SCENE--Nearly a month later. An I. W. W. local near the waterfront, showing the interior of a front room on the ground floor, and the street outside. Moonlight on the narrow street, buildings massed in black shadow. The interior of the room, which is general assembly room, office, and reading room, resembles some dingy settlement boys club. A desk and high stool are in one corner. A table with papers, stacks of pamphlets, chairs about it, is at center. The whole is decidedly cheap, banal, commonplace and unmysterious as a room could well be. The secretary is perched on the stool making entries in a large ledger. An eye shade casts his face into shadows. Eight or ten men, longshoremen, iron workers, and the like, are grouped about the table. Two are playing checkers. One is writing a letter. Most of them are smoking pipes. A big signboard is on the wall at the rear, "Industrial Workers of the World--Local No. 57." YANK--[_Comes down the street outside. He is dressed as in Scene Five. He moves cautiously, mysteriously. He comes to a point opposite the door; tiptoes softly up to it, listens, is impressed by the silence within, knocks carefully, as if he were guessing at the password to some secret rite. Listens. No answer. Knocks again a bit louder. No answer. Knocks impatiently, much louder._] SECRETARY--[_Turning around on his stool._] What the devil is that--someone knocking? [_Shouts:_] Come in, why don't you? [_All the men in the room look up. YANK opens the door slowly, gingerly, as if afraid of an ambush. He looks around for secret doors, mystery, is taken aback by the commonplaceness of the room and the men in it, thinks he may have gotten in the wrong place, then sees the signboard on the wall and is reassured._] YANK--[_Blurts out._] Hello. MEN--[_Reservedly._] Hello. YANK--[_More easily._] I tought I'd bumped into de wrong dump. SECRETARY--[_Scrutinizing him carefully._] Maybe you have. Are you a member? YANK--Naw, not yet. Dat's what I come for--to join. SECRETARY--That's easy. What's your job--longshore? YANK--Naw. Fireman--stoker on de liners. SECRETARY--[_With satisfaction._] Welcome to our city. Glad to know you people are waking up at last. We haven't got many members in your line. YANK--Naw. Dey're all dead to de woild. SECRETARY--Well, you can help to wake 'em. What's your name? I'll make out your card. YANK--[_Confused._] Name? Lemme tink. SECRETARY--[_Sharply._] Don't you know your own name? YANK--Sure; but I been just Yank for so long--Bob, dat's it--Bob Smith. SECRETARY--[_Writing._] Robert Smith. [_Fills out the rest of card._] Here you are. Cost you half a dollar. YANK--Is dat all--four bits? Dat's easy. [_Gives the SECRETARY the money._]