* * * * *

Jim Gibson got to the door of Joe's shop at half-past seven o'clock.
Several men stood on the sidewalk and he stopped and stood before them,
intending to tell again the story of his triumph over his employer. Inside
the shop Joe was already at his bench and at work. The men, two of them
strikers from the corn-cutting machine plant, complained bitterly of the
difficulty of supporting their families, and a third man, a fellow with a
big black mustache who smoked a pipe, began to repeat some of the axioms
in regard to industrialism and the class war he had picked up from the
socialist orator. Jim listened for a moment and then, turning, put his
thumb on his buttocks and wriggled his fingers. "Oh, hell," he sneered,
"what are you fools talking about? You're going to get up a union or get
into the socialist party. What're you talking about? A union or a party
can't help a man who can't look out for himself."

The blustering and half intoxicated harness maker stood in the open shop
door and told again and in detail the story of his triumph over his
employer. Then another thought came and he spoke of the twelve hundred
dollars Joe had lost in the stock, of the plant-setting machine company.
"He lost his money and you fellows are going to get licked in this fight,"
he declared. "You're all wrong, you fellows, when you talk about unions or
joining the socialist party. What counts is what a man can do for himself.
Character counts. Yes, sir, character makes a man what he is."

Jim pounded on his chest and glared about him.

"Look at me," he said. "I was a drunkard and down and out when I came to
this town; a drunkard, that's what I was and that's what I am. I came here
to this shop to work, and now, if you want to know, ask any one in town who