Still Eleanore did not look up. "What's his address?" I asked gruffly. Sue gave it to me and good-humoredly yawned and said she must be getting home. "Good-night, dear," said Eleanore. She had risen and come to the door. "What a love of a hat you're wearing. It's a new one, isn't it? I caught sight of it in the parade." But the smile which my tall sister threw back at us from the doorway had nothing whatever to do with hats. It said as plainly as in words: "Now, you cozy liberals, go over and touch _that_ spot if you dare." When she had gone I took up a book and tried to read. But I soon gloomily relapsed. Would J. K. never leave me alone? What was he doing with my harbor? Why should I look him up, confound him--he hadn't bothered his head about me. But I knew that I _would_ look him up and would find him more disturbing than ever. How he did keep moving on. No, not on, but down, down--until now he had bumped the bottom! "Are you going to see him?" Glancing sharply up, I saw Eleanore carefully watching my face. "Oh, I suppose so," I replied. She bent again to her knitting. "He must be a strange kind of a person," she said. CHAPTER IV I slept little that night, and my work the next morning went badly. So, after wasting an hour or two, I decided to stop. I would go and see Joe and be done with it. What was he doing with my harbor? The address Sue had given me was down on the North River, my old hunting ground. The weather had turned cold over-night, and when I came to the waterfront I felt the big raw breath of the sea. I had hardly been near the harbor in years. It had become for me a deep invisible corner-stone upon which my vigorous world was built. I had climbed up into the airy heights, I had been writing of millionaires. And coming so abruptly now from my story of life in rich hotels, the place I had once glorified looked bleak and naked, elemental. Down to the roots of things again. I came to a bare wooden building, climbed some stairs and entered a large, low-ceilinged room which was evidently a meeting hall. Chairs were stacked along the walls and there was a low platform at one end. As I lingered there a moment, by habit my eyes took in the details. The local color was lurid enough. On the walls were foreign pictures, one of the anarchist Ferrer being executed in Spain, and another of an Italian mob shaking their fists and yelling like demons at a bloated hideous priest. There were posters in which flaming torches, blood-red flags and barricades and cannon belching clouds of smoke stood out in heavy blacks and reds. And all this foreign violence was made grimly real in its purpose here by the way these pictures centered around the largest poster, which was of an ocean liner with all its different kinds of workers gathered together in one mass and staring fixedly up at the ship.