"Sure! W.B.Y. Catch onto that?" "No. And this ain't no josh." "Why, W.B.Y. is for 'What's bitin' you?' Know the answer?" "If you can't show your I.W.W., you can beat it," said the tramp. "Tryin' to kid me?" "Not so as your mother would notice. Got your card?" Waco finally realized that they meant business. "No, I ain't got no I.W.W. card. I'm a bo, same as you fellas. What's bitin' you, anyway?" "Let's give him the third, fellas." Waco jumped to his feet and backed away. The leader of the group hesitated wisely, because Waco had a gun in his hand. "So that's your game, eh? Collectin' internal revenue. Well, we're union men. You better sift along." And the leader sat down. "I've a dam' good mind to sift you," said Waco, backing toward the embankment. "Got to have a card to travel with a lousy bunch like you, eh?" He climbed to the top of the embankment, and, turning, ran down the track. Things were in a fine state when a guy couldn't roll in with a bunch of willies without showing a card. Workmen often tramped the country looking for work. But hobos forming a union and calling themselves workmen! Even Waco could not digest that. But he had learned a lesson, and the next group that he overtook treading the cinders were more genial. One of them gave him some bread and cold meat. They tramped until nightfall. That evening Waco industriously "lifted" a chicken from a convenient hencoop. The hen was old and tough and most probably a grandmother of many years' setting, but she was a welcome contribution to their evening meal. While they ate Waco asked them if they belonged to the I.W.W. They did to a man. He had lost his card. Where could he get a renewal? From headquarters, of course. But he had been given his card up in Portland; he had cooked in a lumber camp. In that case he would have to see the "boss" at Phoenix. There were three men in the party besides Waco. One of them claimed to be a carpenter, another an ex-railroad man, and the third an iron moulder. Waco, to keep up appearances, said that he was a cook; that he had lost his job in the Northern camps on account of trouble between the independent lumbermen and the I.W.W. It happened that there had been some trouble of that kind recently, so his word was taken at its face value. In Phoenix, he was directed to the "headquarters," a disreputable lounging-room in an abandoned store on the outskirts of the town. There were papers and magazines scattered about; socialistic journals and many newspapers printed in German, Russian, and Italian. The place smelled of stale tobacco smoke and unwashed clothing. But the organization evidently had money. No one seemed to want for food, tobacco, or whiskey.