"There is no sentiment in business," he replied angrily. "A week ago
last Thursday the local posts of the American Legion commenced their
organized drive for jobs for their crippled and unemployed comrades, and
within three days you've sawed off two hundred and nine such jobs on the
various corporations that you control. The gang you shipped up to the
mill in Washington has already applied for a charter for a new post to
be known as Cappy Ricks Post No. 534. And you had experienced men
discharged to make room for these ex-soldiers."

"You bet I did," Cappy yelled triumphantly. "It's always Old Home Week
in every logging camp and saw-mill in the Northwest for I.W.W.'s and
revolutionary communists. I'm sick of their unauthorized strikes and
sabotage, and by the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet, Cappy Ricks Post. No. 534,
American Legion, is the only sort of back-fire I can think of to put the
Wobblies on the run."

"Every office and ship and retail yard could be run by a
first-sergeant," Skinner complained. "I'm thinking of having reveille
and retreat and bugle calls and Saturday morning inspections. I tell
you, sir, the Ricks interests have absorbed all the old soldiers
possible and at the present moment those interests are overflowing with
glory. What we want are workers, not talkers. These ex-soldiers spend
too much time fighting their battles over again."

"Well, Comrade Peck is the last one I'll ask you to absorb, Skinner,"
Cappy promised contritely. "Ever read Kipling's Barrack Room Ballads,
Skinner?"

"I have no time to read," Mr. Skinner protested.