e around. Not until Hartley steps right up to him and
remarks: "Mr. Tyler, I believe?" does Z. K. stop and let out a gasp.

"Hah!" he snorts. "Hartley, eh? Well, what does this mean--a
masquerade?"

"Not at all," says Hartley. "This is my regular work."

"Oh, it is, eh?" says he. "Well, keep at it then. Why do you knock off
to talk to me?"

"Because I have something to say to you, sir," says Hartley. "You sent a
couple of non-union plumbers down here the other day, didn't you?"

"What if I did?" demands Z. K. "Got to get the work finished somehow,
haven't I?"

"You'll never get it finished with scab labor, Mr. Tyler," says Hartley.
"You have tried that before, haven't you? Well, this is final. Send
those plumbers off at once or I will call out every other man on the
job."

"Wh-a-a-at!" gasps Z. K. "You will! What in thunder have you got to do
with it?"

"I've been authorized by the president of our local to strike the job,
that's all," says Hartley. "I am the secretary. Here are my credentials
and my union card."

"Bah!" snorts Z. K. "You impudent young shrimp. I don't believe a word
of it. And let me tell you, young man, that I'll send whoever I please
to do the work here, unions or no unions."

"Very well," says Hartley. With that he turns and calls out: "Lay off,
men. Pass the word on."

And say, inside of two minutes there isn't a lick of work being done
anywhere about the place. Plasterers drop their trowels and smoothing
boards, painters come down off the ladders, and all hands begin sheddin'
their work clothes. And while Z. K. is still sputterin' and fumin' the
men begin to file out with their tools under their arms. Meanwhile
Hartley has stepped over into a corner and is leisurely peelin' off his
paint-spattered ducks.

"See here, you young hound!" shouts Z. K. "You know I want to get into
this house early next month. I--I've simply got to."

"The prospects aren't good," says Hartley.

Well, they had it back and forth like that for maybe five minutes before
Z. K. starts to calm down a bit. He's a foxy old pirate, and he hates to
quit, but he's wise enough to know when he's beaten.

"Rather smooth of you, son, getting back at me this way," he observes
smilin' sort of grim. "Learned a few things, haven't you, since you've
been knocking around?"

"Oh, I was bound to," says Hartley.

"Got to be quite a man, too--among painters, eh?" adds Z. K.

Hartley shrugs his shoulders.

"Could you call