Chapter XXXIX

CHAPTER XXXIX

Over the coffee, in his little room, Martin read next morning's
paper. It was a novel experience to find himself head-lined, on
the first page at that; and he was surprised to learn that he was
the most notorious leader of the Oakland socialists. He ran over
the violent speech the cub reporter had constructed for him, and,
though at first he was angered by the fabrication, in the end he
tossed the paper aside with a laugh.

"Either the man was drunk or criminally malicious," he said that
afternoon, from his perch on the bed, when Brissenden had arrived
and dropped limply into the one chair.

"But what do you care?" Brissenden asked. "Surely you don't desire
the approval of the bourgeois swine that read the newspapers?"

Martin thought for a while, then said:-

"No, I really don't care for their approval, not a whit. On the
other hand, it's very likely to make my relations with Ruth's
family a trifle awkward. Her father always contended I was a
socialist, and this miserable stuff will clinch his belief. Not
that I care for his opinion - but what's the odds? I want to read
you what I've been doing to-day. It's 'Overdue,' of course, and
I'm just about halfway through."

He was reading aloud when Maria thrust open the door and ushered in
a young man in a natty suit who glanced briskly about him, noting
the oil-burner and the kitchen in the corner before his gaze
wandered on to Martin.

"Sit down," Brissenden said.

Martin made room for the young man on the bed and waited for him to
broach his business.

"I heard you speak last night, Mr. Eden, and I've come to interview
you," he began.

Brissenden burst out in a hearty laugh.

"A brother socialist?" the reporter asked, with a quick glance at
Brissenden that appraised the color-value of that cadaverous and
dying man.

"And he wrote that report," Martin said softly. "Why, he is only a
boy!"

"Why don't you poke him?" Brissenden asked. "I'd give a thousand
dollars to have my lungs back for five minutes."

The cub reporter was a trifle perplexed by this talking over him
and around him and at him. But he had been commended for his
brilliant description of the socialist meeting and had further been
detailed to get a personal interview with Martin Eden, the leader
of the organized menace to society.

"You do not object to having your picture taken, Mr. Eden?" he
said. "I've a staff photographer outside, you see, and he says it
will be better to take you right away before the sun gets lower.
Then we can have the interview afterward."

"A photographer," Brissenden said meditatively. "Poke him, Martin!
Poke him!"

"I guess I'm getting