"He's—guess you'd call it 'agitating.' He doesn't. I'd say he calls it preaching brotherhood and equality to a gang of railroaders."
Again the man started.
"He's—working on the—railroad trouble?" he demanded incredulously.
Phyllis nodded. Hendrie drew a deep breath.
"Yes. He's been working hard for a year now, and—and I believe he's just thrown himself into the cause of—Socialism with all his might. He—he gets talking everywhere. His name's always in the papers. Say, can't you do a thing? Can't you help—bring him here?"
Hendrie looked into the girl's earnest face. Then he looked away. A dozen conflicting emotions were stirring within him.
"I can't say right now, child," he replied, after a pause. Then he looked up, and Phyllis read a definite resolve in his hard gray eyes. "You best write him," he went on. "Write him to-day. Tell him how Monica is. Tell him all you like, but leave me out. Maybe I can do something. Guess there's going to be a big fight with labor, and we're going to be in it. Maybe the thought of it makes me feel good. It's about the only thing can make me feel good—now. But I wish—your Frank was on our side," he went on, almost to himself. "I'd say he'd be a good fighter. Yes, I'd say he was that. Must be. It's good to fight, too, when troubles get around. It's good—sure."
"Must men always—fight?" asked Phyllis quietly.
The man stared.
"Why, yes!" he said in astonishment.