rett, H. R. went to Caspar
Weinpusslacher's. He could not get a seat. People stood in dozens,
waiting for the early dinner to finish. And most of the waiting
customers were fashionably dressed. The Colossal Restaurant had become a
fad.

Caspar greeted H. R. with respect. He did not yet feel strong enough to
display ingratitude.

"I'll fix a special table, Mr. Rutchers," he said.

H. R. nodded assent and then sought Fleming. At the longest table sat
twenty-seven unionized artists.

"Are you getting the full thirty-cent dinner?" he asked, paternally.

"Yes, sir," Fleming hastily assured him.

H. R. looked at his men. They looked away uneasily. Was this to be their
last free meal?

H. R. turned to Andrew Barrett and said in a voice that did not reach
the members and therefore increased their uneasiness:

"Barrett, in unionizing these men, thereby making them free sandwiches,
I had in mind several things; one of them was the absolute control of
the New York papers."

"How?" asked Barrett in utter non-comprehension.

"By organizing my men into a Public Sentiment Corps. Their duty will be
to write letters to the newspapers. I figure that one bona-fide letter
to each thirteen thousand one hundred and eighty-six circulation creates
an irresistible demand. The _Evening Post_, of course, needs about one
to five hundred readers. I think eleven letters will be enough there.
Our men already have names, and hereafter they will have permanent
addresses."

"And then?"

"I furnish the paper, the stamps, and the literature. The men copy the
letters. The newspapers will do the rest. Did you bring the pads and
pencils I told you?"

"Yes."

"Pass 'em around, one to each man."

Barrett did so. The men edged away in ill-concealed terror.

"Take up the pencils!" commanded H. R.

The members acted as if the pencils were rattlesnakes.

"Did you hear me?" asked H. R., calmly.

They trembled. But they were not slaves. No man can be compelled to
write in a free country.

By feeding these men H. R. had given them the courage to refuse to obey
him! Was the food an error, as charitable philosophers have declared?

The pencils remained untouched before the men. Fleming was the only one
who obeyed. But he was by now almost a capitalist--he was a distributor
of meal-tickets.

"Mutiny!" muttered Andrew Barrett, and looked anxiously at his chief.
How would H. R. meet this crisis? The absolute control of the New York
papers hu