"Because I'll have to eat standing up for a month."
"Yes?" queried Kurt.
"The seat of my pants must have made a good target, for you sure pasted it full of birdshot."
Kurt smothered a laugh. Then he felt the old anger leap up. "Didn't you burn my wheat?"
"Are you that young Dorn?"
"Yes, I am," replied Kurt, hotly.
"Well, I didn't burn one damn straw of your old wheat."
"You didn't! But you're with these men? You're an I.W.W. You've been fighting these farmers here."
"If you want to know, I'm a tramp," said the man, bitterly. "Years ago I was a prosperous oil-producer in Ohio. I had a fine oil-field. Along comes a big fellow, tries to buy me out, and, failing that, he shot off dynamite charges into the ground next my oil-field.… Choked my wells! Ruined me!… I came west—went to farming. Along comes a corporation, steals my water for irrigation—and my land went back to desert.… So I quit working and trying to be honest. It doesn't pay. The rich men are getting all the richer at the expense of the poor. So now I'm a tramp."
"Friend, that's a hard-luck story," said Kurt. "It sure makes me think.… But I'll tell you what—you don't belong to this I.W.W. outfit, even if you are a tramp."