nd even gloomy faces. Labour was having its little war.

When he came near the office in question, he saw a few men standing
about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men--whom he
took to be strikers--watching. All the houses were small and wooden, the
streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked actually poor and
hard-up.

He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen and
the men already there. One of the officers addressed him.

"What are you looking for?"

"I want to see if I can get a place."

"The offices are up those steps," said the bluecoat. His face was a very
neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, he sympathised
with the strikers and hated this "scab." In his heart of hearts, also,
he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which commanded order.
Of its true social significance, he never once dreamed. His was not the
mind for that. The two feelings blended in him--neutralised one another
and him. He would have fought for this man as determinedly as for
himself, and yet only so far as commanded. Strip him of his uniform, and
he would have soon picked his side.

Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small,
dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several
clerks.

"Well, sir?" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long
desk.

"Do you want to hire any men?" inquired Hurstwood.

"What are you--a motorman?"

"No; I'm not anything," said Hurstwood.

He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people needed
men. If one didn't take him, another would. This man could take him or
leave him, just as he chose.

"Well, we prefer experienced men, of course," said the man. He paused,
while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: "Still, I guess you
can learn. What is your name?"

"Wheeler," said Hurstwood.

The man wrote an order on a small card. "Take that to our barns," he
said, "and give it to the foreman. He'll show you what to do."

Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in the direction
indicated, while the policemen looked after.

"There's another wants to try it," said Officer Kiely to Officer Macey.

"I have my mind he'll get his fill," returned the latter, quietly. They
had been in strikes before.

Chapter XLI. THE STRIKE

The barn at which Hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed, and
was being operated practically by three