Once upon a time men went on a strike because they were being cheated
and abused. Now they strike on the principle that it is excellent
policy always to be demanding something; it keeps capitalism where it
belongs--on the ragged edge of things. No matter what they demand they
never expect to give an equivalent; and a just cause isn't necessary.
Thus the present-day agitator has only one perplexity--that of eluding
the iron hand of the Department of Justice.

Suddenly the man in the chair brought the newspaper close up and stared.
He jumped to his feet, ran out and up the next flight of stairs. He
stopped before a door and turned the knob a certain number of times.
Presently the door opened the barest crack; then it was swung wide
enough to admit the visitor.

"Look!" he whispered, indicating Cutty's advertisement.

The occupant of the room snatched the newspaper and carried it to a
window.

Will purchase the drums of jeopardy at top price. No questions
asked. Address this office.
Double C.

"Very good. I might have missed it. We shall sell the accursed drums to
this gentleman."

"Sell them? But--"

"Imbecile! What we must do is to find out who this man is. In the end he
may lead us to him."

"But it may be a trap!"

"Leave that to me. You have work of your own to do, and you had best be
about it. Do you not see beneath? Who but the man who harbours him would
know about the drums? The man in the evening clothes. I was too far away
to see his face. Get me all the morning newspapers. If the advertisement
is in all of them I will send a letter to each. We lost the young woman
yesterday. And nothing has been heard of Vladimir and Stemmler. Bad.
I do not like this place. I move to the house to-night. My old friend
Stefani may be lonesome. I dare not risk daylight. Some fool may have
talked. To work! All of us have much to do to wake up the proletariat
in this country of the blind. But the hour will come. Get me the
newspapers."