nd the Doctor were sitting on a baggage truck at a way station waiting
for a belated train. Grant was in the full current of his passion.
Personal triumph meant little to him--the cause everything. His heart
was afire with a lust to win. The Doctor kept looking at Grant with
curious eyes--appraising eyes, indeed--from time to time as the younger
man's interminable stream of talk of the Cause flowed on. But the Doctor
had his passion also. When it burst its bonds, he was saying: "Look
here, you crazy man--take a reef in your canvas picture of jocund day
upon the misty mountain tops--get down to grass roots." Grant turned an
exalted face upon the Doctor in astonishment. The Doctor went on:

"Grant, I can give the concert all right--but, young man, you are
selling the soap. That's a great argument you have been making this
week, Grant."

"There wasn't much to my argument, Doctor," answered Grant, absently,
"though it was a righteous cause. All I did was to make an appeal to the
pocketbooks of Market Street all over the State, showing the merchants
and farmers that the more the laboring man receives the more he will
spend, and if he is paid for his accidents he will buy more prunes and
calico; whereas, if he is not paid he will burden the taxes as a pauper.
Tom couldn't overcome that argument, but in the long run, our cause will
not be won permanently and definitely by the bread and butter and taxes
argument, except as that sort of argument proves the justice of our
cause and arouses love in the hearts of you middle-class people."

But Dr. Nesbit persisted with his figure. "Grant," he piped, "you
certainly can sell soap. Why don't you sell some soap on your own hook?
Why don't you let me run you for something--Congress--governor, or
something? We can win hands down."

Grant did not wait for the Doctor to finish, but cried in violent
protest: "No, no, no--Doctor--no, I must not do that. I tell you, man, I
must travel light and alone. I must go into life as naked as St.
Francis. The world is stirring as with a great spirit of change. The
last night I was at home, up stepped a little Belgian glassblower to me.
I'd never seen him before. I said, 'Hello, comrade!' He grasped my hands
with both hands and cried 'Comrade! So you know the password. It has
given me welcome and warmth and food in France, in England, in
Australia, and now here. Everywhere the workers are comrades!'
Everywhere the workers are comrades. Do you know wh