alists knit together in a fighting friendship as fierce and narrow
in its motives as Calvinism, pricking us to reform, asking the cogent
question:

"Are we not all brothers?"

Oh, we are going a long way with these Socialists, we are going to
discover a new world of social relationships--and then, and then, like a
mighty wave; will flow in upon us a renewed and more wonderful sense of
the worth of the individual human soul. A new individualism, bringing
with it, perhaps, some faint realization of our dreams of a race of
Supermen, lies just beyond! Its prophets, girded with rude garments
and feeding upon the wild honey of poverty, are already crying in the
wilderness.

I think I could have remained there at the Socialist meeting all night
long: there was something about it that brought a hard, dry twist to my
throat. But after a time my friend Bill Hahn, evidently quite worn out,
yielded his place to another and far less clairvoyant speaker, and the
crowd, among whom I now discovered quite a number of policemen, began to
thin out.

I made my way forward and saw Bill Hahn and several other men just
leaving the platform. I stepped up to him, but it was not until I called
him by name (I knew how absent minded he was!) that he recognized me.

"Well, well," he said; "you came after all!"

He seized me by both arms and introduced me to several of his companions
as "Brother Grayson." They all shook hands with me warmly.

Although he was perspiring, Bill put on his overcoat and the old fur hat
with the ears, and as he now took my arm I could feel one of his bulging
pockets beating against my leg. I had not the slightest idea where they
were going, but Bill held me by the arm and presently we came, a block
or so distant, to a dark, narrow stairway leading up from the street.
I recall the stumbling sound of steps on the wooden boards, a laugh or
two, the high voice of a woman asserting and denying. Feeling our way
along the wall, we came to the top and went into a long, low, rather
dimly lighted room set about with tables and chairs--a sort of
restaurant. A number of men and a few women had already gathered there.
Among them my eyes instantly singled out a huge, rough-looking man who
stood at the centre of an animated group. He had thick, shaggy hair,
and one side of his face over the cheekbone was of a dull blue-black and
raked and scarred, where it had been burned in a Powder blast. He had
been a miner. His gray eyes,