Then he turned back to the Interpreter with a command, "You, comrade,
shall keep me informed, heh? From these people of our enemy class who
come here to your hut, you will learn the things I will want to know. I
shall come to you from time to time, but not too often. But, you must
see that your watchdog there has better manners for me, heh?" He
laughed and was gone.
At the club that evening, Jim McIver sat with a group of men discussing
the industrial situation.
"They're fixing for a fight all right," said one. "What do you think,
Jim?"
The factory owner answered, "They can have a fight any time they want
it. Nothing but a period of starvation will ever put the laboring class
back where it belongs and the sooner we get it over the better it will
be for business conditions all around."
In the twilight dust and grime of the Flats, a woman sat on the
doorstep of a wretched house. Her rounded shoulders slouched
wearily--her tired hands were folded in her lap. She stared with dull,
listless eyes at the squalid homes of her neighbors across the street.
The Interpreter had described the woman to Helen--"a girl with fine
instincts for the best things of life and a capacity for great
happiness."
In a room back of a pool hall of ill-repute, the man Jake Vodell sat in
conference with three others of his brotherhood.
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