don&rsquo;t think they quite expected the result. He was extremely drunk&mdash;mad drunk. With a howl of rage he leaped suddenly upon the table. Kicking over the bottles and glasses, he yelled: &ldquo;Vive l&rsquo;anarchie! Death to the capitalists!&rdquo; He yelled this again and again. All round him broken glass was falling, chairs were being swung in the air, people were taking each other by the throat. The police dashed in. He hit, bit, scratched and struggled, till something crashed down upon his head. . . . </p> <p> He came to himself in a police cell, locked up on a charge of assault, seditious cries, and anarchist propaganda. </p> <p> He looked at me fixedly with his liquid, shining eyes, that seemed very big in the dim light. </p> <p> &ldquo;That was bad. But even then I might have got off somehow, perhaps,&rdquo; he said, slowly. </p> <p> I doubt it. But whatever chance he had was done away with by a young socialist lawyer who volunteered to undertake his defence. In vain he assured him that he was no anarchist; that he was a quiet, respectable mechanic, only too anxious to work ten hours per day at his trade. He was represented at the trial as the victim of society and his drunken shoutings as the expression of infinite suffering. The young lawyer had his way to make, and this case was just what he wanted for a start. The speech for the defence was pronounced magnificent. </p> <p> The poor fellow paused, swallowed, and brought out the statement: </p> <p> &ldquo;I got the maximum penalty applicable to a first offence.&rdquo; </p> <p> I made an appropriate murmur. He hung his head and folded his arms. </p> <p> &ldquo;When they let me out of prison,&rdquo; he began, gently, &ldquo;I made tracks, of course, for my old workshop. My patron had a particular liking for me before; but when he saw me he turned green with fright and showed me the door with a shaking hand.&rdquo; </p> <p> While he stood in the street, uneasy and disconcerted, he was accosted by a middle-aged man who introduced himself as an engineer&rsquo;s fitter, too. &ldquo;I know who you are,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have attended your trial. You are a good comrade and your ideas are sound. But the devil of it is that you won&rsquo;t be able to get work anywhere now. These bourgeois&rsquo;ll conspire to starve you. That&rsquo;s their way. Expect no mercy from the rich.&rdquo; </p> <p> To be spoken to so kindly in the street had comforted him very much. His seemed to be the sort of nature needing support and sympathy. The idea of not being able to find work had knocked him over completely. If his patron, who knew him so well for a quiet, orderly, competent workman,