"Great stuff. Not working for some lazy cuss that's inherited
the right to boss you. And _international_ brotherhood, not just
neighborhoods. New thing."

"Gee! I surely would like that, awfully," sighed Mr. Wrenn.

He saw the processional of world brotherhood tramp steadily
through the paling sunset; saffron-vestured Mandarin marching by
flax-faced Norseman and languid South Sea Islander--the diverse
peoples toward whom he had always yearned.

"But I don't care so much for some of these ranting street-corner
socialists, though," mused Morton. "The kind that holler `Come
get saved _our_ way or go to hell! Keep off scab guides to prosperity.'"

"Yuh, sure. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Huh! huh!"

Morton soon had another thought. "Still, same time, us guys
that do the work have got to work out something for ourselves.
We can't bank on the rah-rah boys that wear eye-glasses and
condescend to like us, cause they think we ain't entirely too
dirty for 'em to associate with, and all these writer guys and
so on. That's where you got to hand it to the street-corner
shouters."

"Yes, that's _so_. Y' right there, I guess, all right."