and freezing of their own kith and kin to the shooting of workingmen in Idaho bull pens.
I can't stand for the master class, with their slave pens and sweatshops and stolen wealth on one side and their gatling guns and armed thugs on the other, to slobber over murder.
I have no mortal use for the self-confessed methods of James McNamara—but I have a damned sight less use for the whole pack of hypocritical thieves that have stolen their millions and back their stolen property with cannon.
Pardon my strong language, but nothing less fits the case.
The wan, hungry faces of the outraged victims, the sobs of the women and babies—oh, the horrible murders of Mammon. These haunt me and will when the McNamara affair is long forgotten.
For me, I take my pledge with George Kirkpatrick:
"I refuse to slay your mother's son. I refuse to plunge a bayonet into the breast of your sister's brother. I refuse to slaughter your sweetheart's lover. I refuse to butcher your little child's father. I refuse to wet the earth with blood and blind kind eyes with tears. I refuse to assassinate you and then hide my stained fists in the folds of any flag. I refuse to be flattered into hell's nightmare by a class of well-fed snobs, crooks and cowards who despise our class socially, rob our class economically and betray our class politically."
Nay, more—I refuse to uphold a Christless system that makes an Otis hire hungry scabs and drives a rebellious workingman to deeds of violence in retaliation.
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