“What are we, anyhow?” continued the greasy apostle of labor.  “We are slaves; we are Roosian scurfs.  We work as many hours as our owners like; we take what pay they choose to give us; we ask their permission to live and breathe.”

“Oh, that’s a lie!” Sleeny interrupted, with unbroken calmness.  “Old Saul Matchin and me come to an agreement about time and pay, and both of us was suited.  Ef he’s got his heel onto me, I don’t feel it”

Offitt darted a glance of scorn upon the ignoble soul who was content with his bondage; but the mention of Matchin reminded him that he had a final shot in reserve, and he let it off at once.

“Yes, Saul Matchin is a laborin’ man himself; but look at his daughter.  She would die before she would marry a workman.  Why?” and his green eyes darted livid fire as they looked into the troubled ones of Sleeny.

“Well, why?” he asked, slowly.

“Because she loves money more than manhood.  Because she puts up her
beauty for a higher bidder than any------”

“Now, shet up, will you?” cried Sam, thoroughly aroused.  “I won’t set here and hear her abused by you or any other man.  What business is it of yours, anyway?”

Offitt felt that his shot had gone home, and pursued his advantage.

“It’s my business, Sam, because I’m your friend; because I hate to see a good fellow wronged; because I know that a man is better than a moneybag.  Why, that girl would marry you in a minute if you was rich.  But because you’re not she will strike for one of them rose-water snobs on Algonquin Avenue.”  Sam writhed, and his wheedling tormentor continued, watching him like a ferret.  “Perhaps she has struck for one of them already—­perhaps—­oh, I can’t say what may have happened.  I hate the world when I see such doin’s.  I hate the heartless shams that give labor and shame to the toilers and beauty and luxury to the drones.  Who is the best man,” he asked, with honest frankness, “you, or some high-steppin’ snob whose daddy has left him the means to be a loafer all his days?  And who would the prettiest girl in Buffland prefer, you or the loafer?  And you intend to let Mr. Loafer have it all his own way?”

“No, I don’t!” Sam roared, like a baited bull.  “Ef any man crosses my path, he can find out which is the best man.”

“There, that’s more like you.  But what can you do alone?  That’s where they get us foul.  The erristocrats, the money power, all hang together.  The laborin’ men fight singly, and alwuz get whipped.  Now, we are goin’ to change that.  We are goin’ to organize.  Look here, Sam, I am riskin’ my head in tellin’ you this—­but I trust you, and I like you, and I’ll tell you.  We have organized.  We’ve got a society in this town pledged to the cause of honest labor and against capital—­for life or death.  We want you.  We want men of sand and men of sense, and you’ve got both.  You must join.”