in sight of the
reporters, who copied the legends, that all America might read. While
they were writing, Caspar was hiring thirty extra waiters and turning
people away. Hendrik went from man to man, sternly warning that no one
must begin to eat until he gave the order. A violation of his order
would entail the loss of the dinner and most of the scalp. He also said
they must not linger over their victuals, and told them that two extra
beers apiece would be awarded to the ten men who finished first.

He had made up his mind that the cold and callous world should be told
how starving men eat.

What do people who get enough to eat know about starving men?

Nothing!

They impede the world's progress by being content. Human pigs!

In a surprisingly short time one hundred complete dinners were in front
of one hundred starving men. Six bartenders were busy filling
schooners--in plain sight of the starving men. But the boss's awful
frown held them in check. Each man began to tremble in advance--fearing
he might not be one of the ten to win the extra schooners.

The reporters looked at the hundred faces and began to write like mad.

Hendrik rose. There was an awed silence. The reporters stopped writing.
One hundred inferior maxillaries began to castanet away like mad. The
boss held up a hand. Then he said in measured tones:

"May God be good to us sandwich-men again this year! _Eat!_"

When he said eat, men ate. Don't forget the moral effect of commanding
and being obeyed!

They flung themselves on the food like wild beasts, and made animal
noises in their throats. They disdained forks, knives, and spoons. They
used claws and jaws on meat, coffee, bread, potatoes, soup, or pie
whichever was nearest.

No man wanted to be the last to finish.

"My God!" exclaimed the _Evening Post_ man. "This is absolutely
horrible!"

"Pippin!" said the creative artist from the Sun.

All of them would treat it as a Belasco production. That is, they would
impart to it all the dignity and importance of a political convention.

At 8 P.M. Hendrik Rutgers, man of destiny, rose to speak. He never even
glanced at the reporters. He said, very earnestly, to his tattered
cohorts:

"Comrades! Ours is beyond question the only labor union in the United
States, and, for all I know, in the entire world, that is not
monopolistic in its tendencies. We are individualists because
advertising is not a science nor a trade, but an art, and we are
art