The Iron Heel by Jack London

see him mastering men in discussion, the war-note in his voice; to see him, in all his certitude and strength, shattering their complacency, shaking them out of their ruts of thinking. What if he did swashbuckle? To use his own phrase, “it worked,” it produced effects. And, besides, his swashbuckling was a fine thing to see. It stirred one like the onset of battle.
    Several days passed during which I read Ernest’s books, borrowed from my father. His written word was as his spoken word, clear and convincing. It was its absolute simplicity that convinced even while one continued to doubt. He had the gift of lucidity. He was the perfect expositor. Yet, in spite of his style, there was much that I did not like. He laid too great stress on what he called the class struggle, the antagonism between labor and capital, the conflict of interest.
    Father reported with glee Dr. Hammerfield’s judgment of Ernest, which was to the effect that he was “an insolent young puppy, made bumptious by a little and very inadequate learning.” Also, Dr. Hammerfield declined to meet Ernest again.
    But Bishop Morehouse turned out to have become interested in Ernest, and was anxious for another meeting. “A strong young man,” he said; “and very much alive, very much alive. But he is too sure, too sure.”
    Ernest came one afternoon with father. The Bishop had already arrived, and we were having tea on the veranda. Ernest’s continued presence in Berkeley, by the way, was accounted for by the fact that he was taking special courses in biology at the university, and also that he was hard at work on a new book entitled “Philosophy and Revolution.” 15
    The veranda seemed suddenly to have become small when Ernest arrived. Not that he was so very large—he stood only five feet nine inches; but that he seemed to radiate an atmosphere of largeness. As he stopped to meet me, he betrayed a certain slight awkwardness that was strangely at variance with his bold-looking eyes and his firm, sure hand that clasped for a moment in greeting. And in that moment his eyes were just as steady and sure. There seemed a question in them this time, and as before he looked at me over long.
    â€œI have been reading your ‘Working-class Philosophy,’ ” I said, and his eyes lighted in a pleased way.
    â€œOf course,” he answered, “you took into consideration the audience to which it was addressed.”
    â€œI did, and it is because I did that I have a quarrel with you,” I challenged.
    â€œI, too, have a quarrel with you, Mr. Everhard,” Bishop Morehouse said.
    Ernest shrugged his shoulders whimsically and accepted a cup of tea.
    The Bishop bowed and gave me precedence.
    â€œYou foment class hatred,” I said. “I consider it wrong and criminal to appeal to all that is narrow and brutal in the working class. Class hatred is anti-social, and, it seems to me, anti-socialistic.”
    â€œNot guilty,” he answered. “Class hatred is neither in the text nor in the spirit of anything I have ever written.”
    â€œOh!” I cried reproachfully, and reached for his book and opened it.
    He sipped his tea and smiled at me while I ran over the pages.
    â€œPage one hundred and thirty-two,” I read aloud: ‘The class struggle, therefore, presents itself in the present stage of social development between the wage-paying and the wage-paid classes.’ ”
    I looked at him triumphantly.
    â€œNo mention there of class hatred,” he smiled back.
    â€œBut,” I answered, “you say ‘class struggle.’ ”
    â€œA different thing from class hatred,” he replied. “And, believe me, we foment no hatred. We say that the class struggle is a law of social development. We are not responsible for it. We do not make the class struggle. We merely explain it, as Newton explained gravitation. We explain the nature of the conflict of