So, after that, Jurgis was known to his “boss” as “Comrade Jurgis,” and in return he was expected to call him “Comrade Hinds.”  “Tommy” Hinds, as he was known to his intimates, was a squat little man, with broad shoulders and a florid face, decorated with gray side whiskers.  He was the kindest-hearted man that ever lived, and the liveliest—­inexhaustible in his enthusiasm, and talking Socialism all day and all night.  He was a great fellow to jolly along a crowd, and would keep a meeting in an uproar; when once he got really waked up, the torrent of his eloquence could be compared with nothing save Niagara.

Tommy Hinds had begun life as a blacksmith’s helper, and had run away to join the Union army, where he had made his first acquaintance with “graft,” in the shape of rotten muskets and shoddy blankets.  To a musket that broke in a crisis he always attributed the death of his only brother, and upon worthless blankets he blamed all the agonies of his own old age.  Whenever it rained, the rheumatism would get into his joints, and then he would screw up his face and mutter:  “Capitalism, my boy, capitalism!  ‘Ecrasez l’infame!’” He had one unfailing remedy for all the evils of this world, and he preached it to every one; no matter whether the person’s trouble was failure in business, or dyspepsia, or a quarrelsome mother-in-law, a twinkle would come into his eyes and he would say, “You know what to do about it—­vote the Socialist ticket!”

Tommy Hinds had set out upon the trail of the Octopus as soon as the war was over.  He had gone into business, and found himself in competition with the fortunes of those who had been stealing while he had been fighting.  The city government was in their hands and the railroads were in league with them, and honest business was driven to the wall; and so Hinds had put all his savings into Chicago real estate, and set out singlehanded to dam the river of graft.  He had been a reform member of the city council, he had been a Greenbacker, a Labor Unionist, a Populist, a Bryanite—­and after thirty years of fighting, the year 1896 had served to convince him that the power of concentrated wealth could never be controlled, but could only be destroyed.  He had published a pamphlet about it, and set out to organize a party of his own, when a stray Socialist leaflet had revealed to him that others had been ahead of him.  Now for eight years he had been fighting for the party, anywhere, everywhere—­whether it was a G.A.R. reunion, or a hotel-keepers’ convention, or an Afro-American businessmen’s banquet, or a Bible society picnic, Tommy Hinds would manage to get himself invited to explain the relations of Socialism to the subject in hand.  After that he would start off upon a tour of his own, ending at some place between New York and Oregon; and when he came back from there, he would go out to organize new locals for the state committee; and finally he would come home to rest—­and talk Socialism in Chicago.  Hinds’s hotel