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At this point in the tirade, my old friend the ex-centre-rush, who was standing in the wings with me, turned and whispered: "For God's sake, Billy, what kind of a Goddamn Bolshevik stunt is this, anyhow?" I answered: "Hush, you dub! He's quoting from the Bible!" President Brown of the Western City Labor Council arose to perform his next duty as chairman.
"Well, I didn't know it myself, but I seem to be; and besides, he told me to follow him." I went upstairs, and found the stranger waiting in the room where I had left him. I put myself on one side of him, and the ex-centre-rush on the other, with Everett respectfully bringing up the rear, and so we walked to Grant Hall.
It was so clear and so beautiful that I whispered to Old Joe: "Do you see that halo?" "Go on, Billy!" said the ex-centre-rush. "You're getting nutty!" "But it's plain as day, man!" I felt some one touch my arm, and saw the little lady of the anti-vivisection tracts peering past me. "Do you see his aura?" she whispered, excitedly. "Is that what it is?" "Yes. It's purple. That denotes spirituality."
"By the way," said the ex-centre-rush, "before he got through, I saw that aura, or whatever you call it. I guess I'm getting nutty, too!" The first thing I did on Sunday morning was to pick up the "Western City Times," to see what it had done to Carpenter.
The ex-centre-rush walked for a bit before he answered. "You know, Billy boy," said he, "we do lead rotten useless lives." "Good Lord!" I thought; it was the first sign of a soul I had ever noted in Old Joe! "Why," I argued, "you sell paper, and that's useful, isn't it?" "I don't know whether it is or not. Look at what's printed on it mostly advertisements and bunk." And again we walked for a bit.
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