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Updated: October 7, 2025
The Interpreter received this warning from Jake Vodell exactly as he had listened to Bobby Whaley's boyish talk about blowing up the castle of Adam Ward on the hill. Rising abruptly, the agitator, without so much as a by-your-leave, went into the house where he proceeded to examine the books and periodicals on the table.
And then those crazy fools went tearing off to hunt Jake Vodell." He chuckled and laughed. "What difference does it make who killed Charlie Martin? I own the patented process. I am the man they want. But they can't touch me. I hired the best lawyers in the country and I've got it sewed up tight. I put one over on Pete Martin in that deal and I've put one over on God, too.
Jake Vodell, the self-appointed savior of the laboring people, depended upon the suffering of women and children to drive his followers to the desperate measures that would further his peculiar and personal interests.
Vodell would provoke an attack on the soldiers, some one would be killed, and we would have exactly the sort of war against the government that he and his brotherhood are working for." The old workman spoke. "Charlie is right, daughter; these troubles will never be settled by McIver's way nor Vodell's way.
What have you at stake? Where is your home and family? What is your nationality? What is your record of useful industry? Before you talk about giving a last chance to workmen like my father you will need to produce the credentials of your authority. We have your number, Jake Vodell. You may as well go back to the land where you belong, if you belong anywhere on earth.
You say that you built the Mill because you thought and planned and directed its building. Jake Vodell says the men whose physical strength materialized your thoughts, the men who carried out your plans and toiled under your direction built the Mill. And you and Jake are both right to exactly the same degree. The truth is that you have all together built the Mill.
High on their shoulders they carried the Interpreter. In a silence, deep as the stillness of death, they bore him through those close-packed walls of humanity, straight to the big doors of the Mill. With their backs against the building they held him high face to face with Jake Vodell and the mob that the agitator was swaying to his will.
In that wretched home in the Flats, little Maggie Whaley smiled in her sleep as she dreamed of her princess lady. The armed guards at their stations around McIver's dark and silent factory kept their watch. The Mill, under the cloud of smoke, sang the deep-voiced song of its industry as the night shift carried on. In the room back of the pool hall, Jake Vodell whispered with two of his disciples.
Jake Vodell scowled as he gazed at the man in the wheel chair with quick suspicion. "Governed?" "Yes," returned the Interpreter. "Without organization of some sort nothing can be done. No industries can be carried on without the concerted effort which is organization. Without the industry that is necessary to human life the free people you picture cannot exist.
"The boy's all right." "John's a good man." A workman with a weak face and shifty eyes paused in passing to say, "You'll find out how different the boy is onct he's put to the test. He's the same breed, an' it's just like Jake Vodell said last night, there ain't one of the greedy capitalist class that wouldn't nail a laboring man to the cross of their damnable system of slavery if they dast."
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