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"I told 'em I was a friggin' bookagent to get into the damn town. Spent my last quarter on a cigar to keep up the burjwa look."

The other man laughed. "Al right, fel owworker. I'l take you round."

"What they got here, martial law?" asked Mac as he fol owed the man down an al ey between two overgrown shanties.

"Every sonofabitchin' yel erleg in the State of Nevada right here in town . . . Lucky if you don't get run outa town with a bayonet in yer crotch, as the fel er said." At the end of the al ey was a smal house like a shoebox with brightly lit windows. Young fel ows in miners'

clothes or overal s fil ed up the end of the al ey and sat

-99-three deep on the rickety steps. "What's this, a pool-room?" asked Mac. "This is the Nevada Workman . . . Say, my name's Ben Evans; I'l introjuce you to the gang . . . Say, yous guys, this is fel owworker Mc-Creary . . . he's come on from Frisco to set up type."

"Put it there, Mac," said a sixfooter who looked like a Swede lumberman, and gave Mac's hand a wrench that

made the bones crack.

Fred Hoff had on a green eyeshade and sat behind a

desk piled with gal eys. He got up and shook hands. "Oh, boy, you're just in time. There's hel to pay. They got the printer in the bul pen and we've got to get this sheet out." Mac took off his coat and went back to look over the press. He was leaning over the typesetter's "stone" when Fred Hoff came back and beckoned him into a corner.

"Say, Mac, I want to explain the layout here . . . It's kind of a funny situation . . . The W.F.M.'s goin' yel-low on us . . . It's a hel of a scrap. The Saint was here the other day and that bastard Mul any shot him through both arms and he's in hospital now . . . They're sore as a boil because we're instil in' ideas of revolutionary soli-darity, see? We got the restaurant workers out and we got some of the minin' stiffs. Now the A.F. of L.'s gettin'

wise and they've got a bonehead scab organizer in hobnobbin'

with the mineowners at the Montezuma Club."

"Hey, Fred, let me take this on gradual y," said Mac.

"Then there was a little shootin' the other day out in front of a restaurant down the line an'

the stiff that owned the joint got plugged an' now they've got a couple of the boys in jail for that.""The hel you say.""And Big Bil Haywood's comin' to speak next week . . . That's about the way the situation is, Mac. I've got to tear off an article . . . You're boss printer an'

we'l pay you seven-teen fifty like we al get. Ever written any?"

"No."

-100-"It's a time like this a fel er regrets he didn't work harder in school. Gosh, I wish I could write decent."

"I'l take a swing at an article if I get a chance."

"Big Bil 'l write us some stuff. He writes swel ." They set up a cot for Mac back of the press. It was a week before he could get time to go round to the Eagle to get his suitcase. Over the office and the presses was a long attic, with a stove in it, where most of the boys slept. Those that had blankets rol ed up in their blankets, those that hadn't put their jackets over their heads, those that didn't have jackets slept as best they could. At the end of the room was a long sheet of paper where someone had printed out the Preamble in shaded block letters. On the plaster wal of the office someone had drawn a cartoon of a workingstiff label ed "I.W.W." giving a fat man in a stovepipe hat label ed

"mineowner" a kick in the seat of the pants. Above it they had started to letter "solidarity" but had only gotten as far as "SOLIDA."

One November night Big Bil Haywood spoke at the

miners' union. Mac and Fred Hoff went to report the speech for the paper. The town looked lonely as an old trashdump in the huge val ey ful of shril wind and driv-ing snow. The hal was hot and steamy with the steam of big bodies and plug tobacco and thick mountaineer clothes that gave off the shanty smel of oil lamps and charred firewood and greasy fryingpans and raw whisky. At the beginning of the meeting men moved round uneasily,

shuffling their feet and clearing the