“Well, now,” said Jimmie, “I dunno's you'll want me at all when you hear about me. I'm a Socialist.”
“Thought you were a machinist,” countered the sergeant.
“I'm a Socialist, too. I was in the strike at the Empire a couple of years ago, and they blacklisted me. I can't get no work in the big places here.”
“Well,” said the sergeant, “it's a good town for you to quit, I should say.”
“You want a man like that?” persisted Jimmie.
“What we want is men that know machinery, and'll dig in and work like hell to beat the Kaiser. If you're that sort we don't ask your religion. We've got a bunch that start to-night.”
“Holy smoke!” said Jimmie. He had thought he would have time to ask questions and to think matters over, time to see his friends and say good-bye. But the sergeant was so efficient and business-like; he took it so completely for granted that any man who was worth his salt must be anxious to help wallop the Hun! Jimmie, who had come in full of hurry, was now ashamed to back water, to hem and haw, to say, “I dunno; I ain't so sure.” And so the trap snapped on him—the monster of Militarism grabbed him!
IV.
“Sit down,” said the sergeant, and the anxious little Socialist took the chair beside the desk,
“What's your name?”