eman's watch" and he had the laugh on me. In the next wreck
that Brakeman Joe got into I wished him the same luck Comrade Bannerman
wished for the trainload of plutocrats. "If I should meet Joe now," I
said, "I'd gladly give him back the timepiece that he prizes so." Let us
hope that the brakeman I gave the watch to down in Alabama was Brakeman
Joe.

There was much to think of in that auction incident. Experience will
often give the lie to theory. My theory of the game was good enough for
me. I acted on my theory, and they got my money. Perhaps the theory of
Bannerman was wrong. He claimed he knew just how the capitalists were
robbing labor. Suppose we backed his theory with some money and got
stung? I was now theory shy and I have stayed away from theories ever
since.

If you know the facts, no swindle can deceive you. I spend my life in
getting facts. I now have seen enough to know that capitalism is not a
swindle. If all hands labored hard and honestly the system would enrich
us all. Some workers are dishonest and they gouge the employers. Some
employers are dishonest and they gouge the workers. But whether employer
or employee does the robbing, the public is the one that's robbed. And
they are both members of the public. In making the world poorer they are
rendering a sorry service to the world.

Dishonesty is the thing that does the trick. And it is not confined to
any class. It was not a capitalist but a slick wind worker who robbed
me by the watch swindle. He had to swing his jaw for hours every day in
order to steal a few dollars.

CHAPTER XXV. A DROP IN THE BUCKET OF BLOOD

In Birmingham I found a job in a rolling mill and established myself
in a good boarding-house. In those days a "good boarding-house" in
iron workers' language meant one where you got good board. One such was
called "The Bucket of Blood." It got its name because a bloody
fight occurred there almost every day. Any meal might end in a
knock-down-and-drag-out. The ambulance called there almost as often as
the baker's cart. But it was a "good" boarding-house. And I established
myself there.

Good board consists in lots of greasy meat, strong coffee and slabs of
sweet pie with gummy crusts, as thick as the palm of your hand. At the
Bucket of Blood we had this delicious fare and plenty of it. When a man
comes out of the mills he wants quantity as well as quality. We had both
at the Bucket of Blood, and whenever a man got knocked out by