prised largely the artisans and laborers of the cities. Sprung directly from the people's loins they spoke the people's language, shared their sorrows and thought their thoughts.
It is not quite correct to say that the Bolsheviks understood the people. They were the people. So they were trusted. The Russian workingman, betrayed so long by the classes above him, puts faith only in his own.
This was brought home to a friend of mine in a grotesque manner. Krasnoschekov is his name, now President of the Far East Republic. Coming from the Workers' Institute in Chicago, he entered the lists as a champion of the workers. An able, eloquent man, he was elected President of the City Council of Nikolaievsk. The bourgeois paper promptly appeared with an assault upon him as an "immigrant roustabout."
"Citizens of great Russia," it asked, "do you not feel the shame of being ruled by a porter, a window cleaner from Chicago?"
Krasnoschekov wrote out a hot reply, pointing out his distinction in America as lawyer and educator. On the way to the newspaper with his article he turned in at the Soviet, wondering how much this assault had hurt him in the eyes of the workers.
"Tovarish Krasnoschekov!" someone shouted as he opened the door. With a cheer the men rose to their feet. "Nash! Nash!" (Ours! Ours!) they cried, grasping his hand. "We just read the paper,
