"I don't tell that to everybody," said Jimmie. "You know--they
mightn't understand. But I don't mind you knowin'."

"Thank you," replied the Candidate, and put his hand on Jimmie's
shoulder. "Tell me how you became a Socialist."

There was nothing special about that, was the answer. There had been
a fellow in the shop who was always "chewing the rag"; Jimmie had
laughed at him--for his life had made him suspicious of everybody,
and if there was any sort of politician, it was just another scheme
of somebody to wear a white collar and live off the workers. But the
fellow had kept pegging away; and once Jimmie had been laid off for
a couple of months, and the family had near starved, and that had
given him time to think, and also the inclination. The fellow had
come along with some papers, and Jimmie had read them, and it dawned
upon him that here was a movement of his fellow-workers to put an
end to their torments.

"How long ago was that?" asked the Candidate, and Jimmie answered
three years. "And you haven't lost your enthusiasm?" This with an
intensity that surprised Jimmie. No, he answered, he was not that
kind. Whatever happened, he would keep pegging away at the task of
freeing labour. He would not see the New Day, perhaps, but his
children would see it; and a fellow would work like the devil to
save his children.

So they came to the city; and the Candidate pressed Jimmie's arm.
"Comrade," he said, "I want to tell you how much good this little
trip has done me. I owe you a debt of gratitude."