"The skinny minimum eaters do," said the workman with a sneer, "when we let them talk, which isn't often, but when they get a chance they talk Bellamism. But what if they do talk, it does them no good. We have a red flag, we have Imperial Socialism; we have the House of Hohenzollern. Well, then, I say, let them talk if they want to, every man must eat according to his work; that is socialism. We can't have Bellamism when we have socialism." This speech, so much more informative and evidencing a knowledge I had not anticipated, quite disturbed me. "You talk about these things," I ventured, "in your Free Speech Halls?" The hitherto pleasant face of the workingman altered to an ugly frown. "No you don't," he growled, "you don't think because I talk to you, that you can go asking me what is not your right to know, even if you are an officer?" I remained discreetly silent, but continued to walk at the side of the striding giant. Presently I asked: "What do you do now, are you going to work?" "No," he said, looking at me doubtfully, "that was dinner, not breakfast. I am going now to the picture hall." "And then," I asked, "do you go to bed?" "No," he said, "we then go to the gymnasium or the gaming tables. Six hours' work, six hours' sleep, and four hours for amusement." "And what do you do," I asked, "the remainder of the day?" He turned and stared at me. "That is all we get here, sixteen hours. This is the metal workers' level. Some levels get twenty hours. It depends on the work." "But," I said, "a real day has twenty-four hours." "I've heard," he said, "that it does on the upper levels." "But," I protested, "I mean a real day--a day of the sun. Do you understand that?" "Oh yes," he said, "we see the pictures of the Place in the Sun. That's a fine show." "Oh," I said, "then you have pictures of the sun?" "Of course," he replied, "the sun that shines upon the throne. We all see that." At the time I could not comprehend this reference, but I made bold to ask if it were forbidden me to go to his picture hall. "I can't make out," he said, "why you want to see, but I never heard of any order forbidding it. "I go here," he remarked, as we came to a picture theatre. I let my Herculean companion enter alone, but followed him shortly and found a seat in a secluded corner. No one disputed my presence. The music that filled the hall from some hidden horn was loud and, in a rough way, joyous. The pictures--evidently carefully prepared for such an audience--were limited to the life that these men knew. The themes were chiefly of athletic contests, of boxing, wrestling and feats of strength. There were also pictures of working contests, always ending by the awarding of honours by some much bespangled official. But of love and romance, of intrigue and adventure, of pathos and mirth, these pictures were strangely devoid,--there was, in fact, no woman's likeness cast upon the screen and no pictures depicting emotion or sentiment.