told all the truth about the Standard Oil Company in his Wealth versus Commonwealth; and the book was allowed to die, and you hardly ever hear of it.  And now, at last, two magazines have the courage to tackle ‘Standard Oil’ again, and what happens?  The newspapers ridicule the authors, the churches defend the criminals, and the government—­does nothing.  And now, why is it all so different with the Beef Trust?”

Here the other would generally admit that he was “stuck”; and Tommy Hinds would explain to him, and it was fun to see his eyes open.  “If you were a Socialist,” the hotelkeeper would say, “you would understand that the power which really governs the United States today is the Railroad Trust.  It is the Railroad Trust that runs your state government, wherever you live, and that runs the United States Senate.  And all of the trusts that I have named are railroad trusts—­save only the Beef Trust!  The Beef Trust has defied the railroads—­it is plundering them day by day through the Private Car; and so the public is roused to fury, and the papers clamor for action, and the government goes on the war-path!  And you poor common people watch and applaud the job, and think it’s all done for you, and never dream that it is really the grand climax of the century-long battle of commercial competition—­the final death grapple between the chiefs of the Beef Trust and ‘Standard Oil,’ for the prize of the mastery and ownership of the United States of America!”

Such was the new home in which Jurgis lived and worked, and in which his education was completed.  Perhaps you would imagine that he did not do much work there, but that would be a great mistake.  He would have cut off one hand for Tommy Hinds; and to keep Hinds’s hotel a thing of beauty was his joy in life.  That he had a score of Socialist arguments chasing through his brain in the meantime did not interfere with this; on the contrary, Jurgis scrubbed the spittoons and polished the banisters all the more vehemently because at the same time he was wrestling inwardly with an imaginary recalcitrant.  It would be pleasant to record that he swore off drinking immediately, and all the rest of his bad habits with it; but that would hardly be exact.  These revolutionists were not angels; they were men, and men who had come up from the social pit, and with the mire of it smeared over them.  Some of them drank, and some of them swore, and some of them ate pie with their knives; there was only one difference between them and all the rest of the populace—­that they were men with a hope, with a cause to fight for and suffer for.  There came times to Jurgis when the vision seemed far-off and pale, and a glass of beer loomed large in comparison; but if the glass led to another glass, and to too many glasses, he had something to spur him to remorse and resolution on the morrow.  It was so evidently a wicked thing to spend one’s pennies for drink, when the working class was wandering in darkness, and waiting to be delivered; the price