In Manhattan

Somewhere inside the great red sandstone walls, in one of the spacious old-fashioned chambers of the Waldorf-Astoria (in Manhattan) sat a tremendous man. Swarthy he was, and six feet tall, 230 pounds over all. Near him stood a man lighter in build but equally dark in cast of countenance, his interpreter.

Before them came a group of beady-eyed reporters from the U. S. middle class to look upon this leader of the working classes of a neighboring country. Luis N. Morones, President of the Mexican Federation of Labor and Mexican Minister of Labor, Commerce and Industry, defended himself and his country from the adverse opinion of any who might confront him. Said he:

"Some persons with axes to grind have held Mexico up as the happy recruiting ground of bolshevists and communists, but there is as much chance of communists taking over the government of Mexico as there is of their taking over the government of the United States.

"As for the communists, Mexico's attitude is shown by the expulsion from the country of their chief leader, one Wolff. We will have no backward, retrograde movements in Mexico.

"What passes for bolshevism and communism in Mexico is this: There are there, as here, people who sympathize with the Russian philosophies. There, as here, they express themselves through papers and meetings. The papers are poor things that are printed first in one shop, then in another. When they get up here they are taken seriously. Fewer than 100 people will get together and proclaim themselves the Communist Party of Mexico."

He spoke in modulated Spanish vocables, which his interpreter translated into the harsh foreign tongue. Suddenly he seemed to wax eloquent. The reporters sensed that something dramatic was coming. He waved his manicured finger tips at his silk shirt, his gold wristwatch, his well tailored suit.

Suddenly the harsh voice of the translator interpreted: "What is there about me that looks like a Bolshevist?"

"Nothing," the reporters assured him, shaking their heads.

Senor Morones' voice in triumph echoed through the bedroom, and the harsh voice at his side interpreted: "That is what the Bolshevists themselves thought when I tried to get into Russia two years ago. They would not let me in."