beautiful lakeshore park at the Bridge ; and 
 many white tents already dotted the green 
 turf just back of the white sandy beach. 
 The Red Cadets were the first to get the 
 news of it, for they had the most perfect
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 447 
 
 system and code of wireless telegraphy in 
 the country; Jason Sands was to be the 
 guest of honor, and Quimby Sands, the 
 young inventor of the Comet and Agitator, 
 and founder of the Red Cadets, was to de- 
 liver the Labor Day address. The word 
 had gone out to all the surrounding vil- 
 lages, and accommodations for ten thousand 
 had been arranged. 
 
 And then of a sudden, when hearts were 
 filled with joy and the faces of old and 
 young were alight with promise of peace 
 that should never end, over the face of the 
 earth rolled the horrid black cloud of war! 
 The Socialists the people were for peace; 
 but Wall Street the kennel of Capitalism 
 -had no such "mollycoddle" ideas. Only 
 by war could Capitalism perpetuate itself. 
 With the Presidential election only two 
 months off, and labor organized to a man, 
 it would never do to allow the popular cele- 
 bration of Labor Day, and so martial law 
 was declared, and every male citizen be- 
 tween the ages of eighteen and forty-five 
 was notified to report for enrollment at the 
 Town Hall. 
 
 This was the state of affairs in which 
 the Sands party found itself, when, on the 
 morning of September the first, 1916, the 
 Comet, cutting the air at full speed, de- 
 scended in a corkscrew spiral and alighted 
 in the street at Ashworth in front of the 
 Holiness Tavern.
 
 448 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 And now was to come the clash the final 
 test of strength. It was the few against 
 the many; bullet against brain; greed 
 against intelligence, and military power 
 against working class solidarity. 
 
 The Beast, Capitalism, was entrenched 
 behind the bristling breastworks of every 
 war device known to civilized barbarism. 
 
 Labor was standing erect on the field, 
 guided by truth and reason, and armed only 
 with the justice of its cause. 
 
 Capitalism commanded the army and 
 navy, but Labor commanded the gears and 
 levers ! 
 
 Capitalism possessed powder and lead, 
 Labor possessed the power to create and 
 supply bread. 
 
 The Beast could bawl orders from behind 
 parapets of stone and steel, but Labor could 
 lie down in its attic chamber or in the 
 shade of the green forests, while around 
 the bloody claws of the helpless Beast must 
 crawl the maggots of decay. 
 
 Capitalism had reckoned only its author- 
 ity; Labor reckoned its numbers. 
 
 Capitalism possessed the dry papers of 
 ownership; Labor possessed the creative 
 energy and muscular strength. Also, Labor 
 possessed a solid phalanx of unbroken 
 unionism and co-operative will. Added to 
 which, Labor had achieved the woman suf- 
 frage, and in every state in the Union, the 
 wives and mothers, sisters and sweethearts
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 449 
 
 of the progressive workers were now recog- 
 nized as human beings, and were allowed 
 to vote. 
 
 They never came to blows. One day of it 
 was enough for the Beast. Instantly fol- 
 lowing the AVar Department's martial edict, 
 was issued from the headquarters of the 
 Industrial Democrats, the order for the 
 General Strike! It was flashed to the sec- 
 retary of every branch in the United States 
 and the tie-up was complete. It lasted just 
 twenty-four hours, during which time not 
 a single soul who worked for wages lifted a 
 hand. The wireless system of the Socialists 
 was so complete, that when the order was 
 clicked off to stop work at sunset, Standard 
 time, it was caught up everywhere on the 
 instant. Even running trains and ships 
 along the coast received it; for ships and 
 trains like factories and mines, were oper- 
 ated by workingmen. 
 
 On the blistering desert two trains, pass- 
 ing each other, one a freight, the other a 
 lightning express, shut off steam, dumped 
 their fires, put on the breaks and came to 
 a stop, one beside the other on the double 
 tracks of the great Union Pacific. A Great 
 White Star liner, bound for Liverpool, 
 caught the message as she was getting 
 under way just outside New York Harbor. 
 In five minutes her fires were banked, the 
 wheel lashed, and her two huge anchors
 
 450 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 firmly hooked to the muddy bottom of the 
 Sound. 
 
 Other trains and other ships were like- 
 wise held up, wherever they happened to 
 be. Factories, mines, street railways and 
 light and water supplies suffered with the 
 rest, as did telephone and telegraph sys- 
 tems, butcher, bakers, dairies and the em- 
 ployers of house servants. Offices were 
 closed. Banks were closed. The Postal 
 system was tied up, and the War Depart- 
 ment was beside itself with fury. 
 
 A troop-train crossing a trestle, in some 
 mysterious way broke a coupling and was 
 left standing there, while the engine and 
 tender pulled on into the night. Then it 
 was learned that neither brakeman nor con- 
 ductor were to be found on board the stalled 
 train ! And what, under the circumstances, 
 was to be done? 
 
 And so it came to pass, that the Beast, 
 being unschooled in the art of feeding him- 
 self, waxed anhungered and sore athirst. 
 Peradventure he might find for the places 
 of his striking slaves, large quantities of 
 hungry scabs happy thought! So he be- 
 stirred himself and wandered forth into the 
 glooming, making cooing sounds in imita- 
 tion of the turtledove. Alas, his siren songs 
 fell unheeded upon the painted ears of a 
 wooden Indian ! There were no more scabs, 
 save for the ulcers of riotous living upon 
 its own scurvy back.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 451 
 
 Then the Beast became exceeding wroth! 
 Down the silent empty streets it tore 
 through the back yard of the Execution 
 Mansion, coatless and collarless, clad prin- 
 cipally in 300 pounds of negligee fat, a pair 
 of size 12 calfskins and a "God knows" 
 look of deep concern. 
 
 The Daily Liar held forth just around 
 the corner, and undeviating thither the 
 Beast hied himself; for was it not, for- 
 sooth, the mouthpiece of the Beast's Re- 
 gime? 
 
 At the elevator he jabbed a large and 
 juicy thumb eleven times against the white 
 bell button, then proceeded to climb twenty- 
 seven flights of narrow iron stairs, puffing 
 like the proverbial porpoise the while, and 
 exuding generously of that epidermiferous 
 moisture in which God is said to have ad- 
 monished Mr. Adam and Miss Eva to eat 
 their daily bread. 
 
 In the familiar region of the editorial 
 sanctum he paused for wind, mopped his 
 troubled brow, and made copious sounds 
 like the dollar sign; but the only response 
 that came echoing through the silent cor- 
 ridors was the lonesome cry of the hungry 
 office cat. 
 
 Back rushed the Beast to the White 
 (washed) House of Capitalism. But when 
 he found that robbers' roost vacant of serv- 
 ants he was ready to sue for peace.
 
 452 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 Labor had stood upon its feet; and Cap- 
 italism had fallen on its knees for mercy. 
 Labor, the giant, had spoken the word ; and 
 Capitalism, the pigmy, had bent the knee. 
 United Labor, the god, had struck at the 
 task ; and now it was going to strike at the 
 ballot box as it had struck at the task 
 united. There was no parading of the 
 streets ; no mob violence ; no speech-making 
 and no demands. Labor had simply gone 
 home, locked itself indoors and waited. 
 Labor had struck scientifically, and it had 
 won. It was its first and last real strike. 
 
 At Ashworth, the truth was learned of 
 the sad end of Leland Tannerhill back in 
 1910. The grief of Jason Sands was pitiful 
 indeed. Also, it was patent that he was 
 rapidly failing in strength. On the Satur- 
 day morning before Labor Day, he called 
 his son to his side and said: "Quim, there's 
 a voice that sounds familiar calling me at 
 the journey's end. I am well enough today, 
 come, let us go. I want to see the old man- 
 sion. I want to see the treer and the rocks 
 where she and I used to steal away among 
 the shadows in secret to tell the old for- 
 bidden story. And I want to stand once 
 more by her side, where there is peace and 
 rest, the peace and rest that is secure and 
 certain. Come. It is time to go." 
 
 It was a short eight miles for the Comet. 
 She alighted under the great maple in the 
 dooryard by the old well-house in front of
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 453 
 
 Raven Roost mansion. And Oh ! the Raven 
 Roost that it had come to be ! 
 
 Weeds and burdocks grew tall around 
 the saddle-back barn, whose doors had 
 blown down and whose timbers were sag- 
 ging to their fall. From a great beam di- 
 rectly over the middle of the floor still dan- 
 gled some of the rawhide thong, marking 
 the place where died alone the friend of all 
 living things, the great white-souled hermit. 
 Not by his own hand, as the corporation- 
 owned Aberrant had said, but as a result 
 of the slow poison administered at the 
 hands of the capitalist system, of which the 
 Aberrant was one virulent fang. 
 
 The chimney had split in the centre and 
 was ready to fall; and in tho old house 
 the rooms were bare. Everything had been 
 stripped away save a portrait of a feminine 
 beauty that still clung askew to the wall. 
 It was- the picture of Erma, taken on the 
 day when she was married in secret to 
 Jason Sands. Jason hobbled forward to 
 straighten it; but with the first touch tbe 
 rusty wire gave way, letting it fall into 
 his outstretched arms. Tenderly and wist- 
 fully he looked into the soft brown eyes, 
 until his hands trembled and his sight 
 blurred. Placing it, at length, on the dusty 
 mantel he edged through the door when the 
 others were not looking and slipped out un- 
 observed among the trees.
 
 454 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 There were evidences of an auction hav- 
 ing been held on the premises, when, in all 
 probability the antique furnishings had 
 been disposed of at high prices to the sum- 
 merers. 
 
 Ben Page was in the party, but he had 
 started 'out on an investigation excursion 
 all by himself and was not missed until he 
 called out sharply from the kitchen fire- 
 place: "I'll 'low that freezin' up in 'Lasky 
 and gettin' thawed out in St. Louis is goin' 
 some, and bein' eat up and disgorged b 1 
 wolves is goin' some more; but in the here- 
 after I ain't agoin' tue have no nuts work 
 luse over marikles. Bersides I hain't been 
 hit like this yere's ahittin' me sense Jase 
 left me an empty shack t' come home tue 
 on the Broken Bone." As he finished 
 speaking the man whose life Quimby Sands 
 had so miraculously given back to hin, laid 
 the packages sent from Alaska in which had 
 come the nugget of gold and Jason's love 
 letters, together with an old plush-covered 
 album in that young man's hands. It 
 seemed that Leland, thinking Jason dead 
 and wishing to leave behind as little belong- 
 ing to their sacred love as possible, had, on 
 the night he stepped over the threshold into 
 the dark depths of the Unknown, stuffed 
 the bundles into the brick oven, lighted 
 some damp paper and thrown it after them, 
 then closed the door without opening the 
 damper. Ben, whose curiosity was large
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 455 
 
 like the generosity of his heart, had pried 
 open the rusty oven door and drawn them 
 forth. The nugget of gold Leland had 
 forced upon Stanley Lark as a memento 
 of their friendship which had been so dear. 
 
 It was at this juncture that Jason was 
 missed, by all hands at the same time. The 
 last that anyone could remember of him 
 was that he had placed the picture of his 
 dead wife on the mantel. No one saw him 
 leave and the house was searched from cel- 
 lar to attic without avail. Into and under 
 the old barn next they scurried, looking in 
 every secret hole and corner, and then some 
 one thought of the well. But it took no sec- 
 ond look to ascertain that nothing could 
 have fallen down through the network of 
 cobwebs which completely screened its black 
 mouth. It was Ben Page who solved the 
 mystery. Ben was a woodsman and knew 
 all the tricks of the trailer. "This way," 
 he called from the edge of the maple grove, 
 "he's tuck tue the bresh and like's not's 
 over tother side of the mountain and half 
 way t' Canady by this time; fer them's his 
 crotch holes in them there leaves, or I'm a 
 yarler dog barkin' up the wrong tree at a. 
 quillpig 'stead of a coon." 
 
 Sure enough! the crutches had left an 
 easy trail. At a signal from young Sands 
 the Comet's crew took their places, and the 
 search began in real earnest from above, 
 while Ben held to the course below. The
 
 456 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 airship had scarcely cleared the tree tops 
 when her great lenses, focused on the old 
 burying ground, revealed the secret. Also 
 it reve'aled more than a secret it revealed 
 a horror a twentieth century capitalistic 
 horror ! 
 
 There was Jason Sands at the grave of 
 his lost wife, Erma, wildly leaping on his 
 one good leg among a belligerent groop of 
 silk-hatted gentlemen, who were striking 
 and kicking at him from all sides, his 
 crutches smashed with the first onslaught. 
 He had tried to slip away alone, that he 
 might lie down beside her quiet tomb and 
 give himself up to thoughts of her; but as 
 he became more and more submerged in 
 the familiar depths of the great maple for- 
 est, the old premonition of some impending 
 terror caught hold of him from every angle. 
 The winds whispered it; the trees shud- 
 dered with it ; every bough and leaf creaked 
 and sighed because of it, and it seemed that 
 her sweet youthful spirit flitted on before 
 him to warn him a last time of some awful 
 danger. 
 
 In the middle of the woods he stopped, 
 turned sharply about, glared searchingiy 
 among the heavy foliage then pressed hur- 
 ridly on over the old path to the little 
 churchyard. Emerging from the edge of 
 the timber, what his eyes fell upon his 
 brain, for the moment, was incapable of 
 comprehending. There where had peace-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 457 
 
 fully reposed for a hundred years the re- 
 spected mold of both pioneer and progen- 
 ator, ran the ugly scar of a raw railroad 
 cut, right through the middle of that an- 
 cient mortuary. A railroad through a 
 graveyard, and without first removing the 
 dead! It was beyond belief! But there it 
 was, not quite through, but close to the 
 western wall where the sacred dirt was 
 fresh dug. 
 
 He hurried on. The workmen had just 
 left for the day and: were now vanishing 
 homeward over the far side of the hill, for 
 it was Saturday, and Saturday was a half- 
 holiday for workingmen who build road 
 beds for their masters. 
 
 But there were other men fine gentle- 
 men in stylish clothes walking briskly 
 about, smoking costly cigars and jabbing 
 their gold-topped canes sportively into the 
 eyeless sockets of what once had been the 
 skulls of men. 
 
 As the horrified husband and father 
 swung himself rapidly nearer the awful 
 spectacle, a shambling hulk of a brute 
 climbed out over the ridge of dirt and bones 
 and paused to look back, like a sheep-killing 
 dog gloating, with satid lust, over his foul 
 work. It was the gang boss, and toward 
 him the huddle of prosperous-looking stock 
 speculators moved, leaving their chugging 
 automobiles behind; chattering, laughing 
 and gesticulating cheerily, they approached
 
 458 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 the clay-begrimed gang-boss and shook him 
 warmly by the hand, as if this brute of a 
 slave driver were some dearly beloved and 
 long-sought friend! 
 
 With the sweat streaming from every 
 pore, and winded from the excessive exer- 
 tion, Jason paused beside a shattered head- 
 stone, and placing the fragments together, 
 read : 
 
 EEMA 
 WIFE OF JASON SANDS. 
 
 MATED IN PERFECT LOVE 
 
 
 
 WEDDED IN SACRED 
 MATRIMONY. 
 
 
 MARTYRED 
 
 SHE CAME HERE TO REST 
 DEC. 25th, 1890. 
 
 He had entered unobserved save by the 
 chauffeurs, who eyed him cynically through 
 their dusty goggles. 
 
 Yes, that was her headstone, but where 
 was she? 
 
 There was the weeping willow and the 
 silver birch he had planted, one at her 
 head and the other at her feet, uprooted 
 and dead. 
 
 He gazed half dreamily about him, a 
 mist was before his eyes and his brain 
 burned and throbbed like the imprisoned 
 lava of a volcano, ready to burst forth and
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 459 
 
 consume the world. Erma's grave violated ! 
 The sanctuary of his dead wife desecrated! 
 The last resting place of the dead virgin 
 mother of his only son raped to garner 
 dividends on watered stocks for the bribe- 
 taking masters of men \viih votes! 
 
 There was no peace, not even in the 
 grave! 
 
 As he stared bewilderingly and half in- 
 sane with rage about him for the exact 
 location of what had been her last abode, 
 he did not hear the toot of an auto horn 
 honking a signal, nor did he notice the 
 gang boss, with bellicose mien bearing down 
 upon him with hasty stride. 
 
 His attention had been attracted by a 
 familiar glitter among the bones lying 
 about his feet, and frantically he strove to 
 control his outraged passion. Falling on 
 his knees beside a small, feminine-looking 
 skull, he was in the act of examining a 
 certain familiar gold-filled tooth in the 
 upper jaw, when the blaspheming gang-boSvS 
 swooped down upon him. 
 
 " 'Hell 'yer doin' there, youze old grey 
 stiff? Tryin' t' rob the dead? Get t' hell 
 along, or I'll put the boot t' yer," was his 
 introduction to the man of sorrows. At 
 the same time giving him a vicious push 
 which sent the Tmeeling cripple sprawling 
 on his back, and then he deliberately kicked 
 the fragile skull over the embankment into 
 the ditch!
 
 460 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 It was Jason Sands' last fight! Mortal 
 flesh and mind could not endure such as 
 this! He knew that bleaching skull to be 
 the relic of his one love; his only sweet- 
 heart; the wife who had so loved him that 
 she laid down her life for him, smiling hap- 
 pily that thus her great love for him might 
 find its full expression. 
 
 And then the fight began! 
 
 With the bowling over of the giant Jason, 
 up rushed the whole mob of parasites, eager 
 to be in with their canes or a kick in the 
 face now that the man was down. They 
 didn't know what it was all about, but they 
 did know that they owned that graveyard, 
 for were there not signs posted all around 
 it warning against tresspass? 
 
 Jason Sands, though grey, and an infirm 
 cripple, was up the instant he was down. 
 It was the first time in his life that any 
 man bad ever gotten the drop on him to 
 put him on his back. 
 
 With a loud clip his powerful jaws came 
 together, powdering the edges of his per- 
 fect teeth and swelling the great muscles of 
 his face and neck until they stood out like 
 bands of iron. 
 
 His eyes saw the jackals and the hyenas, 
 the vultures and the graveyard ghouls the 
 tools, the fangs of Capitalism rushing him 
 and snarling at him from all sides; but he 
 did not fear them. They were but straws 
 ill his hands, to fall before his might like
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 461 
 
 reeds in the path of the cyclone. Other 
 eyes there were which saw other sights 
 other visions the objects of other days. 
 They were the inverted eyes of his mental 
 processes looking back into the vistas of 
 the past, to see fond mothers weeping over 
 tiny mounds of fresh heaped earth. They 
 saw long processions of black-garbed 
 mourners following some loved one to this 
 self-same place of final rest. They re- 
 viewed again the double funeral of his 
 father and mother, the one fair of face and 
 hair, with slender white hands folded on 
 her maternal breast; the other huge, scar- 
 featured, and with a folded armless- sleeve 
 armless as it had come back from Gettys- 
 burg. And then they turned to her his 
 Erma! His lips moved, shaped her treas- 
 ured name piteously and hopelessly, like the 
 cry of one death-struck, alone and sinking 
 in mid-ocean. 
 
 But the wolves were upon him! 
 
 The gang boss was a big young thug, 
 husky and vicious with the viciousness that 
 comes naturally with the unnatural environ- 
 ment of his foul profession. He was no 
 mean antagonist. As Jason sprang erect, 
 the brute made a terrific pass at him, just 
 as the old man swung his crutches. There 
 was a crash, and a snap like a broken staff, 
 and the thick right arm of the burly bruiser 
 fell limp like a wet rope at his side. Also 
 the crutches were smashed, and with noth-
 
 462 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 ing to balance his great weight but his good 
 right leg, and with twelve men lashing out 
 at him from as many angles, two of them 
 college football champions, how long could 
 he last? 
 
 But it was Jason Sands to whom they 
 had carried the fight, and when the Comet 
 arrived on the scene it was Jason Sands 
 who was carrying the fight to them ! There 
 lay the gang boss, arm broken and jaw 
 smashed. Silk hats, canes and pale faces 
 mingled promiscuously like jack-straws 
 with flying fists and arms within a median 
 whirlwind of desperate conflict. 
 
 The old gladiator, rejuvenated with the 
 power of deadly desperation, fought his last 
 battle over the scattered remains of his 
 dead wife's ravaged bones. He was ter- 
 rible and warlike as he fought there for the 
 outraged honor of those he loved. He 
 looked the very reincarnation of Norsean 
 berserker primal and fearless and they 
 were falling before him like tenpins. The 
 Comet scraped her springs along the turf 
 among the white-stones, just as a giant stat- 
 ute with only one leg the last on the field 
 of strife left standing balanced at full 
 height, motionless and awful, his snowy 
 locks flying in the wind, pressed two broken 
 hands to a bloody forehead and fell like a 
 broken column upon the bone-cluttered clay ! 
 
 "Father! Father! O father, speak to me, 
 speak, speak! Don't you see it is I, Quimby,
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 463 
 
 your boy?" cried the frantic son, falling 
 on the ground and taking the blood-stained 
 head tenderly on his lap. 
 
 Everything possible was done for Jason 
 Sands; but he expired in his son's arms 
 where he had fallen. 
 
 With every art known to modern science 
 he was treated, but the life skein was un- 
 raveled and they could only partially revive 
 him. 
 
 It was a wonder that no other man was 
 killed. But there was work for the Hard- 
 hack Hospital when two automobiles pulled 
 up with every mother's son a subject for 
 treatment, including the two chauffeurs. 
 
 A pathetic and dramatic scene was 
 enacted, when Ben Page, breathless and 
 hatless, rushed madly among the fallen 
 combatants vainly seeking an adversary 
 with whom to match his strength and 
 prowess. 
 
 Holding true to the trail, Ben had seen 
 the last of the fight, but he had reached the 
 battleground too late. The fury of him 
 was unhuman! His grief was complete! 
 Wildly he sprang hither and thither, froth- 
 ing at the mouth like a mad dog, as some 
 one or another of the hostile vanquished 
 groaned or moved. His eyes were blood- 
 shot, and with fists doubled into veritable 
 mauls, he was a sight not good to look 
 upon. He beheld his old mate fallen, and 
 the sight fairly crazed him. As the dying
 
 464 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 sire of the young savior of his own life 
 opened his eyes and whispered something 
 hoarsely, at length, to his tearful son, Ben 
 saw in those eyes what he knew was the 
 death glaze, and in his throat he could hear 
 that unmistakable rattle. 
 
 As the end came, quietly, and the old 
 tower lay prone and still at last, Ben Page 
 fell on his knees beside him and pronounced 
 a solemn oath. He swore to devote the re- 
 mainder of his life to the great cause of 
 Socialism. Rough woodsman that he was, 
 and rougher still the speech of him, there 
 was eloquence and sincerity in that pledge, 
 nevertheless; and when he had finished, it 
 was a tearful crew that stood with heads 
 uncovered while Quimby Sands reverently 
 drew down the lids and closed his father's 
 eyes. 
 
 "Here on my bended knees 'mongst these 
 cold bones 'n front o' this yere dead but 
 onlicked hero," began the unlettered but 
 honest nomad, "I solemnly swear tue never 
 drink, smoke nor chaw, nor tue rest, nor 
 laff, nor cuss, nor stop fightin' until this 
 onhuman, ongodly, God-forbid and God- 
 damned system sich as robs children of 
 their playtime; robs homes of the purtiest 
 dear ones; robs them that has no thin' of 
 what they aughtter have, and that robs the 
 graves of 'em all, is wiped out forever! I 
 ain't much on prayer, nohow; and 'taint 
 my cut tue cringe 'n crawl, no more'n 'twar
 
 THE TORCH OP REASON. 465 
 
 his'n, and I ain't gettin' skittish 'bout the 
 hereafter; but I cal'late tue wind up this 
 yere by sayin': so help me, for I've hearn 
 o' sich lingo years ago and 'low it's the 
 proper gab. I'm braggin' some as how I 
 ain't no coward, Jase, and if you could 
 speak you could tell 'em n'o man ever heard 
 me squeal; but I'm agoin' tue swear this 
 yere oath in front o ' you and God, and if I 
 ever lay down on it I hope I may pan gravel 
 in the bum-holes o' Hell 'till the day of 
 kingdom come! Them low-down blacklegs 
 has claim- jumped this yere graveyard and 
 committed murder on as good a man as 
 ever fit wolves or sot on a throne up yender ; 
 and if Heaven is hanted by the likes o' 
 them there varmints, it's a part o' the same 
 shebang, and ain't no fit place for me 
 nohow. And now when I say it, I want tue 
 know if any o' this outfit's with me: So 
 lielp me God Amen!" 
 
 And each of the Comet's sad party re- 
 peated, "Amen!" 
 
 As the bereaved friend and now Comrade 
 finished, his frame shook with the quake 
 of deepest emotion. He arose, weak and 
 staggering. At last, he had seen it with 
 his own eyes. 
 
 Leland Taimerhill's dream of rest and 
 peace had vanished ; and his exhumed body 
 was lying under the roadbed down the ra- 
 vine where it had been dumped along with
 
 4G6 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 other ballast. It were cheaper, so, and 
 besides it would earn dividends ! 
 
 On Labor Day, there was a funeral and 
 an oration. The sad and terrible news had 
 been flashed throughout the nation, and a 
 multitude was there. Upon a granite pyre 
 in the centre of the park rested, in full 
 view of the vast throng, the cold remains 
 of Jason Sands. Thousands of the new 
 airships surrounded the park, and when 
 the funeral oration was begun by Quimby 
 Sands that evening, their powerful light 
 rays spread out over the woods and over 
 the lake, tinted, tuned, and with mordant 
 auroral lustre. 
 
 "This is the happiest, and the saddest 
 moment of my life!" Thus spake the young 
 giant oak, as he began the funeral oration 
 of his fallen sire before him. "It is the 
 saddest, because it marks the hour when I 
 shall- look for the last time upon my 
 father's face; and it is the happiest, for the 
 reason that it heralds the beginning of the 
 end the end of the reign of hell on earth. 
 
 "Look upon him, my father. He was a 
 man. His father was a man and his mother 
 was a woman. On the bountious bosom 
 of Mother Nature they had their habitation ; 
 and they came and went with the freedom 
 of the birds and of the wind. They planted 
 seeds ; and they ate the things that grew out 
 of the earth. Aggrarians were they, sniffing 
 the pure ozone with the first gray of dawn ;
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 467 
 
 and sleeping like mountains when the hour 
 was dark, they grew like trees, and like 
 trees they have fallen. 
 
 "Jason Sands has come and gone; and 
 because of his coming the world doth smile. 
 He came with the breath of the morning; 
 and he sleeps 'mid the perfume of the night, 
 He arose and stood on the mountain and 
 heard the soft whisper of love. Then he 
 obeyed the law. That law has been repealed ; 
 and to-day the dollar sign is ruling king 
 on a throne of dross. Love is still in chains. 
 
 "He loved his fellows, but his fellows 
 slew him. He lived for the love of life; 
 and he fought for the love that life gave 
 him. 
 
 "The scion of a long line of hardy pio- 
 neers, he was a giant and a born rebel. He 
 v.-as a rebel against injustice, ignorance, and 
 slavery in all their thousand-and-one hor- 
 rible forms. It was said of him, by the 
 eminent poet and philosopher, Walter 
 Hurt, that he was the 'reincarnated spirit 
 of the French Revolution.' Whereupon 
 he had replied: 'I have rebelled against 
 the criminal codes of Capitalism's polit- 
 ical, economic, educational, social and moral 
 systems, and the reeking hag, Society, has 
 frowned on me. I cut myself loose from 
 the bonds of her orthodox apron-strings, 
 and so I am an ' heretic!' I have dared 
 to speak my mind concerning the rights 
 of free-born citizenship; and for this
 
 468 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 the painted harlot of their Social Harem 
 seeks to have me ostracized. I am disin- 
 herited, starved and driven out from my 
 own door. I had the audacity to trace ths 
 printed page back over the bloody battle- 
 fields of their holocausts, called war, and to 
 delve into and uncover the putrid carnal- 
 fests of their alleged marital sanctity; and 
 I flung the dripping clout of their polluting 
 hypocrisies in their sniveling faces. Is it 
 any wonder, then, that I am an exile? Is 
 it not a wonder that I am permitted to 
 live?' 
 
 "But Jason Sands was born in the nine- 
 teenth century, when hypocracy of religious 
 faith gave respectability to social prostitu- 
 tion; when economic security consisted in 
 one's ability to stand firmly on the slender 
 neck of a weaker brother ; when the aristoc- 
 racy of moral well-being was achieved only 
 by those who could manage to climb nearest 
 the throne of lawful outlawry, whose sym- 
 bol was the lying legend, gripped in the 
 talons of a baldheaded bird of prey: 'In 
 God We Trust.' And which brigand tyr- 
 anny reigned supreme because its slaves 
 were too ignorant to perceive that they were 
 slaves ! 
 
 "From a phrenological reading given as 
 a demonstration before a class of 5,000 stu- 
 dents at a college of mental science at 
 Bryn Mohr, Washington, by Prof. Knox, 
 his chart read : Mental-motive ; aggressive-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 469 
 
 ness; perceptive faculties leading; mechan- 
 ics; art; poetry; literature; actor; public 
 speaker ; author ; organizer, teacher, etc. In 
 any and all of which he should have 
 achieved perfection and success ; but having 
 been born in the nineteenth century under 
 Capitalism, all these fine qualities and nat- 
 ural characteristics were so much merchan- 
 dise, he told Prof. Knox, and subject to the 
 fluctuations of market values. They were 
 assets only for commercial exploitation, and 
 negotiable only to usurers in time of great 
 feasting and waste called prosperity. Tal- 
 ent was bought and sold like harness leather 
 and votes; and genius was drowned out in 
 the sweat of poverty and toil. 
 
 "This nature man quarreled with a civil- 
 ization which scared the race through the 
 world with the Ghost of Starvation in life, 
 and the fear of damnation ever afterwards. 
 In a world of sunshine and plenty, he could 
 see no sane reason why ninety and nine 
 must perish miserably that one might live 
 idly. 
 
 "While speaking on the streets of St. 
 Louis he was set upon and clubbed by the 
 uniformed thugs called policemen of that 
 'hoty' city. In answer to a question before 
 the official Thug Judge next morning, he 
 said : 'I must speak out, I can look no longer 
 with complacency and high-browed uncon- 
 cern upon the garbage-heaps of human 
 wreckage strewn throughout the land. The
 
 470 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 scrap-piles of wornout working men, women 
 and children, too old or useless for profit- 
 able service and therefore no longer sale- 
 able, are thrown out on the industrial dump 
 to starve. It is a crying disgrace, and. a 
 shame to any nation prating of civilization. 
 These people with red blood in their veins 
 are a part of me and I am a part of them. 
 Their fight is my fight and my fight theirs ! ' 
 
 "For this fine display of obstreperous 
 assumption, he was fined for contempt of 
 court and sentenced to thirty days on the 
 chain gang. 
 
 "Yes, my father, Jason Sands, doing the 
 lockstep with criminals and inebriates for 
 having the audacity to raise his voice in 
 protest at the wrongs of his f ellowmen ! 
 
 "He was sensible to the injustice of a 
 civilization that failed to civilize. It was 
 the uncivil that ruled, seeking to make civil 
 and meek the outraged manhood that dared 
 rebel against such official tyranny. He was 
 quick to pick flaws in a society weighted 
 down with creeds and screeds which harped 
 of ' peace on earth and good will among 
 men,' while fattening off the blighted lives 
 of its poor. He was horrified at sight of 
 an aristrocracy of inherited stolen goods, 
 drinking the blood of unborn generations 
 from the Skull of Legalized Prostitution, 
 and cramming Truth and Progress back 
 into the teeth of Oblivion with the mailed 
 fist of its pandering executives.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 471 
 
 "It did not take Mm forty years to see 
 that there was something wrong when those 
 who did all the work owned nothing, and 
 others who did no work owned everything. 
 It was such a system that stepped between 
 him and love, and which broke and crushed 
 his home. It was this dog-in-the-manger 
 system which stood between him and life, 
 tying his willing hands and dogging him 
 over the earth like an alien and an out- 
 cast. And it was this system which robbed 
 me of my childhood and my birthright. 
 
 "It was this system bear with me when 
 I say system, for I would have you know 
 that it were not men, but the system 
 which pursued my mother to her grave to 
 despoil her terminant dust of its peaceful 
 rest. 
 
 "My father was not above his class. He 
 was of his class the class in whose sweat 
 and blood and tears this earth is steeped. 
 His was the arm of a Sampson; his brain 
 was a volcanic battery surcharged with the 
 voltage of the heavens; but his heart was 
 the heart of an Niobe. When danger men- 
 aced, be became a warrior and struck in 
 battle; but his heart bled before the grief- 
 struck visage of a weeping child. Out of 
 defeat he wrung victory ; and while cowards 
 whined their patrimonious supplications 
 and crawled belly down in the dust of obei- 
 sance, he stood erect and. defiant, hurling 
 condemnation and challenge into their cita-
 
 472 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 dels of predatory wealth and power. When 
 they fell upon him with overwhelming num- 
 bers to destroy him, he would arise from 
 their vengeance, crushed but undefeated; 
 and when two months hence the glad tidings 
 of a Socialist victory heralds the birth of 
 the Co-operative Commonwealth in Amer- 
 ica, the honor of that victory in no small 
 measure shall belong to such as he, who 
 dared to stand alone. 
 
 "Jason Sands early saw that there was 
 something wrong in a society divided 
 against itself and living in two houses. He 
 perceived that the two houses were built, 
 one upon the other and that all the heft 
 was at the top ! He shuddered at the sight, 
 for he knew that such a house could 
 not long endure. They who lived in the 
 upper house, spent their days in idleness 
 and debauchery ; while the multitudes gasp- 
 ing in filth and poverty at their feet, idling 
 never, possessed naught to call their own! 
 
 "Graded with many grades were these 
 two houses. On the lower strata groveling 
 rat-like among the sewers, was the grade 
 that laid the underpinning of the lesser 
 edifice with the layer just above boiling the 
 flesh from its bones in the vacuum-like 
 basements, washing the soiled linen of the 
 fine ladies at the top. They, the mudsills, 
 were satisfied to inhale all the germ-laden 
 pollution of the nasty odors of these use-
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 473 
 
 less swine for a shameful dab at a more 
 shameful chance existence of toil. 
 
 "Don't criticize me for my seeming pas- 
 sion, nor censor me that my manner of 
 speech is ungentle ; the wrongs of this rob- 
 ber society may not be whispered gently in 
 honied phrases, while nostrils clog with the 
 fumes of Hell. 
 
 " Many-strata 'd and many storied was 
 this bi-housed society. Each respective 
 strata and grade was crafted and segre- 
 gated, and all interwoven, intermingled, 
 intertangled and interdependent; but all 
 divided on the one vital issue life. More- 
 over, and O the pity of it! O the shame 
 of it ! O the crime of it ! The nether house, 
 the house of meanest slaves, passed all their 
 labor product up to the strata of the sub- 
 cellar slaves; and in turn the sub-cellar 
 slaves turned it all over to the cellar slaves, 
 with their own product added. Next the 
 cellar slaves lifted it, swollen by their own 
 creation, up to the grade above, and so on 
 all the way to the dizzy height where the 
 rich idlers squandered it wickedly on the 
 four winds of licentious extravagance. Of 
 course where the wealth was piled so high 
 at the feet of their masters, a few of the 
 meanest crumbs fell down. These the nether 
 stratas devoured greedily like scavengers, 
 blessing God for such crumbs, which they 
 lauded as 'Christian charity!'
 
 474 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 "This my father called the 'Bi-house of 
 Capitalism.' And Capitalism it was, and 
 still is, here in America. But its doom is 
 sealed! It is still raging and rending and 
 sating its barbaric lust upon the heart- 
 broken wrecks of its ruthless reign of ruin. 
 It is the system of profit-sharing among 
 those who do nothing profitable. It is the 
 system which takes from those who 'have 
 not, and give to those who have! It is the 
 process whereby those burdened with fat, 
 eat fat from the bones of the lean; and 
 those who sweat not, drink the sweat from 
 the faces of the weary and heavy laden. It 
 is the instrument with which the gods of 
 the universe are highwayed out of the world 
 they have created, for the privilege of cre- 
 ating more worlds out of which to be again 
 highwayed! It is a political, economic, in- 
 dustrial, commercial, military, social, and 
 damnable system of legalized illegality; 
 illegal legality; lawful outlaivry, and the 
 criminal quintessence of unspeakable crim- 
 inology!" 
 
 "IT IS A SYSTEM OF MASTERS AND 
 SLAVES!" 
 
 He paused to let it soak in. 
 
 "Masters and slaves! Masters and slaves! 
 A system of master and slave!" 
 
 His hearers mouthed the words, silently, 
 and awfully. It were not men, he showed 
 them, but the system that was at fault. 
 It was responsible for every human woe.
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 475 
 
 "There lies a victim of the system," he 
 resumed. "Behold its bloody handiwork! 
 At the age of but a boy he died an old 
 man! When Love gave birth to Jason 
 Sands, the flowers breathed their perfume 
 into his nostrils and the Muses smiled. 
 When he died, a lute was riven in the great 
 orchestra of the Cosmos. 
 
 He scorned to be a master; but he strove 
 to be a man. He builded wherein that 
 others might dwell; but the system gave 
 him 'not where to lay his head!' He was 
 the strongest man; but the system was 
 stronger than he. He strove to lift his fel- 
 lows up, the system struck him down ! His 
 heart beat not within his breast, but in the 
 abode of the poor ; and when his fists struck 
 out, the blow always fell hardest upon his 
 own heart. 
 
 "It is not I, speaking to you from this 
 eminence. The lips are mine today ; but the 
 voice you hear is the voice of my father. 
 Upon this granite pyre rests the silent re- 
 mains of a man. See the hoary head! 
 Marvel at the great statue! Think of the 
 unknown strength, now used up in the mills 
 of toil. He was forty-six years old when 
 the end came, and under a sane arrange- 
 ment of human society he would have lived 
 a hundred years. 
 
 "It is not Jason Sands who lies still upon 
 that stone! It is the Son of Toil! How
 
 476 THE TORCH OF REASON. 
 
 many are there among you who knew him ? 
 His name was Legion." 
 
 As the son ceased speaking and stepped 
 down from his father's side, the Comet shot 
 up her consuming pillar; the spectators 
 were warned back, and down came the elec- 
 tro-radium ray. It had been Jason's last 
 request as he lay in the throes of death on 
 his son's lap in the graveyard, that he be 
 cremated with the Ray. In the grave there 
 was no resit, and so his will was obeyed. 
 Stepping aboard the airship, the scientist 
 gave the signal! There was a flash, and 
 the body, vanished, and the stone vanished, 
 as his voice rang clear from above: 
 
 "My father, scion of the Brave, child 
 of the goddess of Nature, victim of a 
 thief regime, personification of Capitalism's 
 disinherited poor, thy toil and thy sor- 
 rows are no more. From gas thou art, and 
 unto gas I now return thee!" 
 
 As the Comet arose to go, she threw a 
 double picture on a black cloud with her 
 powerful projectoscope, a mile in circum- 
 ference. It was the picture of a handsome 
 young couple in ancient dress. The one 
 broad of shoulder and with the eye of one 
 who looks into the future ; the other slender 
 of form and fair of face. It could be seen 
 that they were sweethearts, and that she 
 loved him ; for her white fingers were toying 
 with his curly hair. It was the double pic-
 
 "And where the frog-pond chorus rose dreamily o'er the sweet- 
 scented woodland, as it had done for Erma and Jason 
 in the days of Auld lang syne, she said : 'Yes, 
 dear one,' when he whispered, 'Ray.' "
 
 THE TORCH OF REASON. 477 
 
 hire of Erma and Jason, taken on their 
 
 wedding day. 
 
 * # # # 
 
 A year came and went. The Presiden- 
 tial election of 1916 was a glorious event 
 of history. It was Labor Day once again. 
 From every flagstaff streamed a silken ban- 
 nerthe blood-red flag of Socialism. 
 
 Down the White House steps a tall, gaunt 
 figure came and joined in the mighty pa- 
 rade. There was a broad smile upon the 
 love-lit face, but his crown was high and 
 bald. They knew him. For their " 'Gene'' 
 was an old Comrade. 
 
 The picnic in the park had ended and 
 the throng was going home, when a beau- 
 tiful young woman with cornsilk blonde 
 hair, wound two small arms about a great 
 strong one, raised two moist blue eyes to 
 meet two darker hazel ones, and two forms 
 walked peacefully among the wild flowers 
 through the gathering twilight and into the 
 promising future. 
 
 As the shadows came gently falling with 
 the perfumed meadow mists, slender white 
 fingers stole fondly through thick auburn 
 curls; and where the frog-pond chorus 
 rose dreamily o'er the sweet-scented wood- 
 land as it had done for Erma and Jason 
 in the days of Auld lang syne, she said: 
 "Yes, dear one," when he whispered, 
 "Ray." 
 
 APOGEE.
 
 AGENTS WANTED 
 
 We want live men and 
 women, boys and girls, 
 to act as agents and 
 distributers of our pub- 
 lications. Earn a liberal 
 commission while work- 
 ing for the greatest 
 cause that ever ani- 
 mated the race. 
 
 The Socialist Army 
 never sleeps. Be a sol- 
 dier in the great social 
 revolution. Cash paid 
 for faithful hustlers. 
 
 May we count you an advance 
 agent of the great co-operative 
 commonwealth? 
 
 We have no time to lose, the 
 enemy is marching on ! 
 
 The Torch of Reason Publishers 
 
 3944 Spring Grove Avenue :: Cincinnati, Ohio
 
 Songs! Songs! Songs! 
 
 By the Author of The Torch of Reason 
 
 (Words and music, regular sheet music size) 
 
 "Too Old" 
 
 The song of the "age limit." Beautiful, but 
 tearfully sad. This is a true story in lyric and 
 melody. Written out of the life of one of cap- 
 italism's worn-out wage slaves. Price, 25c. 
 
 "When Your Hair is Like the Snow" 
 
 Also sentimental, beautiful, and a true story 
 told in tenderest terms and aimed at the 
 bloody hell called war. Price, 25c. 
 
 "Are They Going to Hang My Papa?" 
 
 This song was written while William D. Hay- 
 wood was languishing in the Idaho peniten- 
 tiary. It is one of the most inspiring and 
 soul-stirring pieces of music ever composed. 
 This revolutionary song played no mean part 
 in arousing public opinion in Haywood's 
 behalf. This piece of music is no longer for 
 sale, but one copy will be given away free with 
 every order for music as a souvenir of a great 
 working class victory for right against might. 
 
 The three above-named songs 
 words and music will be mailed 
 to one address, all for 
 
 The Torch of Reason Publishers 
 
 3944 Spring Grove Avenue, Cincinnati, Ohio
 
 iii i inn mil mil (III,,, 
 A 000105213