d docks, any place where there
might be a grain or two of the powder of unrest and discontent. His
business was to supply the human matches.

No more parading the streets, no more haranguing from soap boxes. The
proper place nowadays was in the yard or shop corners at noontime. A
word or two dropped at the right moment; perhaps a printed pamphlet;
little wedges wherever there were men who wanted something they neither
earned nor deserved. Here and there across the land little flares,
one running into the other, like wildfire on the plains, and then--the
upheaval. As in Russia, so now in Germany; later, England and France and
here. The proletariat was gaining power.

He was no fool, this individual. He knew his clay, the day labourer,
with his parrotlike mentality. Though the victim of this peculiar potter
absorbs sounds he doesn't often absorb meanings. But he takes these
sounds and respouts them and convinces himself that he is some kind
of Moses, headed for the promised land. Inflammable stuff. Hence, the
strikes which puzzle the average intelligent American citizen. What is
it all about? Nobody seems to know.

Once upon a time men went on a strike because they were being cheated
and abused. Now they strike on the principle that it is excellent
policy always to be demanding something; it keeps capitalism where it
belongs--on the ragged edge of things. No matter what they demand they
never expect to give an equivalent; and a just cause isn't necessary.
Thus the present-day agitator has only one perplexity--that of eluding
the iron hand of the Department of Justice.

Suddenly the man in the chair brought the newspaper close up and stared.
He jumped to his feet, ran out and up the next flight of stairs. He
stopped before a door and turned the knob a certain number of times.
Presently the door opened the barest crack; then it was swung wide
enough to admit the visitor.

"Look!" he whispered, indicating Cutty's advertisement.

The occupant of the room snatched the newspaper and carried it to a
window.

Will purchase the drums of jeopardy at top price. No questions
asked. Address this office.
Double C.

"Very good. I might have missed it. We shall sell the accursed drums to
this gentleman."

"Sell them? But--"

"Imbecile! What we must do is to find out who this man is. In the end he
may lead us to him."

"But it may be a trap!"

"Leave that