Roosevelt Too, Says Most

ANARCHISTS HERE APPARENTLY REGARD CZOLGOSZ AS
A HERO, AND ARE TALKING MORE BOLDLY THAN AT FIRST.

     “Emma in St. Louis? No. Why would she be there? She left here five or six months ago on a trip to sell books on anarchism and socialism in the West. She can’t travel and sell books and at the same time stay in St. Louis, can she? No, she is not in St. Louis. That is foolishness,” said Mrs. Justus H. Schwab yesterday in response to inquiries as to the whereabouts of Emma Goldman, who, according to reports, was living near St. Louis and getting her mail at the general postoffice there. “I don’t know where she is,” she finished, “and if I did I wouldn’t tell.”
     Mrs. Schwab was behind the bar in the little basement saloon at No. 50 First-st. which was kept by her husband until his death a few months ago. The saloon is a low ceiled, smoky, dirty room, with a short bar extending lengthwise in the front. Over Mrs. Schwab’s head hung a bass-relief [sic] of Marat, with an old fashioned flintlock pistol, the barrel wound with copper wire, swinging beneath it. On the wall opposite her was a blackboard with anarchistc [sic] placards and notices on it.
     Beyond the bar were two or three round tables and a beer stained piano. Then came another room, with a long table lined with chairs. There the anarchists who make Schwab’s saloon their headquarters hold their meetings. Many a night John Most or old Justus Schwab has pounded the table with a beer glass for a gavel while Emma Goldman has held forth on the iniquity of law and order. Yesterday the first inquiry of all the anarchists who entered the saloon was for Emma Goldman. The police were after her, and that added interest to the queries. “Poor Emma,” said Mrs. Schwab. “They never leave her alone, and she hasn’t done anything.”

TITUS ON THE ALERT.

     Captain Titus, of the Detective Bureau, called his men together yesterday morning and read them a long statement, after which the men started out to watch the anarchists’ meeting places. There were three reasons for this vigilance—the hunt for Emma Goldman, the rumor of a plot against Vice-President Roosevelt and the belief that there might be an “end” in this city to the attempted assassination of the President, caused by the request from the Buffalo authorities for the seizure of the trunk of the man Shutz. The trunk was found at the Lutheran Mission House, No. 12 State-st., and was taken to Police Headquarters, but it will not be opened here. District Attorney Philbin told Captain Titus that the trunk must be opened by the Erie County officials.
     John Most yesterday gave a little impetus to the rumor of a plot against Colonel Roosevelt. He went to his headquarters, in the saloon at No. 69 Gold-st., about 1 o’clock, and, after opening his mail, which to Most’s evident satisfaction included a money order for $2, ate luncheon and talked anarchy. While grease dripped on his waistcoat from a piece of meat held about three inches from his mouth, Most said:
     “What good would it do to kill McKinley unless Roosevelt was killed, too? Both must be put out of the way to do any good.”
     Then he looked most benignantly over his spectacles at a black haired, unshaven anarchist at another table, and the other man nodded his head and said, “Yes, both.”

MOST RAVES A BIT.

     Most ate in silence for a minute or two, and then suddenly put down his knife and fork and grew fiery. “These people who say they are sorry,” he said, “they are hypocrites, hypocrites. They are not sorry. They are glad. They know it in their hearts, but they are afraid to say it. Gildermeister was not afraid, and he was right. What right has the Central Federated Union to meddle with politics? Of course, it’s politics to be sorry for the President.
     “Who is he, anyway? He’s only a man. He has no right there. All this hullabaloo—it’s nonsense. Who would be sorry for me if I were shot—me, me?”—poking himself in the breast with his fat forefinger. “Nobody. No, not anybody at all. Then why should people be sorry for the President?”
     Most drew a long breath and broke out again: “The Secretary of War will drive anarchists from the country, will he? Ha! Bah! Let him try! How will he do it? How will he know them? Would any one take me for an anarchist? Certainly no one would suspect the little, fat German, with his white hair and beard, of being a bloodthirsty ‘red.’
     “He can’t drive us away,” continued Most. “Where is the law? This is nonsense. It makes me laugh. Ha! Ha!”
     Over in the Russian and Polish quarter of the East Side the socialist and anarchist sentiment is all for Czolgosz. The men there gather in dark, dirty little saloons and holes in the wall where liquor is sold, and talk and gesticulate and wag their scraggy beards with gusto. Czolgosz is a hero with them. As they talk of the attempted assassination, their eyes glisten and their thin teeth shine cruelly between their lips, drawn tightly over their gums. The women nod approval and encouragement, and their shrill voices take part in the denunciation of law.

AN ITALIAN REHEARSAL.

     The Italian anarchists in their headquarters in Bleecker-st. talked gayly of the crime yesterday. They are a festive lot, and have pool and billiard tables, as well as a saloon. Two of them were playing “pin pool” yesterday afternoon, while a third kept the score on the rail of the table. The game did not proceed rapidly, as the men stopped frequently to talk and argue. In the middle of the game both men put their cues on the table to have their hands free for the argument. Then, after a swift exchange of words, one of the men draped his handkerchief over his hand, and, walking up to his opponent, offered to shake hands. Both men laughed, while several others who had come in applauded, and the game was resumed.