"You--you mean you're a reg'lar painter?" says I, gawpin'. "Got to be, or I couldn't handle a brush here," says Hartley. "This is a union job." "But--but how long has this been goin' on, Hartley?" I asks. "I've held my card for nearly three months now," says he. "No, I haven't been painting here all that time. In fact, I came here only this morning. The president of our local shifted me down here for--for reasons. I'm a real painter, though." "You look it, I must say," says I. "Like it better than being in the bond room?" "Oh, I'm not crazy about it," says he. "Rather smelly work. But it pays well. Dollar an hour, you know, and time and a half for overtime. I manage to knock out sixty or so a week. Then I get something for being secretary of the Union." "Huh!" says I. "Secretary, are you? How'd you work up to that so quick?" "Oh, they found I could write fairly good English and was quick at figures," says he. "Besides, I'm always foreman of the gang. Do all the color mixing, you know. That's where my art school experience comes in handy." "That ought to tickle the old man," says I. "Seen him yet?" "No," says Hartley, "but I want to. Is he here?" "Sure," says I. "He's just outside. He'll be in soon." "Fine!" says Hartley. "Say, Torchy, stick around if you want to be entertained. I have a message for him." "I'll be on hand," says I. "Here he comes now." As old Z. K. stalks in, still red in the ears from his debate outside, Hartley climbs down off the step ladder. For a minute or so the old man don't seem to see him any more'n he does any of the other workmen that he's had to dodge around. Not until Hartley steps right up to him and remarks: "Mr. Tyler, I believe?" does Z. K. stop and let out a gasp. "Hah!" he snorts. "Hartley, eh? Well, what does this mean--a masquerade?" "Not at all," says Hartley. "This is my regular work." "Oh, it is, eh?" says he. "Well, keep at it then. Why do you knock off to talk to me?" "Because I have something to say to you, sir," says Hartley. "You sent a couple of non-union plumbers down here the other day, didn't you?" "What if I did?" demands Z. K. "Got to get the work finished somehow, haven't I?" "You'll never get it finished with scab labor, Mr. Tyler," says Hartley. "You have tried that before, haven't you? Well, this is final. Send those plumbers off at once or I will call out every other man on the job." "Wh-a-a-at!" gasps Z. K. "You will! What in thunder have you got to do with it?" "I've been authorized by the president of our local to strike the job, that's all," says Hartley. "I am the secretary. Here are my credentials and my union card." "Bah!" snorts Z. K. "You impudent young shrimp. I don't believe a word of it. And let me tell you, young man, that I'll send whoever I please to do the work here, unions or no unions." "Very well," says Hartley. With that he turns and calls out: "Lay off, men. Pass the word on."