The Daily Worker Newspaper, August 14, 1926, Page 9

co ‘had just murdered a man. ATROLMAN William Quirk threw the empty box of cigarets out of an open window, the last of which he withdrew, tapped several times on the wrist of his left hand and placed be- tween his lips. He then extracted a match from his coat pocket which he ignited by stroking his thumb nail over the tip, This completed, he re- clineds leisurely in his wooden seat, crossed his legs and puffed heavily at his” cigaret, inhaling mouthfuls of smoke which -he transmitted thru his nostrils, Whitey, as patrolman Quirk was more popularly known among his fel- low policemen, sat in the waiting room of the West 30th Street police station, musing intently over a cy- clonic event that had just blown thru his life. After a final puff at his di- minishing cigaret, which he threw away, he arose from his bench and walked towards the window. It was the first of May and a bright cool wind pregnant with the first approach of summer breezed gently through the atmosphere. He leaned against the high sill peering blankly into the street. Outside children were playing ball. At other times, Whitey would find an interest in watching the young- sters romp. Not so today. A sullen restlessness which he couldn’t explain hovered consistently about his being. He returned to his bench and con- tinued thinking, puzzled over the com- plexing ambiguities of life. It was a beautiful spring day and he Fresh from a cold blooded killing was he. The gun in his pocket was still pow- der marked from the use it just under- went. He almost could feel the warm blood of his victim oozing thru his thoughts. Barely two hours had elapsed since his steel-jacketed bul- lets sent “Jew” Brady traveling along the road to the dead. Whitey was strolling ‘leisurely along a quiet avenue on his way to the station house; his lean face fur- rowed by lines of uneasiness and his brass buttons shining conspicuously in their blue setting. A multitude of thoughts born out of an argument he had with his wife that morning kept running rapidly thru his head, “Damn that woman of mine” he kept cussing. “She must think I’m playing valet to a bunch gf butter and egg men, the way she keeps nagging me for money.” His face clouded, for he understood vaguely that the complaint . of his woman was a just one. He had his insurance to pay, and the children needed clothes, Soon he would have to get a new uniform for himself, and the wife hadn’t bought anything for herself in an age. His narrow eyes gleamed angrily behind the black leather peak of his cap. He heaved a deep breath and continued walking, stepping in long even strides, “It'll be pay day soon,” he argued, * “that'll straighten things out, I guess.” But he knew that “pay day” wouldn't solve his difficulties. He had been ac- customed to pay days for four years and could never catch up with condi- tions. “The hell with it all!” he grunted under his breath. “It’s my afternoon off today, and I’m goin’ to the ball game, I hope Babe Ruth hits another homer. He’s sure bangin’ ’em out heavy this year. THUS debating silently the incongru- ities of life, he turned a corner, when a man, a poor distorted creature, hatless with his hair disheveled ran out of a jewelry store followed by cries of “Police!” “Robber!” A re volver was clutched tightly in his hand which he brandished threaten- ingly. Whitey forgetting everything, stepped behind the shadow of a cor- ner drug store, He drew his own black automatic, and as his command or I'll shoot” was ignored, that | anyhow?” THE PATROLMAN A Story scene from his memory. Not that Whitey gave a continental for a hu- man life. He became used to plenty of that over in France. But some- thing in the manner “Jew” Brady died irritated him, He couldn’t forget the fumbling of his lips, that. feeble attempt to smile after a bullet has pierced his throat, and the peculiar way his eyes bulged out, when another bullet entered his stomach. Then the way he finally straightened up, reeled around and toppled into tha gutter. For a few seconds his body heaved, and then for the last time he straightened out. Rigid as a log he lay there, his head resting in a pool of blood. What a spectacle for Maximus! The spectra of' a man cheated out of life remained stamped indelibly in his mind, he couldn’t erase it. There was something uncanny about killing a man that Whitey never took cogniz- ance of. Besides it was spring. The season when all life begins to animate anew, and a strong incentive to live began to gnaw at his vitals. “Jesus Christ,” he soliloquized, “I’m gettin’ to be like an old woman— moonin’ over a lausy killin’—and a dirty slob at that. Why that bum’ll make rotten meat for the worms,” At this he forced a slight chuckle, arose again and walked over to a table where a fellow policeman sat and be- gan playing a game of dominoes, Whitey was slim and tall, almost gawky in appearance, His bony frame apeared much fuller covered in his blue uniform. He was a former prize- fighter, who a few years ago was con- sidered a runner up for the middle- weight championship. His narrow head was adorned by a crop of blond hair. His nose, aften a target at which many opponents in the ring aimed their blows, was flat and broken at the bridge. Thin lips, cauliflower ears and a jaw battered out of shape by re- peated hammering, bore evidence of his former profession, E was toying with the white dotted oblongs when a beckoning nod from the police captain abruptly term- inated the game. He rose quickly to his feet and buttoned his jacket. After receiving his orders for the day he picked up his cap on the long table, and hurried out of a side door follow- ed by a dozen other blue-coated guard- ians of the law. There was a strike of fur workers going on, and in the district thousands of strikers were gathering to picket the buildings in which they formerly worked, It was the sixteenth week of ‘the strike, and today on the first of May they were gathering “en masse” on their great holiday bent upon celebrating it by making an im- pressive demonstration of solidarity upon the unyielding manufacturers. Since dawn they kept coming; hordes of them. From all directions a steady stream of workers kept flowing into the streets, Along the narrow sidewalks, the strikers. divided into many groups, walked slowly up and down the crowded streets. Im uneven proces- sion they marched, heads up and feet moving in listless ehuffling. Men: old ones, their faceg hidden in beards; other faces not yet old, some grim- aced by want, and dressed in misfit- ting clothes, rubbed elbows with irri- descently clothed women, whose legs moved adroitly about in grotesquely colored stockings. They moved, all of them! Bright red flowers were prom- inently displayed im the lapels of their coats. The faces of the strikers were stamped by an enigmatic aversion aimed at the greedy bosses who were determined not to yield to their de- mands, At each corner police with clubs clutched in their hands, invaded the picket lines; the ranks of the march- ers would receed in confusion at the compact of flying clubs, only to form again and continue fighting in their campaign for more leisure, Whitey stood in the shadow of a tall building, eying the surging crowds with a perplexed which seemed to ask, the are they up to vista of bobbing faces swept by him like an apparition mov- ing in a dream, Lost in the moving crowd were two men engaged in conversation. One, a tall skinny one, clad in a light tan top coat—the other, a short under- sized man, dressed in a worn snit of blue serge. A mass of black hair protruded from under a grey felt hat which had long since lost.all preten- sions to shape. A newspaper, uneven- ly folded, rested under his right arm. From beneath his horn rimmed spec- tacles a pair of eyes which he blinked continually, kept peering intently into the faces of the passing crowds. He kept pointing hig forefinger at the “moving people and suddenly clutching his companion by the arm, spoke with an ominous drawl. His lips, pregnant with words, slowly parted. His friend, who had just lit a half- smoked cigaret, raised ‘his eyelids and listened. “When I see the masses moving, I feel that the day of deliver- ance is coming. No longer will the heels of the bourgeoisie be felt upon us.” Here he lifted his right arm and waved in a contemptous gesture. “See those masses, man, they’re moving! Just look at ’em, The day is coming I tell you.” IS companion did not take the pains to answer, He merely gazed blankly into the eyes of his comrade, and nodded his head. His lips he pursed into a sardonic imitation of a smile, and continued puffing at the bit of cigaret dangling between his lips. Here they shook hands and parted, walking away in opposite directions. Soon both were enveloped by the swarm of humanity. The marching continued growing more intense as the hours rolled on. On Sixth avenue, traffic came to an abrupt halt following an approaching patrol wagon whose bell clanged nois- ily unmolested passage. _Everywhere these “black marias” were carrying away groups of arrested strikers. Excitement ‘was running high. Here and there the word “scab” was heard, as some zealous striker identi- fied a strikebreaker. This would act as a signal for a rush of angry strik- ers, all intent upon taking a look at the traitor to their cause, Wherever the mass of strikers be- came too dense, police, mounted on shining brown horses, would charge their steeds point blank into the crowd. Down the street, a squat fig- ure bouncing in his leather saddle, tugged deliberately at the reins of his mount, which thus led, lifted his fore- hoofs and leaped into the retreating mob, felling one of the strikers unable to escape. Before the horse had time to tram- ple over the fallen one, he arose and limped hurriedly away. “Get out of here!” came the gruff voice of the po- liceman. He rode slowly away, fol- lowed by angry voices of “Murderer!” “Robber of children!” Undaunted, the strikers would dis- Perse in confusion, only to form again and continue their picketing. Up and down they would tread upon the hard Pavement. Crowding, pushing each other, but always moving. The shnf- fling of their feet echoed in the dis- tance like the stifled beating of a drum, On both sides of the street windows in the tall factory buildings would open, heads pop out, eye the crowds below wit ha blank curiosity, and pop in again, It was near noon time, when from out of the crowds, a man, stunted in growth, stopped abruptly and raising both hands above his head cried lust- ily, “To the halls, comrades, march to the halls?” The cry was soon taken up by the rest of the strikers. “To the halls, march to the halls, com- rades!” rang down the streets. It was the same person who a while ago held the conversation. Instantly the surging groups of strikers fell into a long uneven line. A multitude of moving legs and swing- ing arms came together. Stray groups of Dicketers were welded into one solid column of huimanily, From all corners théy gathered, their faces ~ ” By Alex Jackinson marked with an elastic elation which stretched out into a keen joy, for this had been a most impressive exhibition of solidarity and they were happy. Standing nearby, Whitey observed the rapidly forming masg with the blank expression on his face changing to a giant perplexity. A dry saliva of a malicious hate was gathéring in the membrane of his mouth. This was not his crowd; “mockies” he called them. Their frenzied talk brought back to his ears the complaint of his woman. He spat angrily on the sidewalk. “Money! that’s what these guys are after, damn ’em! They ain’t satisfied with what they’ve got. A pack of goddamned bolsheviks wantin’ to run this country. “Look at 'em” he continued grumb- lin. “They're goin’ to demonstrate, and they’re only supposed to picket. I'll fix ‘em!” Strings of a deep root- ed aversion had suddenly burst in his throat. An image of a spiteful lust reflected savagely in his thoughts and without further ado, he tapped his night stick several times upon the hard asphalt, to the echo of which police from all sides responded. ““They’re goin’ to march,” he muttered. to his friends, his finger pointed at the ap- proaching crowds. “Come on boys, let’s break it up.” The police, eight of them in num- ber, all of them stalwart broad-shoul- dered men with reddened faces and jaws grimly set stood shoulder to shoulder, their clubs in their hands primed for action. One of them cried, “Get the leaders!” _ the strikers advanced, Whitey yelled, “God help ’em!” and with this the octet charged madly into the crowd—their clubs began beating a rythmless tattoo over the heads of the foremost strikers. The streets grew suddenly long and empty as the winding columns of strikers unwoynd themselves into a papicstrickensmob. Men and women broke ranks and screamed. Their multitude of shrill cries was dimmed by the shuffling of retreating feet. Terror stricken, they retreated at the onslaught, running in all directions, as so many frightened mice scattering before a hungry cat. A score of the strikers, unable to escape, some bruised and bleeding, were corralled into a group and placed under arrest, Cold drops of sweat were trickling from under Whitey’s cap. His blond face now reddened, was animated by a curious smile. He felt strangely at peace, for a long latent restlessness was finding an outlet in a paroxysm of fury. The complaint of his woman faded from his thoughts as a dream upon arising. He withdrew a hand- kerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his throat. Standing in the group of arrested, was a hatless, undersized man, His abundant black hair wildly dishevel- led. Blood was streaming from a painful bruise on his forehead which he did not feel. One of his sleeves Was almost torn out of his jacket. He stood there motionless, only a slight quivering of his legs disturbed what was almost a living corpse. A multi- tude of reflections kept running madly thru his head which focused his thots apon an obscure vision of “That Day.” He raised hig eyelids, his glance falling upon his hat lying in the gutter. He stepped over to pick it up, when Whitey, mistaking his ef- forts for an attempt to escape, reached his arm out and clubbed him over the head with the butt of a re- volver clutched tightly in his grasp. The knees of the one struck sagged unevenly under the weight of his body. ‘Ere he had time to fall, another blow and then another following in rapid succession sent him reeling around. Groggily he sank to the sidewalk. Whitey stooped down and gripping him by the nape of his neck, pulled him to his feet. Slowly the fallen one regained consciousness, his head swimming in a sea of thoughts. Un- consciously he muttered, “My hat, my hat.” “Never mind your hat,” growled back Whitey. “Get over there you big bum or I'll pat a bulict th¥a yeu.” i i i ae 2. | ‘