One day a stranger came to the theater to see Lem. He addressed our hero as Commander Pitkin and said that he was Storm Trooper Zachary Coates.
Lem made him welcome and asked eagerly for news of Mr. Whipple. He was told that that very night Shagpoke would be in the city. Mr. Coates then went on to explain that because of its large foreign population New York was still holding out against the National Revolutionary Party.
“But tonight,” he said, “this city will be filled with thousands of ‘Leather Shirts’ from upstate and an attempt will be made to take it over.”
While talking he stared hard at our hero. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he saluted briskly and said, “As one of the original members of the party, you are being asked to cooperate.”
“I’ll be glad to do anything I can to help,” Lem replied. “Good! Mr. Whipple will be happy to hear that, for he counted on you.”
“I am something of a cripple,” Lem added with a brave smile. “I may not be able to do much.”
“We of the party know how your wounds were acquired. In fact one of our prime purposes is to prevent the youth of this country from being tortured as yen were tortured. Let me add, Commander Pitkin, that in my humble opinion you are well on your way to being recognized as one of the martyrs of our cause.” Here he saluted Lem once more.
Lem was embarrassed by the man’s praise and hurriedly changed the subject. “What are Mr. Whipple’s orders?” he asked.
“Tonight, wherever large crowds gather, in the parks, theaters, subways, a member of our party will make a speech. Scattered among his listeners will be numerous `Leather Shirts’ in plain clothes, who will aid the speaker stir up the patriotic fury of the crowd. When this fury reaches its proper height, a march on the City Hall will be ordered. There a monster mass meeting will be held which Mr. Whipple will address. He will demand and get control of the city.”
“It sounds splendid,” said Lem. “I suppose you want me to make a speech in this theater?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“I would if I could,” replied Lem, “but I’m afraid I can’t. I have never made a speech in my life. You see, I’m not a real actor but only a ‘stooge.’ And besides, Riley and Robbins wouldn’t like it if I tried to interrupt their act.”
“Don’t worry about those gentlemen.” Mr. Coates said with a smile. “They will be taken care of. As for your other reason, I have a speech in my pocket that was written expressly for you by Mr. Whipple. I have come here to rehearse you in it.”
Zachary Coates reached into his pocket and brought out a sheaf of papers. “Read this through first,” he said firmly, “then we will begin to study it.”
That night Lem walked out on the stage alone. Although he was not wearing his stage costume, but the dress uniform of the “Leather Shirts,” the audience knew from the program that he was a comedian and roared with laughter.
This unexpected reception destroyed what little self-assurance the poor lad had and for a minute it looked as though he were going to run. Fortunately, however, the orchestra leader, who was a member of Mr. Whipple’s organization, had his wits about him and made his men play the national anthem. The audience stopped laughing and rose soberly to its feet.
In all that multitude one man alone failed to stand up. He was our old friend, the fat fellow in the Chesterfield overcoat. Secreted behind the curtains of a box, he crouched low in his chair and fondled an automatic pistol. He was again wearing a false beard.
When the orchestra had finished playing, the audience reseated itself and Lem prepared to make his speech.
“I am a clown,” he began, “but there are times when even clowns must grow serious. This is such a time. I…”
Lem got no further. A shot rang out and he fell dead, drilled through the heart by an assassin’s bullet.
*
Little else remains to be told, but before closing this book there is one last scene which I must describe.
It is Pitkin’s Birthday, a national holiday, and the youth of America is parading down Fifth Avenue in his honor. They are a hundred thousand strong. On every boy’s head is a coonskin hat complete with jaunty tail, and on every shoulder rests a squirrel rifle.
Hear what they are singing. It is The Lemuel Pitkin Song.
“Who dares?”—this was L. Pitkin’s cry, As striding on the Bijou stage he came— “Surge out with me in Shagpoke’s name, For him to live, for him to die!” A million hands flung up reply, A million voices answered, “I!”
Chorus
A million hearts for Pitkin, oh! To do and die with Pitkin, oh! To live and fight with Pitkin, oh! Marching for Pitkin.
The youths pass the reviewing stand and from it Mr. Whipple proudly returns their salute. The years have dealt but lightly with him. His back is still as straight as ever and his gray eyes have not lost their keenness.
But who is the little lady in black next to the dictator? Can it be the Widow Pitkin? Yes, it is she. She is crying, for with a mother glory can never take the place of a beloved child. To her it seems like only yesterday that Lawyer Slemp threw Lem into the open cellar.
And next to the Widow Pitkin stands still another woman. This one is young and beautiful, yet her eyes too are full of tears. Let us look closer, for there is something vaguely familiar about her. It is Betty Prail. She seems to have some official position, and when we ask, a bystander tells us that she is Mr. Whipple’s secretary.
The marchers have massed themselves in front of the reviewing stand and Mr. Whipple is going to address them.
“Why are we celebrating this day above other days?” he asked his hearers in a voice of thunder. “What made Lemuel Pitkin great? Let us examine his life.
“First we see him as a small boy, light of foot, fishing for bullheads in the Rat River of Vermont. Later, he attends the Ottsville High School, where he is captain of the nine and an excellent outfielder. Then, he leaves for the big city to make his fortune. All this is in the honorable tradition of his country and its people, and he has the right to expect certain rewards.
“Jail is his first reward. Poverty his second. Violence is his third. Death is his last.
“Simple was his pilgrimage and brief, yet a thousand years hence, no story, no tragedy, no epic poem will be filled with greater wonder, or be followed by mankind with deeper feeling, than that which tells of the life and death of Lemuel Pitkin.
“But I have not answered the question. Why is Lemuel Pitkin great? Why does the martyr move in triumph and the nation rise up at every stage of his coming? Why are cities and states his pallbearers?
“Because, although dead, yet he speaks.
“Of what is it that he speaks? Of the right of every American boy to go into the world and there receive fair play and a chance to make his fortune by industry and probity without being laughed at or conspired against by sophisticated aliens.
“Alas, Lemuel Pitkin himself did not have this chance, but instead was dismantled by the enemy. His teeth were pulled out. His eye was gouged from his head. His thumb was removed. His scalp was torn away. His leg was cut off. And, finally, he was shot through the heart.
“But he did not live or die in vain. Through his martyrdom the National Revolutionary Party triumphed, and by that triumph this country was delivered from sophistication, Marxism and International Capitalism. Through the National Revolution its people were purged of alien diseases and America became again American.”
“Hail the Martyrdom in the Bijou Theater!” roar Shagpoke’s youthful hearers when he is finished.
“Hail, Lemuel Pitkin!”
“All hail, the American Boy!”
THE END
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Miss Lonelyhearts and a Cool Million Page 11