f strong men who have opened their lips to
the poisoned spoon."

Aaron Thurnbrein spat upon the floor.

"There is but one Maraton," he cried fervently. "There has been but one
since the world was shaped. He is come, and the first step towards our
deliverance is at hand."

The older man, whose trembling fingers still rested upon the sheets of
paper, looked at his visitor curiously.

"You are a Jew," he muttered. "Why do you worship Maraton? He is not
of your race."

The young man's gesture was almost sublime.

"Jew or Christian--what does it matter?" he demanded. "I am a Jew.
What has my religion done for me? Nothing! I am a free man in my
thoughts. I am one of the oppressed. Men or women, Jews or Christians,
infidels or believers--what does it matter? We are those who have been
broken upon the wheel. Deliverance for us will come too late. We fight
for those who will follow. It is Maraton who points towards the light.
It is Maraton whose hand shall press the levers which shall set the
kingdoms rocking. I tell you that our own country, even, may bite the
dust--a conqueror's hand lay heavy upon her throat; and yet, no matter.
Through the valley of fire and blood and pestilence--one must pass
through these to the great white land."

"Amen!" David Ross cried fervently. "The gift is upon you to-day,
Aaron. Amen!"

The two stood together for a moment, speechless, carried away out of
themselves. Then the door was suddenly opened. The woman stood there,
sour and withered; behind her, a hard-featured man, official,
malevolent.

"We are for the streets!" the woman exclaimed harshly. "He's got the
order."

"Three pounds thirteen or out you go," the man announced, pushing his
way forward. "Here's the paper."

David Ross looked at him as one awakened from a dream.

"Evicted!"

"And d--d well time, too!" the newcomer continued. "You've had all the
chance in the world. How do you expect to make a living, fiddling about
here all day with pencil and paper, and talking Socialist rot at night?
Leave that chair alone and be off, both of you."

They glanced despairingly towards Aaron Thurnbrein. He thrust his hands
into his pockets and exposed them with a little helpless gesture. The
coins he produced were of copper. The official looked at them and
around the place with a grin of Contempt.

"Cut it short," he ordered. "Clear out."

"There's my bicycle," Aaron Thurnbrein said slowly.

They all looked at him--the woman