“Sure, I know.  Just the esthetic end of the game.  Esthetic, you know—­the beauty part of it.”

“Yuh, sure, that’s the word.  ’Sthetic, that’s what it is.  Yes, ’sthetic.  But, just the same, it makes me feel’s though I believed in all sorts of things.”

“Tell you what I believe may happen, though,” exulted Morton.  “This socialism, and maybe even these here International Workers of the World, may pan out as a new kind of religion.  I don’t know much about it, I got to admit.  But looks as though it might be that way.  It’s dead certain the old political parties are just gangs—­don’t stand for anything except the name.  But this comrade business—­good stunt.  Brotherhood of man—­real brotherhood.  My idea of religion.  One that is because it’s got to be, not just because it always has been.  Yessir, me for a religion of guys working together to make things easier for each other.”

“You bet!” commented Mr. Wrenn, and they smote each other upon the shoulder and laughed together in a fine flame of shared hope.

“I wish I knew something about this socialism stuff,” mused Mr. Wrenn, with tilted head, examining the burnt-umber edges of the sunset.

“Great stuff.  Not working for some lazy cuss that’s inherited the right to boss you.  And international brotherhood, not just neighborhoods.  New thing.”

“Gee!  I surely would like that, awfully,” sighed Mr. Wrenn.

He saw the processional of world brotherhood tramp steadily through the paling sunset; saffron-vestured Mandarin marching by flax-faced Norseman and languid South Sea Islander—­the diverse peoples toward whom he had always yearned.

“But I don’t care so much for some of these ranting street-corner socialists, though,” mused Morton.  “The kind that holler `Come get saved our way or go to hell!  Keep off scab guides to prosperity.’”

“Yuh, sure.  Ha! ha! ha!”

“Huh! huh!”

Morton soon had another thought.  “Still, same time, us guys that do the work have got to work out something for ourselves.  We can’t bank on the rah-rah boys that wear eye-glasses and condescend to like us, cause they think we ain’t entirely too dirty for ’em to associate with, and all these writer guys and so on.  That’s where you got to hand it to the street-corner shouters.”

“Yes, that’s so.  Y’ right there, I guess, all right.”

They looked at each other and laughed again; initiated friends; tasting each other’s souls.  They shared sandwiches and confessions.  When the other passengers had gone to bed and the sailors on watch seemed lonely the two men were still declaring, shyly but delightedly, that “things is curious.”

In the damp discomfort of early morning the cattlemen shuffled from the steamer at Portland and were herded to a lunch-room by the boss, who cheerfully smoked his corn-cob and ejaculated to Mr. Wrenn and Morton such interesting facts as: