was possible to end war, all war.

In the meantime, while all the workers all over the world were being
organized, one prevented as much as possible any assistance going to
capitalistic England. One did some simple thing--started a strike,
or sawed lumber too short, or burned a wheat-field, or put nails
in harvesting machinery, or missent perishable goods, or changed
signal-lights on railroads, or drove copper nails into fruit-trees, so
they died. This was a pity, the fruit-trees. But at least they did not
furnish fruit for Germany's enemies.

So each one did but one thing, and that small, so small that it was
difficult to discover. But there were two hundred thousand men to do
them, according to Rudolph, and that meant a great deal.

Only one thing about the meeting Herman had not liked. There were
packages of wicked photographs going about. Filthy things. When they
came to him he had dropped them on the floor. What had they to do with
Germany's enemies, or preventing America from going into the war?

Rudolph laughed when he dropped them.

"They won't bite you!" he had said, and had stooped to pick them up. But
Herman had kept his foot on them.

So--America would go into the war against the Fatherland, unless many
hundreds of thousands did each their little bit. And if they did not,
America would go in, and fight for England to control the seas, and the
Spencer plant would make millions of shells that honest German workers,
sweat-brothers of the world, might die.

He remembered word for word the peroration of the evening's speech.

"We would extend the hand of brotherhood to the so-called enemy, and
strangle the cry for war in the fat white throats of the blood-bloated
money-lenders of Wall Street, before it became articulate."

He was very tired. He stooped and picked up his shoes, and with them in
his hand, drawn to his old-time military erectness, he stood for some
time before the gilt-framed picture on the wall. Then he went slowly and
ponderously up-stairs to bed.

CHAPTER XXI

From the moment, the day before Christmas, when Graham had taken the
little watch from his pocket and fastened it on Anna's wrist, he was
rather uneasily aware that she had become his creature. He had had no
intention of buying Anna. He was certainly not in love with her. But he
found her amusing and at times comforting.

He had, of course, expected to lose her after the unlucky day when
Clayton had found them together,