our peacefully walking." The militiamen tore away the
posters, but the strikers fell in behind their leaders and straggled
off, a thin unimpressive trickle between steel-glinting lines of
soldiers. Babbitt saw with disappointment that there wasn't going to be
any violence, nothing interesting at all. Then he gasped.

Among the marchers, beside a bulky young workman, was Seneca Doane,
smiling, content. In front of him was Professor Brockbank, head of
the history department in the State University, an old man and
white-bearded, known to come from a distinguished Massachusetts family.

"Why, gosh," Babbitt marveled, "a swell like him in with the strikers?
And good ole Senny Doane! They're fools to get mixed up with this bunch.
They're parlor socialists! But they have got nerve. And nothing in it
for them, not a cent! And--I don't know 's ALL the strikers look like
such tough nuts. Look just about like anybody else to me!"

The militiamen were turning the parade down a side street.

"They got just as much right to march as anybody else! They own the
streets as much as Clarence Drum or the American Legion does!" Babbitt
grumbled. "Of course, they're--they're a bad element, but--Oh, rats!"

At the Athletic Club, Babbitt was silent during lunch, while the others
fretted, "I don't know what the world's coming to," or solaced their
spirits with "kidding."

Captain Clarence Drum came swinging by, splendid in khaki.

"How's it going, Captain?" inquired Vergil Gunch.

"Oh, we got 'em stopped. We worked 'em off on side streets and separated
'em and they got discouraged and went home."

"Fine work. No violence."

"Fine work nothing!" groaned Mr. Drum. "If I had my way, there'd be a
whole lot of violence, and I'd start it, and then the whole thing would
be over. I don't believe in standing back and wet-nursing these fellows
and letting the disturbances drag on. I tell you these strikers are
nothing in God's world but a lot of bomb-throwing socialists and thugs,
and the only way to handle 'em is with a club! That's what I'd do; beat
up the whole lot of 'em!"

Babbitt heard himself saying, "Oh, rats, Clarence, they look just about
like you and me, and I certainly didn't notice any bombs."

Drum complained, "Oh, you didn't, eh? Well, maybe you'd like to take
charge of the strike! Just tell Colonel Nixon what innocents the
strikers are! He'd be glad to hear about it!" Drum strode on, while all
the table stared at Babbitt.