"But you can't think anything," I rejoined. "You say I'm tied to a wife and home. All right, I'm glad I am. But you're tied, too. You're tied to a creed, Mister Syndicalist--a creed so stiff that you can't think of anything else." "All right, I'm glad I am," he echoed. "I'm sorry youth lasted as long as it did." He closed his grip and strapped it. Then he took up his hat and coat and threw a last look about the room where he had lived for a year or more. "Breaking up home ties," he said with a grin. "Don't come to the boat," he added downstairs. "She don't sail for an hour or two and I'll be asleep in my bunk long before." "All right. Good-by, J. K.--remember we may meet over there----" Again that gruffness came into his voice: "If you do, you'll be taking a mighty big chance," he said. "Good-by, Bill--it's just possible we may never meet again. Glad to have made your acquaintance, Kid. Here's wishing you luck." He turned and went off down the Farm with that long swinging walk of his, his big heavy shoulders bent rather more than before. And as I stood looking after him I thought of the lonely winding road that he was to travel day and night, into slums of cities and in and out among the camps. * * * * * I walked slowly back through the tenements toward the new home among them that Eleanore had made. In the summer's night the city streets were still alive with people. I passed brightly lighted thoroughfares where I saw them in crowds, and I knew that this tide of people flowed endlessly through the hundreds of miles of streets that made up the port of New York. Hurrying, idling, talking and laughing, quarreling, fighting, here stopping to look at displays in shop windows, there pouring into "Movies"--and walking, walking, walking on. Going up into their tenement homes to eat and drink, love, breed and sleep, to wake up and come down to another day. So the crowd moved on and on, while the great harbor surrounding their lives and shaping their lives, went on with its changes unheeded. I tried to think of this harbor as being run by this common crowd--of the railroads, mines and factories, of the colleges, hospitals and all institutions of research, and the theaters and concert halls, the picture galleries, all the books--all in the power of the crowd. "It will be a long time," I thought. "Before it comes the crowd must change. But they will change--and fast or slow, I belong with them while they're changing." Something Joe had once said came into my mind: "They're the ones who get shot down in wars and worked like dogs in time of peace."