It was Domenico’s idea to found a Circolo Socialista Italiano as a kind of mutual-aid society, with dues at 25¢ per month and benefits to be paid to widows and orphans of those who were victims on the job and whose employers did not provide compensation. He hoped through such a program of direct help to enlighten the poor landless cafoni about the inequities of the capitalist system that was exploiting them. And several times the circolo did make payments of $100 to bereaved persons; but the lessons never seemed to take. The cafoni continued to vote Republican, to work for wages no one else would accept, and to raise money for the church instead of for the club. The club they came to as a social center where they could talk and drink beer and play scopa. Worst of all, they laughed when he told them how bad off they were. “Oh, Domenico,” they said, “to be bad off here is still better than we were there.” And he despaired of ever teaching them to aspire to live more democratically. The only one who listened was his son, Dom, who was in law school. And that had to be enough for the old socialist.

“Do you call this a free country?” Domenico was raging, over in a corner of Umbertina’s living room with his cronies. “Every ward boss knows how to buy votes. Look at Serafino. He got his citizenship papers—and how did he, without speaking English, without knowing how to read or write any language, get his papers? Simple. All he had to do was promise his vote to Luppizzi . . . that’s how, who told him what to memorize, and maybe greased the judge’s palm a bit. And ecco! Serafino Longobardi is an American!”

Some laughed at Domenico’s jibing; others paid no attention.

“And that is why we get editorials in the Cato Citizen-Press,” he went on, “against the immigration of ignorant Italians. They call us ‘nondesirables’—persone non grate—and why? Because of ignorance! And I say it’s time to stop being the mules of this country—it’s school or stables, a scuola, o nella stalla!”

“Tell the Citizen-Press to ask the railroad tracks who put them down,” cried an indignant voice, “or the buildings and bridges who put them up, or the parks and gardens who laid them out, or the mines who digs them!”

“That is the point,” said Domenico patiently. “You will be the beasts of burden of this country until you learn other things and learn how to vote against those who use you and then call you undesirable.”

“What is he, an anarchist?” Dr. Rossi asked Father Di Simeone.

“You can’t dignify him by that term; he’s just envious—a rebel and a loud one at that.”

“Well, he makes a certain sense. But probably too idealistic to be a ward boss himself.”