The Crimson Tide: A Novel

“Only one flag in this little old town!” yelled a citizen nursing a cut cheek with reddened handkerchief.

“G’wan, now!” grumbled a policeman, trying to look severe; “it’s all over; they’s nothing to see. Av ye got homes–”

“Yip! Where do we go from here?” demanded a marine.

“Home!” repeated the policeman; “–that’s the answer. G’wan, now, peaceable–lave these ladies pass!–”

Ilse and Palla, still walled in by a grinning, admiring soldiery, took advantage of the opening and fled, followed by cheers as far as Palla’s door.

“Good heavens, Ilse,” she exclaimed in fresh dismay, as she began to realise the rather violent rôles they both had played, “–is that your idea of education for the masses?”

A servant answered the bell and they entered the house. And presently, seated on the chaise-longue in Palla’s bedroom, Ilse Westgard alternately gazed upon her ruined white gloves and leaned against the cane back, weak with laughter.

“How funny! How degrading! But how funny!” she kept repeating. “That large and enraged Jew with the red flag!–the wretched little Christian shrimp you carried wriggling away by the collar! Oh, Palla! Palla! Never shall I forget the expression on your face–like a bored housewife, who, between thumb and forefinger, carries a dead mouse by the tail–”

“He was trying to kick you, my dear,” explained Palla, beginning to remove the hairpins from her hair.

Ilse touched her eyes with her handkerchief.

“They might have thrown bombs,” she said. “It’s all very well to laugh, darling, but sometimes such affairs are not funny.”

Palla, seated at her dresser, shook down a mass of thick, bright-brown hair, and picked up her comb.

“I am wondering,” she said, turning partly toward Ilse, “what Jim Shotwell would think of me.”

“Fighting on the street!”–her laughter rang out uncontrolled. And Palla, too, was laughing rather uncertainly, for, as her recollection of the affair became more vivid, her doubts concerning the entire procedure increased.

“Of course,” she said, “that red flag was outrageous, and you were quite right in destroying it. One could hardly buttonhole such a procession and try to educate it.”

Ilse said: “One can usually educate a wild animal, but never a rabid one. You’ll see, to-night.”

“Where are we going, dear?”

“We are going to a place just west of Seventh Avenue, called the Red Flag Club.”

“Is it a club?”

“No. The Reds hire it several times a week and try to fill it with people. There is the menace to this city and to the nation, Palla–for these cunning fomenters of disorder deluge the poorer quarters of the town with their literature. That’s where they get their audiences. And that is where are being born the seeds of murder and destruction.”

Palla, combing out her hair, gazed absently into the mirror.

“Why should not we do the same thing?” she asked.

“Form a club, rent a room, and talk to people?”

“Yes; why not?” asked Palla.

“That is exactly why I wish you to come with me to-night–to realise how we should combat these criminal and insane agents of all that is most terrible in Europe.

“And you are right, Palla; that is the way to fight them. That is the way to neutralise the poison they are spreading. That is the way to educate the masses to that sane socialism in which we both believe. It can be done by education. It can be done by matching them with club for club, meeting for meeting, speech for speech. And when, in some local instances, it can not be done that way, then, if there be disorder, force!”

“It can be done entirely by education,” said Palla. “But remember!–Marx gave the forces of disorder their slogan–‘Unite!’ Only a rigid organisation of sane civilisation can meet that menace.”

“You are very right, darling, and a club to combat the Bolsheviki already exists. Vanya and Marya already have joined; there are workmen and working women, college professors and college graduates among its members. Some, no doubt, will be among the audience at the Red Flag Club to-night.

“I shall join this club. I think you, also, will wish to enroll. It is called only ‘Number One.’ Other clubs are to be organised and numbered.

“And now you see that, in America, the fight against organised rascality and exploited insanity has really begun.”

Palla, her hair under discipline once more, donned a fresh but severe black gown. Ilse unpinned her hat, made a vigorous toilet, then lighted a cigarette and sauntered into the living room where the telephone was ringing persistently.

“Please answer,” said Palla, fastening her gown before the pier glass.

Presently Ilse called her: “It’s Mr. Shotwell, dear.”

Palla came into the room and picked up the receiver:

“Yes? Oh, good evening, Jim! Yes… Yes, I am going out with Ilse… Why, no, I had no engagement with you, Jim! I’m sorry, but I didn’t understand–No; I had no idea that you expected to see me–wait a moment, please!”–she put one hand over the transmitter, turned to Ilse with flushed cheeks and a shyly interrogative smile: “Shall I ask him to dine with us and go with us?”

“If you choose,” called Ilse, faintly amused.

Then Palla called him: “–Jim! Come to dinner at once. And wear your business clothes… What?.. Yes, your every day clothes… What?.. Why, because I ask you, Jim. Isn’t that a reason?.. Thank you… Yes, come immediately… Good-bye, de–”

She coloured crimson, hung up the receiver, and picked up the evening paper, not daring to glance at Ilse.

CHAPTER XI

When Shotwell arrived, dinner had already been announced, and Palla and Ilse Westgard were in the unfurnished drawing-room, the former on a step-ladder, the latter holding that collapsible machine with one hand and Palla’s ankle with the other.

Palla waved a tape-measure in airy salute: “I’m trying to find out how many yards it takes for my curtains,” she explained. But she climbed down and gave him her hand; and they went immediately into the dining-room.

“What’s all this nonsense about the Red Flag Club?” he inquired, when they were seated. “Do you and Ilse really propose going to that dirty anarchist joint?”

“How do you know it’s dirty?” demanded Palla, “–or do you mean it’s only morally dingy?”

Both she and Ilse appeared to be in unusually lively spirits, and they poked fun at him when he objected to their attending the meeting in question.

“Very well,” he said, “but there may be a free fight. There was a row on Fifth Avenue this evening, where some of those rats were parading with red flags.”

Palla laughed and cast a demure glance at Ilse.

“What is there to laugh at?” demanded Jim. “There was a small riot on Fifth Avenue! I met several men at the club who witnessed it.”

The sea-blue eyes of Ilse were full of mischief. He was aware of Palla’s subtle exhilaration, too.

“Why hunt for a free fight?” he asked.

“Why avoid one if it’s free?” retorted Ilse, gaily.