ourselves arrested. We’ll fight with all our might!” Watari roared in his deep voice. His sonorous tones never failed to make a profound impression.
Ishida stood apart and watched his comrades. Childish would have been too mild a term to apply to their conduct, in his opinion. He always got angry when people like Sessito—and there were many such in the union—made rows on the slightest provocation. According to Ishida, it was advisable only to use defensive methods on exceptionally important occasions, and then do it thoroughly. In general, it was better to save one’s strength than to get worked up over every trifle.
“What is all this rubbish for, anyhow? Fine militants they are! What good are they?”
Ishida was almost beside himself with rage.
The workers felt surer of themselves after Watari had joined in the fray, but ten more policemen soon appeared on the scene and the unequal fight had to be given up.
It grew lighter. The icy fingers of the morning crept inside the prisoners’ clothes and made them shiver.
The snowy street lay silent under a grey and heavy sky.
Ishida and Sessito were dressed in thin corduroy jackets thrown on hastily next their skin. Their bodies ached from cold. Their fingers and toes were numb.
Shibata, a lad of twenty who had only joined the union a few weeks before, had not yet recovered from his fright at being arrested. He saw the others
