am Nietzsche into them
and get walloped for your pains. Make a scrap of it. It will do them
good. Discussion is what they want, and what you want, too. You see,
I'd like to see you a socialist before I'm gone. It will give you a
sanction for your existence. It is the one thing that will save you in
the time of disappointment that is coming to you."

"I never can puzzle out why you, of all men, are a socialist," Martin
pondered. "You detest the crowd so. Surely there is nothing in the
canaille to recommend it to your aesthetic soul." He pointed an accusing
finger at the whiskey glass which the other was refilling. "Socialism
doesn't seem to save you."

"I'm very sick," was the answer. "With you it is different. You have
health and much to live for, and you must be handcuffed to life somehow.
As for me, you wonder why I am a socialist. I'll tell you. It is
because Socialism is inevitable; because the present rotten and
irrational system cannot endure; because the day is past for your man on
horseback. The slaves won't stand for it. They are too many, and willy-
nilly they'll drag down the would-be equestrian before ever he gets
astride. You can't get away from them, and you'll have to swallow the
whole slave-morality. It's not a nice mess, I'll allow. But it's been a-
brewing and swallow it you must. You are antediluvian anyway, with your
Nietzsche ideas. The past is past, and the man who says history repeats
itself is a liar. Of course I don't like the crowd, but what's a poor
chap to do? We can't have the man on horseback, and anything is
preferable to the timid swine that now rule. But come on, anyway. I'm
loaded to the guards now, and if I sit here any longer, I'll get drunk.
And you know the doctor says--damn the doctor! I'll fool him yet."

It was Sunday night, and they found the small hall packed by the Oakland
socialists, chiefly members of the working class. The speaker, a clever
Jew, won Martin's admiration at the same time that he aroused his
antagonism. The man's stooped and narrow shoulders and weazened chest
proclaimed him the true child of the crowded ghetto, and strong on Martin
was the age-long struggle of the feeble, wretched slaves against the
lordly handful of men who had ruled over them and would rule over them to
the end of time. To Martin this withered wisp of a creature was a
symbol. He was the figure that stood forth representative of the whole
miserable mass of wea