t the working class was doing. As a
reporter in the West he had been to strike after strike, ending with a
long ugly struggle in the Colorado mines. He talked about it intensely,
the greed of the mine owners, the brutality of the militia, the "bull
pens" into which strikers were thrown. Vaguely I felt he was giving us a
most distorted picture, and glancing now and then at my father I saw
that he thought it a pack of lies. Joe made all the strikers the most
heroic figures, and he spoke of their struggle as only a part of a great
labor war that was soon to sweep the entire land.

Sue excitedly drew him out, and I felt it was all for my benefit. Joe
said that he was going abroad in order that he might write the truth
about the labor world over there. The American papers and magazines
would let you write the truth, he said, about labor over in Europe,
because it was at a safe distance. But they wouldn't allow it here. And
then Sue looked across at me as though to say, "It's only stuff like
_yours_ they allow."

"Why don't you two go out for a walk?" she suggested sweetly after
dinner. And I consented gladly, for there are times when nothing on
earth can be worse than your own sister.

* * * * *

We went down to the old East River docks and walked for some time with
little said. Then Joe turned on me abruptly.

"Well, Bill," he said, "I've read your stuff. It's damn well written."

"Thanks," I replied.

"If I've got any knocking to do," he went on with a visible effort, "I
know you'll give me credit for not knocking out of jealousy. I'm not
jealous, I'm honestly tickled to death. I was wrong about you in Paris.
You and me were different kinds. What you got over there was just what
you needed, it has put you already way out of my class, and it's going
to give you a lot of power as a spreader of ideas. That's why I hate so
like the devil to see you starting out like this, with what I'm so sure
are the wrong ideas."

"How are they wrong?"

"Think a minute. Why is your magazine pushing you so? The first story of
your series is only just out and they've already boomed you all over the
country. Why, Bill, I saw your picture in a trolley car in Denver--and
you're only twenty-five years old! It's damn fine writing, I'll say it
again, but that's not reason enough for this. You've got to go down
deeper and look into your magazine's policy--which is to strike a
balance for all kinds of middle-c