network, that vast spider’s web, the telephone and telegraph systems.
Here the capitalist class exerted all the strength of its will to emasculate the proletariat.
The last night of the course arrived. There was a lecture. The chairman introduced the speaker.
“This gentleman is a worker like you. This evening he has been persuaded to make a confession before all of you. I have no doubt that a worker’s own story, told by himself, will contain much to edify us all and I hope that you will give the gentleman your closest attention.”
Clapping. The man arose. A thin harsh-faced man dressed in a suit of ready-made foreign clothes. A low hound, thought Tokimoto.
“Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen,” in a practised voice quite out of keeping with his somewhat vulgar appearance, he began to speak. “Without concealing anything, though I am ashamed, I confess to you here that until last year I was an active member of the Japanese Communist Party.”
The audience, who until them had discounted him because of his appearance, at the words, “Japanese Communist Party” suddenly became tense, as if a blow had been struck. Here was a fellow worth listening to, a member of—but then, if so, why all this modesty about “being ashamed,” and then, in the second place, why did he announce that he was a member?
They gave a cautious glance at the faces of the engineers, but these were quite composed, without any trace of surprise.
“Gentlemen, I tell you I worked for the Com-
