He met Andy Hall the second day. Before the _Province_ office on Hastings Street there was always a crowd reading the bulletins posted from time to time, studying the war map on which the positions of the opposing armies were kept up to date by little flag-headed pins. The curbstone Boards of Strategy functioned there. Knots of men held heated discussion, or stood silently digesting news. There was a sprinkling of the indifferent, the merely curious. A man at Rod's elbow broke out: "I'll go. Damn right I'll go--in the ranks of a regiment made up of bankers, bond owners, and politicians. But I don't see them breakin' their necks to sign up. Why should I? I never had nothin' but a job, and poor ones at that. I ain't goin' to fight just for a job." "Maybe you'll fight for that?" a voice taunted,--and with the words came the sound of a blow, and then a scuffle and oaths. Rod turned to look. The bystanders were parting two struggling men. Andy Hall's freckled face glowed genially beside him. "Even in these times the dissenter is with us," Andy indicated the brawlers. "How are you?" "So, so," Rod shook hands with the high-rigger. "Still working for us? How did the strike pan out?" "Oh, they got what they asked. I got fired as soon as old Handy thought things had settled down. About two weeks later. I guess he was afraid I might rib them up to ask for something else," Andy smiled amiably. "Oh, that was rotten," Rod sympathized. "Fortunes of war," Hall observed lightly. "Don't do to criticize your master's methods; not if you make your criticism so effective that it costs them money. Then they say you're an agitator and they can you off the job. The working man is mostly a sheep. The bosses know that. When a fellow like me--who isn't a sheep, but who understands and pities the sheep--sets out to show 'em how to get better pasture, he either gets taken into the fold and becomes a minor boss or he gets outlawed. Perfectly simple. You must not disorganize a profitable industry by demanding better pay. Industry doesn't like that." "What do you think of this fracas across the pond?" Rod changed the subject to one that was for him personally, at that moment, much more important. "Come and have a drink, and I'll tell you," Andy suggested. They walked west to the Strand bar. Rod looked at his companion as they stood ordering their liquor. The Strand was a far cry from the usual haunt of the logger. He flourished in what Andy called the "slave market" down on Cordova Street, a region of Semitic clothing stores, cheap hotels, employment agencies where the woodsmen flocked in hundreds, gathered in groups along the sidewalk, rioted in the bars, or sought a job with empty pockets.