leam of triumph lighted up his seamed and weatherbeaten countenance.

"Did you belong to the A. R. U.?" I asked.

"Did I?" he answered with peculiar and assuring emphasis. "I was the
first man on our division to sign the list, and my name was first on
the charter. Look it up and you'll find me there. My card I lost in Ohio
where I was run in as a vag. The deputy that searched me at the jail
took my card from my pocket and I never saw it again. It was all I had
left. I raised a row about it and they threatened to lock me up again. I
was told afterwards that the deputy had scabbed in the A. R. U. strike."

"Did I belong to the A. R. U.? Well, I should say I did and I am proud
of it even if they did put me on the hummer and pull me down to where I
am today. But I never scabbed. And when I cross the big divide I can
walk straight up to the bar of judgment and look God in the face without
a flicker."

"We had the railroads whipped to a standstill," he said, warming up,
"but the soldiers, the courts and the army of deputy United States
marshals that scabbed our jobs were too much for us. It was the
government and not the railroads that put us out, and it was a sorry day
for the railroad men of this country. Mark what I tell you, the time
will come when they will have to reorganize the A. R. U. It was the only
union that all could join and in which all got a square deal, and it was
the only union the railroad managers ever feared."

And then he told me the melancholy story of his own persecution and
suffering after the strike. His job was gone and his name was on the
blacklist. Five jobs he secured under assumed names were lost to him as
soon as he was found out. Poverty began to harass him. He picked up odd
jobs and when he managed to get a dollar ahead he sent it to his family.
His aged mother died of privation and worry and his wife soon followed
her to the grave. Two boys were left, but whatever became of them and
whether they are now alive or dead, he could never learn.

The old fellow grew serious and a melancholy sigh escaped him. But he
was not bitter. He bore no malice toward any one. He had suffered much,
but he had kept the faith, and his regrets were at least free from
reproach.

He was a broken down old veteran of the industrial army. He had paid the
penalties of his protest against privately owned industry and the
slavery of his class, and now in his old age he was shuffling along in
his rags toward a name