held out one of the placards with the picture of the Candidate.
"Would you be so good as to put this in your window?" he inquired;
and the other looked at it coldly. Then he smiled--he was a good
sort, apparently. "I don't think my customers would patronize your
business," he said; but Jimmie went at him to take some tickets and
learn about Socialism--and would you believe it, he had actually
shelled out a dollar! "I found out afterwards that it was Ashton
Charmers, the president of the bank!" said Jimmie. "I'd a' been
scared, if I'd a' known."

He had not meant to talk about himself; he was just trying to
entertain a tired Candidate, to keep him from brooding over a world
going to war. But the Candidate, listening, found tears trying to
steal into his eyes. He watched the figure before him--a bowed,
undernourished little man, with one shoulder lower than the other, a
straggly brown moustache stained with coffee, and stumpy black
teeth, and gnarled hands into which the dirt and grease were ground
so deeply that washing them would obviously be a waste of time. His
clothes were worn and shapeless, his celluloid collar was cracked
and his necktie was almost a rag. You would never have looked at
such a man twice on the street--and yet the Candidate saw in him one
of those obscure heroes who are making a movement which is to
transform the world.




V