Conservation in Context
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Red Fever
Perhaps my teacher is still wondering why I failed that last test. I doubt it, though; for the last time I talked to her, she seemed rather confident that I didn't study. And she was right, too! But, she also thought I didn't want to study; and there's where she was "dead wrong" because I really did. I used to belong to that great army of "subway studiers," as we called ourselves. It was very pleasant, too, while it lasted. But, now I'm cured. The sad day of the aforementioned test, I stepped into the train as usual. I noted nothing peculiar in the air, but then again I'm not very good at smelling trouble. Misfortune usually has to kick me once or twice in the face before I know it's there. After that I "catch on" quick enough. Looking about me, I found an excellent seat between two supposed gentlemen. One was slightly disheveled. He needed a shave badly, and I thought one or two haircuts a year would do him worlds of good. His clothes bore a resemblance to his face; they both looked about thirty years old. My other side was flanked by a middle-aged respectable-looking man. He was reading a newspaper, and his spectacles were placed three-quarters of the way down his nose, a sure sign of self-satisfaction. I sat down and opened my book, but not for long though. I soon felt an insistent tap—tap—tapping on my shoulder. Turning around, I beheld the disheveled gentlemen. "You look like a nice boy," he said. I agreed with him and went on reading. Hardly had I turned another page when my shoulder took another beating. Come to think of it now, he had the strongest finger I ever felt. This time I faced him impatiently. "You seem to be an intelligent lad," he observed politely. His simple speech touched me, and I could only nod in the affirmative, being too much overcome to speak; When I at last resumed my task, I thought it was the end of this business. But no, not five minutes had passed before that confounded woodpecker was at it again. I glared at him like a tiger, but it didn't perturb him in the least. "You must be a communist," he said, grasping my hand warmly. I stared at him open-mouthed. I didn't have time enough to answer though because the middle-aged gentleman on my other side joined the conversation. "I'm surprised at you, son," he said. "I thought you'd be a conservative. "No," interrupted the other, "he's a good commu—" "Now you listen here son—" and the respectable-looking gentleman tried to pull me over to him. "Come here, boy," screeched the other, while my mouth opened and shut like that of a fish gasping in air. It was just at this moment that my ears were pressed into service. Each contestant grabbed one, and in a few minutes they were having a grand tug-o'-war. Never in my life have I seen two grown men having such a good time. This simple little child's game they were playing had brought back youthful color into the face of the middle-aged one, while the other in his exhilaration had forgotten all about the poverty he seemingly lived in. I couldn't hear who was winning the battle of words; they were both shouting too loudly. How ever, judging from the tug-o'-war, I was slowly but surely becoming a good conservative. It was just at this stage, when my ears were finding out about the weaknesses of flesh and a winner was about to be declared, that the conductor came. "What's going on here?" he roared. I found my voice at last. "I paid my nickel," I shouted. "Communist!" screamed one. "Capitalist!" screeched the other, evidently referring to my five cents. The conductor, however, was a veritable Solomon. Without waiting for any more evidence, he accompanied me to a conveniently open door and in the best football fashion of the day, punted me outside onto the platform. Then, as he snarled some unintelligible witticism, he pushed the train door shut, right in my face. After a few moments, I picked myself up, and while extracting a few splinters, soundly cursed political opinions, wooden stations, and everything in general. I wasn't any too particular just then. Finally another train came along. I sat down in it, brooding; and almost immediately a voice said, "Have you the correct time, please?" I looked up. It was a nice gentle-looking old lady who asked the question, but I still wasn't taking any chances. "No," I replied as politely as I could, "No, I haven't, ma'am. You see, I'm a democrat." I then tried to study again, but it was no use. That old lady kept staring at me in the most peculiar manner during the rest of the ride.
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