the building. And all the time he was hissing into Peter’s face: “I’ll have it out of you! Don’t think you can lie to me! Make up your mind to it, you’re going to come thru!”  

 The man opened a door. It was some kind of storeroom, and he walked Peter inside and slammed the door behind him. “Now, out with it!” he said. The man thrust into his pocket the printed circular, or whatever it was—Peter never saw it again, and never found out what was printed on it. With his free hand the man grabbed one of Peter’s hands, or rather one finger of Peter’s hand, and bent it suddenly backward with terrible violence. “Oh!”  screamed Peter. “Stop!” And then, with a wild shriek, “You’ll break it.”  

 “I mean to break it! mean to break every bone in your body! I’ll tear your finger-nails out; I’ll tear the eyes out of your head, if I have to! You tell me who helped you make that bomb!”  

 Peter broke out in a storm of agonized protest; he had never heard of any bomb, he didn’t know what the man was talking about; he writhed and twisted and doubled himself over backward, trying to evade the frightful pain of that pressure on his finger. 

 “You’re lying!” insisted Guffey. “I know you’re lying. You’re one of that crowd.”  

 “What crowd? Ouch! I dunno what you mean!”  

 “You’re one of them Reds, aint you?”  

 “Reds? What are Reds?”  

 “You want to tell me you don’t know what a Red is? Aint you been giving out them circulars on the street?”  

 “I never seen the circular!” repeated Peter. “I never seen a word in it; I dunno what it is.”  

 “You try to stuff me with that?”  

 “Some woman gimme that circular on the street! Ouch! Stop! Jesus! I tell you I never looked at the circular!”  

 “You dare go on lying?” shouted the man, with fresh access of rage. “And when I seen you with them Reds? I know about your plots, I’m going to get it out of you.” He grabbed Peter’s wrist and began to twist it, and Peter half turned over in the effort to save himself, and shrieked again, in more piercing 

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