The Daily Worker Newspaper, April 30, 1927, Page 5

THe NEw MAGAZINE Section of The DAILY WORKER SATURDAY, APRIL 30, 1927. Cogitation In a Cell | ACK FINNEGAN sat in his cell with his two fists under his chin, looking, without realizing what he was looking at, into the dirty bowl of the cell lava- tory. Jack was arrested that morning as he was get- ting his weekly paper ready for “bed” and he was taken to this jail, charged with inciting people to overthrow the government. There are certain times in peoples’ lives that they think deeply and furiously. Just like taking stock. When a man gets married, or at least immediately afterwards. That is one of them. When a man loses a job, That is another. When a man is recovering from a debauch. That is a third. But, it is seldom that anything changes one’s mode of living, except death. For just as sgon as his wife deserts him, he looks for another. And when 2 man gets another job or is offered another drink he forgets all about the past; in fact he looks back over his life journey and fools himself into believing that the past was a sweet piltrimmage thru Elysium. As Jack Finnegan looked at the bowl, he put him- self thru a third degree. He heard topers, after a hard week’s drinking call it: “whipping the cat.” He was not sorry for what happened to him, but he thot he was justified in asking himself if it was worth while. That morning a fellow with a face like a piece of steak walked into the editorial room and ‘asked for Jack Finnegan. When Jack admitted his iden- tity the beef-faced person announced that he was Sergeant Thaddeus O’Hara of the Bomb Squad and that the department of labor was under the impres- sion that Finnegan was born in Ireland and did not know enough to get on the police force or at least be a ward captain in some reliable democratic or- ganization. O’Hara was accompanied by a federal dick named Adamowsky, who remained discreetly in the back-. ground. Finnegan put on his hat and coat and ac- companied his chaperons to the jail. It was known as the filthiest dive this side of Warsaw. On the way to the jail, O'Hara remarked that it was remark- able how an Irishman should take to ways that were more risky than remunerative. “Tf you were back in Ireland,” he said, “it would be different. But here, a wise guy can make a liv- ing. I know that Communism is alright in -Russia, but we won’t have it here for another hundred years. I ama radical myself but I am not a sap and I'll get mine while I am here.” Then he whispered in Finnegan’s ear and said: “Christ, you are one of our own and I didn’t want to let this kike pinch you. You know. It isn’t so bad when one of your own does it.” Finnegan couldn’t see a lot of difference between getting carted to the can by a Jew or by an Irish- man, but he was. somewhat intrigued by the con- versation, so he let O’Hara ramble along. “You know, I was Bill Haywood’s secretary for awhile,” continued the sergeant: “Say, Bill is a good scout. But hell, I was smoking cigars on ten bucks a week and those wobs couldn’t see how I did it. But honest to Christ I was no fink. I was working for the department.” Finnegan kept on wondering what could a fink be except a stool-pigeon. But O’Hara was quite sure that he was no stool-pigeon. You see, he was get- ting paid by the government for doing his stuff. He was not a member of the 1. W. W. before he began his finking. “TI appreciate your point of view,” continued O’Hara, “but I am studying for the bar and pretty soon I'll quit this job. If I were in Europe I’d be a Communist but here I am a damn good democrat, A.fellow who doesn’t look out for himself is nutty. The workinclass don’t care what happens to you. See how they treated Debs.” Finnegan made some scientific observations on evolution and he pointed out to O’Hara that Czar Nicholas of Russia was quite sure that things would continue as they were, when the big splash sent him under, but O’Hara brushed the observations aside contemptuously, “Say, you talk like a ten year old. Do you think ‘anybedy in the city or federal governments thinks the wobblies are any worse than the A. F. of L. Hell, no. The wobs talk about sabotage—that’s all, The A. F. of L, don’t talk about it.” © O’Hara curled a wicked lip and he turned his eyes as if trying to expose a bit of foreign matter that was irritating him. “I know that Big Jack Mulcahy is finking it and so is Frank Schneider, I'd like to get those bh——” By this time the jail was reached. “He is not a bad sort. Treat him good,” said O’Hara to the desk sergeant in the detective bureau whose name was Denny Gallagher. “From Ireland,” said Denny to Finnegan. “What are you here for? Propaganda?” “Yes,” replied Finnegan. Gallagher did not feel any more excited than if Finnegan admitted he had committed patricide. “Sit down here for awhile.” said Gallacher, “per- haps your bondsmen will be around soon, and I won’t have to put you in the can. I have some good Irish records here that I would like you to hear.” Gallagher and Finnegan smoked and talked about everything that two normal Irishmen might be in- terested in. Occasionally a prisoner was brought in and it was Gallagher’s duty to search them, book them and jug them. Negroes, he searched for cut- lery. - “Now my young hero,” he would say to a Negro, with a captivating smile, “would there be any chance of you having a little bit of a razor stowed away in your glad rags?” And Gallagher would clownishly tickle the prisoner’s ribs and explore every part of his anatomy except where a razor might be, much to the amusement of the prisoner. Gallagher was an artist. Gallagher was going off duty at five o’clock and Finnegan’s bondsmen hadn’t shown up, so Gallagher reluctantly showed him to his cell assuring him that the night sergeant was no worse than he was. This is where we find Finnegan looking with unseeing eyes at the cell pot and brooding over his past life. Supposing he was a normal person, that is, one who cared only for getting on in the world, what .would he be now? Merely a common slave, per- haps a stevedore on a dock, head of a department store, a lawyer or even a big politician, right bower of a mayor. But he was not a normal person and here he was in jail. Now, what is a normal person? What, what, what is anything? He began to think of the things he could be and the more he thought of them, the gladder he was that he was in jail. He remembered the day he went looking for a job in Isaac and Cohn’s department store. Finnegan always wanted to be a newspaperman, but his fath- er’s old friend Fergus McFuddle, a well-known den- tist, dissuaded him from that field. “As an old friend of your father’s I want to give you good advice,” said McFuddle. “Get into some- thing with a future. There is nothing for you in the newspaper game except a red nose. And you can cultivate that anywhere. Now, I'll give you a letter to Johnny Fitzpatrick who runs Isaac and Cohn’s department store and he’ll give you a job. You may not get much for a start and you will have to work long hours but in nine or ten years you'll get somewhere,” ; This Magazine Section Appears Every Saturday in The DAILY WORKER. _ must be ALEX BITTELMAN, Editor By T. J. OFLAHERTY PROFITS Herbert Hoover in His Feverite Act, “Prefits.” Perhaps if Finnegan had not met Jack Lacey before he went to see Fitzpatrick, he might not be where he was today. But when he told Jack that he was going to look for a job in Isaac and Cohn’s, Lacey was glad. Because Lacey was one of those fellows who did not like to see his friends “work.” They “in business.” Lacey was employed as chief clerk by a steamship company and he liked to talk of “my business.” He was something of a radical and hated the catholic church. But it seems that most people have a weak spot. “Break into his office like a cyclone,” Lacey ad- vised Finnegan “and tell him you want a job, and if he turns you down, stand there and tell him that you came to get a job and you are going to have it. This is not Ireland or England where you have to wear knee pads when asking for a position. This country is democratic, with all its faults, and a boss likes audacity. Don’t take off your hat. Just walk in as if you owned the place and you'll get the job alright.” Finnegan could do this kind of a thing without any apparent effort as he had no more manners than a wild boar. He was waiting in Isaac and Cohn’s early the fol- lowing morning. Fitzpatrick did not show up until about 9 A. M. Finnegan was told that the boss was a stocky, dark haired fellow with curly hair. A man answering to this description walked into an office with “privaéo” marked on the door. Finnegan waited long*enough to give Fitzpatrick time enough to take off his hat. Then he walked right in without knocking. Either Lacey was giving Finnegan a bum steer or Fitzpatrick was not a typical American. The boss was looking over his mail when Finn- egan walked in and without taking off his hat or showing any other indication that he was in the presence of his superior, blurted out: ‘ ‘ “Are you Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Had Fitzpatrick been a Chicago bootlegger his hand would have gone to his hip. As it was he turned sharply in his swivel chair and glared at the interloper. “What do you want?” he barked. “A job,” replied Finnegan. “What kind of a job?” “T don’t know.” “Suffering catfish” snorted Fitzpatrick, “what the devil made you walk in here without removing your hat? Who are you? Get the hell outa here.” Finnegan stood there like a king’s guard in front of Buckingham Palace. He proudly brandished the introductory letter he received from Dr. McFuddle and presented it to Fitzpatrick. The latter read the letter and frowned. “What the hell does MeFuddle mean?” he mut- tered “by sending me a fellow that doesn’t know enough to take off his hat when asking for a job.” (Continued on Page 2)