“Selling something?” asked a large red-haired young man, rolling a quid of tobacco in his mouth.
“No,” replied Sam shortly, “going to work for Ed.”
The silent men in chairs along the wall dropped their newspapers and stared, and the bald-headed young man at the table sat with open mouth, a card held suspended in the air. Sam had become, for the moment, a centre of interest and the men stirred in their chairs and began to whisper and point to him.
A large, watery-eyed man, with florid cheeks, clad in a long overcoat with spots down the front, came in at the door and passed through the room bowing and smiling to the men. Taking Ed by the arm he disappeared into a little barroom, where Sam could hear him talking in low tones.
After a little while the florid-faced man came and put his head through the barroom door into the office.
“Come on, boys,” he said, smiling and nodding right and left, “the drinks are on me.”
The men got up and filed into the bar, the old man and Sam remaining seated in their chairs. They began talking in undertones.
“I’ll start ‘em thinking—these men,” said the old man.
From his pocket he took a pamphlet and gave it to Sam. It was a crudely written attack upon rich men and corporations.
“Some brains in the fellow who wrote that,” said the old carpenter, rubbing his hands together and smiling.