“If you mean to insinuate—­” Brentwood began hotly.

“Hold on, don’t get all-ruffled up,” Bertie interposed insolently.  “There’s no use in playing hypocrites in this thieves’ den.  The high and lofty is all right for the newspapers, boys’ clubs, and Sunday schools—­that’s part of the game; but for heaven’s sake don’t let’s play it on one another.  You know, and you know that I know just what jobbery was done in the building trades’ strike last fall, who put up the money, who did the work, and who profited by it.” (Brentwood flushed darkly.) “But we are all tarred with the same brush, and the best thing for us to do is to leave morality out of it.  Again I repeat, play the game, play it to the last finish, but for goodness’ sake don’t squeal when you get hurt.”

When I left the group Bertie was off on a new tack tormenting them with the more serious aspects of the situation, pointing out the shortage of supplies that was already making itself felt, and asking them what they were going to do about it.  A little later I met him in the cloak-room, leaving, and gave him a lift home in my machine.

“It’s a great stroke, this general strike,” he said, as we bowled along through the crowded but orderly streets.  “It’s a smashing body-blow.  Labour caught us napping and struck at our weakest place, the stomach.  I’m going to get out of San Francisco, Corf.  Take my advice and get out, too.  Head for the country, anywhere.  You’ll have more chance.  Buy up a stock of supplies and get into a tent or a cabin somewhere.  Soon there’ll be nothing but starvation in this city for such as we.”

How correct Bertie Messener was I never dreamed.  I decided that he was an alarmist.  As for myself, I was content to remain and watch the fun.  After I dropped him, instead of going directly home, I went on in a hunt for more food.  To my surprise, I learned that the small groceries where I had bought in the morning were sold out.  I extended my search to the Potrero, and by good luck managed to pick up another box of candles, two sacks of wheat flour, ten pounds of graham flour (which would do for the servants), a case of tinned corn, and two cases of tinned tomatoes.  It did look as though there was going to be at least a temporary food shortage, and I hugged myself over the goodly stock of provisions I had laid in.

The next morning I had my coffee in bed as usual, and, more than the cream, I missed the daily paper.  It was this absence of knowledge of what was going on in the world that I found the chief hardship.  Down at the club there was little news.  Rider had crossed from Oakland in his launch, and Halstead had been down to San Jose and back in his machine.  They reported the same conditions in those places as in San Francisco.  Everything was tied up by the strike.  All grocery stocks had been bought out by the upper classes.  And perfect order reigned.  But what was happening over the rest of the country—­in Chicago?  New York?  Washington?  Most probably the same things that were happening with us, we concluded; but the fact that we did not know with absolute surety was irritating.