The reportorial instinct in Kitty Conover, combined with her natural

feminine curiosity, impelled her to seek to the bottom of affair. Her

newspaper was as far from her as the poles; simply a paramount desire to

translate the incomprehensible into sequence and consequence. Harmless

old Gregor's disappearance and the advent of John Two-Hawks--the

absurdity of that name!--with his impeccable English accent, his Latin

gestures, and his black eye, convinced her that it was political; an

electrical cross current out of that broken world over there. Moribund

perspectives. What did that signify save that Johnny Two-Hawks had

fought somewhere that day for his life? Had Gregor been spirited away so

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as to leave Two-Hawks without support, to confuse and discourage him

and break down his powers of resistance? Or had there been something of

great value in the Gregor apartment, and Johnny Two-Hawks had come too

late to save his friend?

A word slipped into her mind like a whiff of miasma off an evil swamp.

As she recognized the word she felt the same horror and repugnance one

senses upon being unexpectedly confronted by a cobra. Internationalism.

The scum of the world boiling to the top. A half-blind viper striking

venomously at everything--even itself! A destroyer who tore down but

who knew not how or what to build. Kitty knew that lower New York was

seething with this species of terrorism--thousands of noisome European

rats trying to burrow into the granary of democracy. But she had no

particular fear of the result. The reacting chemicals of American humour

and common sense would neutralize that virus. Supposing a ripple from

this indecent eddy had touched her feet? The torch of liberty in the

hands of Anarch!

Johnny Two-Hawks. Somehow--even if she never saw him again--she knew she

would always remember him by that name. Phases of the encounter began

to return. Fine hands; perhaps he painted or played. The oblong head of

well-balanced mentality. A pleasant voice. Breeding. To be sure, he had

laughed at that fan popping out. Anybody would have laughed. Never had

she felt so idiotic. He had gravely expressed the hope that they

might never meet again because his life was in danger. What danger?

Conceivably the enmity of a society--internationalism. The word having

found lodgment in her thoughts took root. Internationalism--Utopia while

you wait! Anarchism and Bolshevism offering nostrums for humanity's

ills! And there were sane men who defended the cult on the basis that

the intention was honest. Who can say that the rattlesnake does not

consider his intentions honourable?

The attribute lacking in the ape to make him human is continuity of

thought and action in all things save one. He often starts out well but

he never arrives. His interest is never sustained. He drops one thing

and turns to another. The exception is his enmity, savage and cunning,

relentless and enduring.




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