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"The South of the Slot" is a short story by American naturalist writer Jack London (1876–1916). It was first published in The Saturday Evening Post, Vol. 181, May, 1909. In 1914, it was published by Macmillan in a collection of Jack London’s stories, The Strength of the Strong.


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The English Language in 67 Accents & Random Voices

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Do I Have a San Francisco Accent? | Ben Casnocha
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South of the Slot by Old San Francisco, which is the San Francisco of only the other day, the day before the Earthquake, was divided midway by the Slot.
The Slot was an iron crack that ran along the centre of Market Street, and from the Slot arose the burr of the ceaseless, endless cable that was hitched at will to the cars it dragged up and down.
In truth, there were two slots, but in the quick grammar of the West time was saved by calling them, and much more that they stood for, "The Slot.
South of the Slot were the factories, slums, laundries, machine-shops, boiler works, and the abodes of the working class.
The Slot was the metaphor that expressed the class cleavage of Society, and no man crossed this metaphor, back and forth, more successfully than Freddie Drummond.
He made a practice of living in both worlds, and in both worlds he lived signally well.
Freddie Drummond was a professor in the Sociology Department of the University of California, and it was as a professor of sociology that he first crossed over the Slot, lived for six mouths in the great labour-ghetto, and wrote THE UNSKILLED LABOURER - a book that was hailed everywhere as an able contribution to the literature of progress, and as a splendid reply to the literature of discontent.
Politically and economically it was nothing if not orthodox.
Presidents of great railway systems bought whole editions of it to give to their employees.
The Manufacturers' Association alone distributed fifty thousand copies of it.
In a way, it was almost as immoral as the far-famed and notorious MESSAGE TO GARCIA, while in its pernicious preachment of thrift and content it ran MR.
WIGGS OF THE CABBAGE PATCH a close second.
At first, Freddie Drummond found it monstrously difficult to get along among the working people.
He was not used to their ways, and they certainly were not used to his.
He had no antecedents.
He could talk of no previous jobs.
His hands were soft.
His extraordinary politeness was ominous.
His first idea of the role he would play was that of a free and independent American who chose to work with his hands and no explanations given.
But it wouldn't do, as he quickly discovered.
At the beginning they accepted him, very provisionally, as a freak.
A little later, as he began to know his way about better, he insensibly drifted into the role that would work - namely, he was a man who had seen better days, very much better days, but who was down on his luck, though, to be sure, only temporarily.
He learned many things, and generalized much and often erroneously, all of which can be found in the pages of THE UNSKILLED LABOURER.
He saved himself, however, after the sane and conservative manner of his kind, by labelling his generalizations as "tentative.
A box factory supplied the parts, and all Freddie Drummond had to do was to fit the parts into a form and drive in the wire nails with a light hammer.
It was not skilled labour, but it was piece-work.
The ordinary labourers in the cannery got a dollar and a half per day.
Freddie Drummond found the other men on the same job with him jogging along and earning a dollar and seventy-five cents a day.
By the third day he was able to earn the same.
But he was ambitious.
He did not care to jog along and, being unusually able and fit, on the fourth day earned two dollars.
The next day, having keyed himself up to an exhausting high- tension, he earned two dollars and a half.
His fellow workers favoured him with scowls and black looks, and made remarks, slangily witty and which he did not understand, about sucking up to the boss and pace-making and holding her down, when the rains set in.
He was astonished at their malingering on piece-work, generalized about the inherent laziness of the unskilled labourer, and proceeded next day to hammer out three dollars' worth of boxes.
And that night, coming out of the cannery, he was interviewed by his fellow workmen, who were very angry and incoherently slangy.
He failed to comprehend the motive behind their action.
The action itself was strenuous.
When he refused to ease down his pace and bleated about freedom of contract, independent Americanism, and the dignity of toil, they proceeded to spoil his pace-making ability.
It was a fierce battle, for Drummond was a large man and an athlete, but the crowd finally jumped on his ribs, walked on his face, and stamped on his fingers, so that it was only after lying in bed for a week that he link able to get up and look for another job.
All of which is duly narrated in that first book of his, in the chapter entitled "The Tyranny of Labour.
It was palpable malingering; but he was there, he decided, not to change conditions, but to observe.
So he lumped one box thereafter, and so well did he study the art of shirking that he wrote a special chapter on it, with the last several paragraphs devoted to tentative generalizations.
In those six months he worked at many jobs and developed into a very good imitation of a genuine worker.
He was a natural linguist, and he kept notebooks, making a scientific study of the workers' slang or argot, until he could talk quite intelligibly.
This language also enabled him more intimately to follow their mental processes, and thereby to gather much data for a projected chapter in some future book which he planned to entitle SYNTHESIS OF WORKING-CLASS PSYCHOLOGY.
Before he arose to the surface from that first plunge into the underworld he discovered that he was a good actor and demonstrated the plasticity of his nature.
He was himself astonished at his own fluidity.
Once having mastered the language and conquered numerous fastidious qualms, he found that he could flow into any nook of working-class life and fit it so snugly as to feel comfortably at home.
As he said, in the preface to his second book, THE TOILER, he endeavoured really to know the working people, and the only possible way to achieve this was to work beside them, eat their food, sleep in their beds, be amused with their amusements, think their thoughts, and feel their feeling.
He was not a deep thinker.
He had no faith in new theories.
All his norms and criteria were conventional.
His Thesis on the French Revolution was noteworthy in college annals, not merely for its painstaking and voluminous accuracy, but for the fact that it was the dryest, deadest, most formal, and most orthodox screed ever written on the subject.
He was a very reserved man, and his natural inhibition was large in quantity and steel-like in quality.
He had but few friends.
He was too undemonstrative, too frigid.
He had no vices, nor had any one ever discovered any temptations.
Tobacco he detested, beer he abhorred, and he was never known to drink anything stronger than an occasional light wine at dinner.
When a freshman he had been baptized "Ice-Box" by his warmer- blooded fellows.
As a member of the faculty he was known as "Cold- Storage.
In appearance and atmosphere he was a strapping big college man, smooth-faced and easy-mannered, clean and simple and wholesome, with a known record of being a splendid athlete and an implied vast possession of cold culture of the inhibited sort.
He never talked shop out of class and committee rooms, except later on, when his books showered him with distasteful public notice and he yielded to the extent of reading occasional papers before certain literary and economic societies.
He did everything right - too right; and in dress and comportment was inevitably correct.
Not that he south of the slot accent a dandy.
He was a college man, in dress and carriage as like as a pea to the type that of late years is being so generously turned out of our institutions of higher learning.
His handshake was satisfyingly strong and stiff.
His blue eyes were coldly blue and convincingly sincere.
His voice, firm and masculine, clean and crisp of enunciation, was pleasant to the ear.
The one drawback to Freddie Drummond was his inhibition.
In his football days, the higher the tension of the game, the cooler he grew.
He was noted as a boxer, but he was regarded as an automaton, with the inhuman precision of a machine judging distance and timing blows, guarding, blocking, and stalling.
He was rarely punished himself, while he rarely punished an opponent.
He was too clever and too controlled to permit himself to put https://art-skin.ru/south/casino-logistics-south-africa.html pound more weight into a punch than he intended.
With him it was a matter of exercise.
It kept him fit.
As time went by, Freddie Drummond found himself more frequently crossing the Slot and losing himself in South of Market.
His summer and winter holidays were spent there, and, whether it was a week or a week-end, he found the time spent there to be valuable and enjoyable.
And there was so much material to be gathered.
His third book, MASS AND MASTER, became a text-book in the American universities; and almost before he knew it, he was at work on a fourth one, THE FALLACY OF THE INEFFICIENT.
Somewhere in his make-up there was a strange twist or quirk.
Perhaps it was a recoil from his environment and training, or from the tempered seed of his ancestors, who had been book-men generation preceding generation; but at any rate, he found enjoyment in being down in the working-class world.
In his own world he was "Cold-Storage," but down below he was "Big" Bill Totts, who could drink and smoke, and slang and fight, and be an all-round favourite.
Everybody liked Bill, and more than one working girl made love to him.
At first he had been merely a good actor, but as time went on, simulation became second nature.
He no longer played a part, and he loved sausages, sausages and bacon, than which, in his own proper sphere, there was nothing more loathsome in the way of food.
From doing the thing for the need's sake, he came to doing the thing for the thing's sake.
He found himself regretting as the time drew near for him to go back to his lecture-room and his inhibition.
And he often found himself waiting with anticipation for the dreamy time to pass when he could cross the Slot and cut loose and play the devil.
He was not wicked, but as "Big" Bill Totts he did a myriad things that Freddie Drummond would never have been permitted to do.
Moreover, Freddie Drummond never would have wanted to do them.
That was the strangest part of his discovery.
Freddie Drummond and Bill Totts were two totally different creatures.
The desires and tastes and impulses of each ran counter to the other's.
Bill Totts could shirk at a job with clear conscience, while Freddie Drummond condemned shirking as vicious, criminal, and un-American, and devoted whole chapters to condemnation of the vice.
Freddie Drummond did not care for dancing, but Bill Totts never missed the nights at the various dancing clubs, such as The Magnolia, The Western Star, and The Elite; while he won a massive silver cup, standing thirty inches high, for being the best-sustained character at the Butchers and Meat Workers' annual grand masked south of the slot accent />And Bill Totts liked the girls and the girls liked him, while Freddie Drummond enjoyed playing the ascetic in this particular, was open in his opposition to equal suffrage, and cynically bitter in his secret condemnation of coeducation.
Freddie Drummond changed his manners with his dress, and without effort.
When he entered the obscure little room used for his transformation scenes, he carried himself just a bit too stiffly.
He was too erect, his shoulders were an inch too far back, while his face was grave, almost harsh, and practically expressionless.
But when he emerged in Bill Totts' clothes he was another creature.
Bill Totts did not slouch, but somehow his whole form limbered up and became graceful.
The very sound of the voice was click, and the laugh was loud and hearty, while loose speech and an occasional oath were as a matter of course on his lips.
Also, Bill Totts was a trifle inclined to late hours, and at times, in saloons, to be good-naturedly bellicose with other workmen.
Then, too, at Sunday picnics or when coming home from the show, either arm betrayed a practised familiarity in stealing around girls' waists, while he displayed a wit keen and delightful in the flirtatious badinage that was expected of a good fellow in his class.
So thoroughly was Bill Totts himself, so thoroughly a workman, a genuine denizen of South of the Slot, that he was as class- conscious as the average of his kind, and his hatred for a scab even exceeded that of the average loyal union man.
During the Water Front Strike, Freddie Drummond was somehow able to stand apart from the unique combination, and, coldly critical, watch Bill Totts hilariously slug scab longshoremen.
For Bill Totts was a dues-paying member of the Longshoremen Union and had a right to be indignant with the usurpers of his job.
From acting outraged feelings, Freddie Drummond, in the role of his other self, came to experience genuine outrage, and it was only when he returned to the classic atmosphere of the university that he was able, sanely and conservatively, to generalize upon his underworld experiences and put them down on paper as a trained sociologist should.
That Bill Totts lacked the perspective to raise him above class-consciousness Freddie Drummond clearly saw.
But Bill Totts could not see it.
When he saw a scab taking his job away, he saw red at the same time, and little else did he see.
It was Freddie Drummond, irreproachably clothed and comported, seated at his study desk or facing his class in SOCIOLOGY 17, who saw Bill Totts, and all around Bill Totts, and all around the whole scab and union-labour problem and its relation to the economic welfare of the United States in the struggle for the world market.
Bill Totts really wasn't able to see beyond the next meal and the prize-fight the following night at the Gaiety Athletic Club.
It was while gathering material for WOMEN AND WORK that Freddie received his first warning of the danger he was in.
He was too successful at living in both worlds.
This strange dualism he had developed was after all very unstable, and, as he sat in his study and meditated, he saw that it could not endure.
It was really a transition stage, and if he persisted he saw that he would inevitably have to drop one world or the other.
He could not continue in both.
And as he looked at the row of volumes that graced the upper shelf of his revolving book-case, his volumes, beginning with his Thesis and ending with WOMEN AND WORK, he decided that that was the world he would hold to and stick by.
Bill Totts had served his purpose, but he had become a too dangerous accomplice.
Bill Totts would have to cease.
Freddie Drummond's fright was due to Mary Condon, President of the International Glove Workers' Union No.
He had seen her, first, from the spectators' gallery, at the annual convention of the Northwest Federation of Labour, and he had seen her through Bill Totts' eyes, and that individual had been most favourably impressed by her.
She was not Freddie Drummond's sort at all.
What if she were a royal-bodied woman, graceful and sinewy as a panther, with amazing black eyes that could fill with fire or laughter-love, as the mood might dictate?
He detested women with a too exuberant vitality and a lack of.
Freddie Drummond accepted the doctrine of evolution because it was quite universally accepted by college men, and he flatly believed that man had climbed up the ladder of life out of the weltering muck and mess of lower and monstrous organic things.
But he was a trifle ashamed of this genealogy, and preferred not to think of it.
Wherefore, probably, he practised his iron inhibition and preached it to others, and preferred women of his own type, who could shake free of this bestial and regrettable ancestral line and by discipline and control emphasize the wideness of the gulf that separated them from what their dim forbears had been.
Bill Totts had none of these considerations.
He had liked Mary Condon from the moment his eyes first rested on her in the convention hall, and he had made it a point, then and there, to find out who she was.
The next time he met her, and quite by accident, was when he was driving an express waggon for Pat Morrissey.
It was in a lodging-house in Mission Street, where he had been called to take a trunk into storage.
The landlady's daughter had called him and led him to the little bedroom, the occupant of which, a glove-maker, had just been removed to hospital.
But Bill did not know this.
He stooped, up-ended the trunk, which was a large one, got it on his shoulder, and struggled to his feet with his back toward the open door.
At that moment he heard a woman's voice.
I wanta turn round.
He started to swear, but at the same instant found himself looking into Mary Condon's flashing, angry eyes.
But Online south park games free can't git it out now.
This trunk's too damn heavy.
Come on down to the waggon an' I'll show it to you.
I got a card, I'm tellin' you.
No scab's going to handle that trunk.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you big coward, scabbing on honest men.
Why don't you join the union and be a man?
I suppose you're aching to join the militia for a chance to shoot down union drivers the next strike.
You may belong to the militia already, for that matter.
You're the sort - " "Hold on, now, that's too much!
There, look at that.
But Bill did not see that.
He was too busy with the trunk.
The next time he saw Mary Condon was during the Laundry Strike.
The Laundry Workers, but recently organized, were green at the business, and had petitioned Mary Condon to engineer the strike.
Freddie Drummond had had an inkling of what was coming, and had sent Bill Totts to join the union and investigate.
Bill's job was in the wash-room, and the men had been called out first, that morning, in order to stiffen the courage of the girls; and Bill chanced to be near the door to the mangle-room when Mary Condon started to enter.
The superintendent, who was both large and stout, barred her way.
He wasn't going to have his girls called out, and he'd teach her a lesson to mind her own business.
And as Mary tried to squeeze past him he thrust her back with a fat hand on her shoulder.
She glanced around and saw Bill.
I want to get in.
She had remembered his name from his union card.
The next moment the superintendent had been plucked from the doorway raving about rights under the law, and the girls were deserting their machines.
During the rest of that short and successful strike, Bill constituted himself Mary Condon's henchman and messenger, and when south of the slot accent was over returned to the University to be Freddie Drummond and to wonder what Bill Totts could see in such a woman.
Freddie Drummond was entirely safe, but Bill had fallen in love.
There was no getting away from the fact of it, and it was this fact that had given Freddie Drummond his warning.
Well, he had done check this out work, and his adventures could cease.
There was no need for him to cross the Slot again.
All but the last three chapters of his latest, LABOUR TACTICS AND STRATEGY, was finished, and he had sufficient material on hand adequately to supply those chapters.
Another conclusion he arrived at, was that in order to sheet-anchor himself as Freddie Drummond, closer ties and relations in his own social nook were necessary.
It was time that he was married, anyway, and he was fully aware that if Freddie Drummond didn't get married, Bill Totts assuredly would, and the complications were too awful to contemplate.
And so, enters Catherine Van Vorst.
She was a college woman herself, and her father, the one wealthy member of the faculty, was the head of the Philosophy Department as well.
It would be a wise marriage from every standpoint, Freddie Drummond concluded when the engagement was consummated and announced.
In appearance cold and reserved, aristocratic and wholesomely conservative, Catherine Van Vorst, though warm in her way, possessed an inhibition equal to Drummond's.
All seemed well with him, but Freddie Drummond could not quite shake off the call of the underworld, the lure of the free and open, of the unhampered, irresponsible life South of the Slot.
As the time of his marriage approached, he felt that he had indeed sowed wild oats, and he felt, moreover, what a good thing it would be if he could have but one wild fling more, play the good fellow and the wastrel one last time, ere he settled down to grey lecture- rooms and sober matrimony.
click, further to tempt him, the very last chapter of LABOUR TACTICS AND STRATEGY remained unwritten for lack of a trifle more of essential data which he had neglected to gather.
So Freddie Drummond went down for the last time as Bill Totts, got his data, and, unfortunately, encountered Mary Condon.
Once more installed in his study, it was not a pleasant thing to look back upon.
It made his warning doubly imperative.
Bill Totts had behaved abominably.
Not only had he met Mary Condon at the Central Labour Council, but he had stopped at a chop-house with her, on the way home, and treated her to oysters.
And before they parted at her door, his arms had been about her, and he had kissed her on the lips and kissed her repeatedly.
And her last words in his ear, words uttered softly with a catchy sob in the throat that was nothing more nor less than a love cry, were "Bill.
He saw the pit yawning for him.
He was not by nature a polygamist, and he was appalled at the possibilities of the situation.
It would have to be put an end to, and it would end in one only of two ways: either he must become wholly Bill Totts continue reading be married to Mary Condon, or he must remain wholly Freddie Drummond and be married to Catherine Van Vorst.
Otherwise, his conduct would be beneath contempt and horrible.
In the several months that followed, San Francisco was torn with labour strife.
The unions and the employers' associations had locked horns with a determination that looked as if they intended to settle the matter, one way or the other, for all time.
But Freddie Drummond corrected proofs, lectured classes, and did not budge.
He devoted himself to Catherine Van Vorst, and day by day found more to respect and admire in her - nay, even to love in her.
The Street Car Strike tempted him, but not so severely as he would have expected; and the great Meat Strike came on and left him cold.
The ghost of Bill Totts had been successfully laid, and Freddie Drummond with rejuvenescent zeal tackled a brochure, long-planned, on the topic of "diminishing returns.
It was her brother's machine, but they were alone with the exception of the chauffeur.
At the junction with Kearny Street, Market and Geary Streets intersect like the sides of a sharp-angled letter "V.
But they did not know what was coming down Geary, timed by fate to meet them at the apex.
While aware from the papers that the Meat Strike was on and that it was an exceedingly bitter one, all thought of it at that moment was farthest from Freddie Drummond's mind.
Was he not seated beside Catherine?
And besides, he was carefully expositing to her his views on settlement work - views that Bill Totts' adventures had played a part in formulating.
Coming down Geary Street were six meat waggons.
Beside each scab driver sat a policeman.
Front and rear, and along each side of this procession, marched a protecting escort of one hundred police.
Behind the police rearguard, at a respectful distance, was an orderly but vociferous mob, several blocks in length, that congested the street from sidewalk to sidewalk.
confirm. online casino mobile south africa can Beef Trust was making an effort to supply the hotels, and, incidentally, to begin the breaking of the strike.
Francis had already been supplied, at a cost of many broken windows and broken heads, and the expedition was marching to the relief of the Palace Hotel.
All https://art-skin.ru/south/game-testing-companies-in-south-africa.html, Drummond sat beside Catherine, talking settlement work, as the auto, honking methodically and dodging traffic, swung in a wide curve to get around the apex.
A big coal waggon, loaded with lump coal and drawn by four huge horses, just debouching from Kearny Street as though to turn down Market, blocked their way.
The driver of the waggon seemed undecided, and the chauffeur, running slow but disregarding some shouted warning consider, winter olympic games in south korea inquiry the crossing policemen, swerved the auto to the left, violating the traffic rules, in order to pass in front of the waggon.
At that moment Freddie Drummond discontinued his conversation.
Nor did he resume it again, for the situation was developing with the rapidity of a transformation scene.
He heard the roar of the mob at the rear, and caught a glimpse of the helmeted police and the lurching meat waggons.
At the same moment, south coast water world on his whip, and standing up to his task, the coal driver rushed horses and waggon squarely in front of the advancing procession, pulled the horses up sharply, and put on the big brake.
Then he made his lines fast to the brake-handle and sat down with the air of one who had stopped to stay.
The auto had been brought to a stop, too, by his big panting leaders which had jammed against it.
Before the chauffeur could back clear, an old Irishman, driving a rickety express waggon and lashing his one horse to a gallop, had locked wheels with the auto.
Drummond recognized both horse and waggon, for he had driven them often himself.
The Irishman was Pat Morrissey.
On the other side a brewery waggon was locking with the coal waggon, and an east-bound Kearny Street car, wildly clanging its gong, the motorman shouting defiance at the crossing policeman, was dashing forward to complete the blockade.
And waggon after waggon was locking and blocking and adding to the confusion.
The meat waggons halted.
The police were trapped.
The roar at the rear increased as the mob came on to the attack, while the vanguard of the police charged the obstructing waggons.
She was indeed his sort.
He would have been satisfied with her even if she had screamed, and clung to him, but this - this was magnificent.
She sat in that storm centre as calmly as if it had been no more than a block of carriages at the opera.
The police were struggling to clear a passage.
The driver of the coal waggon, a big man in shirt sleeves, lighted a pipe and sat smoking.
He glanced down complacently at a captain of https://art-skin.ru/south/movies-montecasino-johannesburg-south-africa.html who was raving and cursing at him, and his only acknowledgment was a shrug of the shoulders.
From the rear arose the rat-rat-tat of clubs on heads and a pandemonium of cursing, yelling, and shouting.
A violent accession of noise proclaimed that the mob had broken through and was dragging a scab from a waggon.
The police captain reinforced from his vanguard, and the mob at the rear was repelled.
Meanwhile, window after window in the high office building on the right had been opened, and the class-conscious clerks were raining a shower of office furniture down on the heads of police and scabs.
Waste-baskets, ink-bottles, paper-weights, type-writers - anything and everything that came to hand was filling the air.
A policeman, under orders from his captain, clambered to the lofty seat of the coal waggon to arrest the driver.
And the driver, rising leisurely and peacefully to meet him, suddenly crumpled him in his arms and threw him down on top of the captain.
The driver was a young giant, and when he climbed on his load and poised a lump of coal in both hands, a policeman, who was just scaling the waggon from the side, let go and dropped back to see more />The captain ordered half-a-dozen of his men to take the waggon.
The teamster, scrambling over the load from side to side, beat them down with huge lumps of coal.
The crowd on the sidewalks and the teamsters on the locked waggons roared encouragement and their own delight.
The motorman, smashing helmets with his controller bar, was beaten into insensibility and dragged from his platform.
The captain of police, beside himself at the repulse of his men, led the next assault on the coal waggon.
A score of police were swarming up the tall-sided fortress.
But the teamster multiplied himself.
At times there were six or eight policemen rolling on the pavement and under the waggon.
Engaged in repulsing an attack on the rear end of his fortress, the teamster turned about to see the captain just in the act of stepping on to the seat from the front end.
He was still in the air and in most unstable equilibrium, when the teamster hurled a thirty-pound lump of coal.
It caught the captain fairly on the chest, and he went over backward, striking on a wheeler's back, tumbling on to the ground, and jamming against the rear wheel of the auto.
Catherine thought he was dead, but he picked himself up and charged back.
She reached out her gloved hand and patted the flank of the snorting, quivering horse.
But Drummond did not notice the action.
He had eyes for nothing save the battle of the coal waggon, while somewhere in his complicated psychology, one Bill Totts was heaving and straining in an effort to come to life.
Drummond believed in law and order and the maintenance of the established, but this riotous savage within him would have none of it.
Then, if ever, did South of the slot accent Drummond call upon his iron inhibition to save him.
But it is written that the house divided against itself must fall.
And Freddie Drummond found that he had divided all the will and force of him with Bill Totts, and between them the entity that constituted the pair of them was being wrenched in twain.
Freddie Drummond sat in the auto, quite composed, alongside Catherine Van Vorst; but looking out of Freddie Drummond's eyes was Bill Totts, and somewhere behind those eyes, battling for the control of their mutual body, were Freddie Drummond the sane and conservative sociologist, and Bill Totts, the class-conscious and bellicose union working man.
It was Bill Totts, looking out of those eyes, who saw the inevitable end of the battle on the coal waggon.
He saw a policeman gain the top of the load, a second, and a third.
They lurched clumsily on the loose footing, but their long riot-clubs were out and swinging.
One blow caught the teamster on the head.
A second he dodged, receiving it on the shoulder.
For him the game was plainly up.
He dashed in suddenly, clutched two policemen in his arms, and hurled himself a prisoner to the pavement, his hold never relaxing on his two captors.
Catherine Van Vorst was sick and faint at sight of the blood and brutal fighting.
But her qualms were vanquished by the sensational and most unexpected happening that followed.
The man beside her emitted an unearthly and uncultured yell and rose to his feet.
She saw him spring over the front seat, leap to the broad rump of the wheeler, and from there gain the waggon.
His onslaught was like a whirlwind.
Before the bewildered officer on the load could guess the errand of this conventionally clad but excited-seeming gentleman, he was the recipient of a punch that arched him back through the air to the pavement.
A kick in the face led an ascending policeman to follow his example.
A rush of three more gained the top and locked with Bill Totts in a gigantic clinch, during which his scalp was opened up by a club, and coat, vest, and half his starched shirt were torn from him.
But the three policemen were flung far and wide, and Bill Totts, raining down lumps of coal, held the fort.
The captain led gallantly to the attack, but was bowled over by a chunk of coal that burst on his head in black baptism.
The need of the police was to break the blockade in front before the mob could break in at the rear, and Bill Totts' need was to hold the waggon till the mob did break through.
So the battle of the coal went on.
The crowd had recognized its champion.
Pat Morrissey, on his waggon seat, was jumping and screaming in an ecstasy, "Eat 'em, Bill!
Catherine Van Vorst turned her head and saw on the curb of the sidewalk a woman with vivid colouring and flashing black eyes who was staring with all her soul at the man who had been Freddie Drummond a few minutes before.
The windows of the office building became vociferous with applause.
A fresh shower of office chairs and filing cabinets descended.
The mob had broken through on one side the line of waggons, and was advancing, each segregated policeman the centre of a fighting group.
The scabs were torn from their seats, the traces of the horses cut, and the frightened animals put in flight.
Many policemen crawled under the coal waggon for safety, while the loose horses, with here and there a policeman on their backs or struggling at their heads to hold them, surged across the sidewalk opposite the jam and broke into Market Street.
Catherine South of the slot accent Vorst heard the woman's voice calling in warning.
She was back on the curb again, and crying out - "Beat it, Bill!
Bill Totts leaped to the pavement and made his way to the woman on the sidewalk.
Catherine Van Vorst saw her throw her arms around him and kiss him on the lips; and Catherine Van Vorst watched him curiously as he went on down the sidewalk, one arm around the woman, both talking and laughing, and he with a volubility and abandon she could never have dreamed possible.
The police were back again and clearing the jam while waiting for reinforcements and new drivers and horses.
The mob had done its work and was scattering, and Catherine Van Vorst, still watching, could see the man she had known as Freddie Drummond.
He towered a head above the crowd.
His arm was still about the woman.
And she in the motor-car, watching, saw the pair cross Market Street, cross the Slot, and disappear down Third Street into the labour ghetto.
In the years that followed no more lectures were given in the University of California by one Freddie Drummond, and no more books on economics and the labour question appeared over the name of Frederick A.
On the other hand there arose a new labour leader, William Totts by name.
He it was who married Mary Condon, President of the International Glove Workers' Union No.

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The answer is yes!
The is a super cool site.
You can browse the world, click on a region, and hear how a person from that area pronounces a given English paragraph.
My life would be so much easier, I could actually use dictation software.
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Accent Tag: NORTH vs. SOUTH

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It was first published inVol.
The title of the story refers to a location inwhich real estate speculators now call SOMA, the.
The name describes the cable cars that ran up and down the Market along the slots through which they gripped casino rowena south dakota />While the cable cars have long since disappeared from Market Street, some "old timers" still refer to this area as "South of the Slot.
He is also engaged to a very wealthy woman by the name of Catherine van Vorst who comes from an aristocratic family.
However, he is fascinated with the south part of San Francisco and south of the slot accent working there.
Over time, Freddie Drummond develops an alter ego, South of the slot accent Bill Totts, who becomes more and go here involved in the working life and south of the slot accent organizing in the district.
Still, when resuming his life as the professor, he continues to express Conservative opinions, side strongly with the employers and sharply condemn the same trade unions in which he is deeply involved in his other life.
When recognized as Big Bill Totts, Freddie quickly morphs into Big Bill and joins the labor unrest leaving Catherine Van Vorst forever.
He could not maintain this dual existence.
What he did not realize was which side of his personality would eventually win out and which would be discarded.
He had subsequently spent time during visits there and knew it well.
Thus, in the story it is the environment that influences Freddie Drummond and his perception of himself.
In the beginning, the reader is convinced that Freddie has accepted his role in the society, that he is content with his personality even with the existence of his alter ego.
The conflict appears when Bill Tots falls in love.
Because of this, only the strongest can survive.
The story is clearly slanted to give the reader the feeling that the protagonist has made the right choice, and that the life of a union organizer leading strikes and loving a fellow unionist is much preferable to that of a staid conservative professor with an upper-class wife.
The World of Jack London.
Retrieved 28 May 2013.
The Jack London Online Collection.
Retrieved 28 May 2013.
Retrieved 28 May 2013.
Musings on Literature and Christianity.
Retrieved 28 May 2013.
Retrieved 29 May 2013.
The World of Jack London.
Retrieved 29 May 2013.
No Mentor but Myself: a collection of articles, essays, reviews, and letters on writing and writers.
White Logic: Jack London's Short Stories.
Grand Rapids, Michigan: Wolf House Books.
Realism and Naturalism in Nineteenth-Century American Literature.
Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press.
By using this site, you agree to the and.
Wikipedia® is a registered trademark of thea non-profit organization.

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South of the Slot LD San Francisco, which is the San Francisco of only the other day, the day before the Earthquake, was divided midway by the Slot.
The Slot was an iron crack that ran along the center of Market Street, and from the Slot arose the burr of the ceaseless, endless cable that was hitched at will to the cars it dragged up and down.
In truth, there were two Slots, but, in the quick grammar of the West, time was saved by calling them, and much more that they stood for, The Slot.
North of the Slot were the theaters, hotels and shopping district, the banks and the staid, respectable business houses.
South of the Slot were the factories, slums, laundries, machine-shops, boiler-works and the abodes of the working class.
The Slot was the metaphor that expressed the class cleavage of Society, and no man crossed this metaphor, back and forth, more successfully than Freddie Drummond.
He made a practice of living in both worlds and in both worlds he lived signally well.
Freddy Drummond was a professor in the Sociology Department of the University of California, and it was as a professor of sociology that he first crossed over the Slot, lived for six months in the great labor ghetto and wrote The Unskilled Laborer—a book that was hailed everywhere as an able contribution to the Literature of Progress and as a splendid reply to the Literature of Discontent.
Politically and economically, it was nothing if not orthodox.
Presidents of great railway systems bought whole editions of it to give to their employees.
A manufacturers' association alone distributed fifty thousand copies of it.
In its preachment of thrift and content it ran Mrs.
Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch a close second.
At first, Freddie Drummond found it monstrously difficult to get along among the working people.
He was not used to their ways, and they certainly were not used to his.
He had no antecedents.
He could talk of no previous jobs.
His hands were soft.
His extraordinary politeness was ominous.
His first idea of the rôle he would play was that of a free and independent American who chose to work with his hands and no explanations given.
But it wouldn't do, as he quickly discovered.
At the beginning they accepted him, very provisionally, as a freak.
A little later, as he began to know his way about better, he insensibly drifted into the only rôle that he could play with some degree of plausibility—namely, that of a man who had seen better days, very much better days, but who was down on his luck, though, to be sure, only temporarily.
He learned many things and generalized much and often erroneously, all of which can be found in the pages of The Unskilled Laborer.
He saved himself, however, after the sane and conservative manner of his kind, by labeling his generalizations as "tentative.
A box-factory supplied the parts, and all Freddie Drummond had to do was to fit the parts into a form and drive in the wire nails with a light hammer.
It was not skilled labor, but it was piecework.
The ordinary laborers in the cannery got a dollar and a half a day.
Freddie Drummond found the other men on the same job with him jogging along and earning a dollar and seventy-five cents a day.
But the third day he was able to earn the same.
But he was ambitious.
He did not care to jog along, and, being unusually able and fit, on the fourth day earned two dollars.
The next day, having keyed himself up to an exhausting high tension, he earned two dollars and a half.
His fellow-workers favored him with scowls and black looks and made remarks, slangily witty and which he did not understand, about sucking up to the boss, and pace-making, and holding her down when the rains set in.
He was astonished at their malingering on piece-work, generalized about the laziness of the unskilled laborer, and proceeded next day to hammer out three continue reading worth of boxes.
And that night, coming out of the cannery, he was interviewed by his fellow-workmen, who were very angry and incoherently slangy.
He failed to comprehend the motive behind their action.
The action itself was strenuous.
When he refused to ease down his pace and bleated about freedom of contract, independent Americanism and the dignity of toil they proceeded to spoil his pace-making ability.
It was a fierce battle, for Drummond was a large man and an athlete; but the crowd finally jumped on his ribs, walked on his face and stamped on his fingers, so that it was only after lying in bed for a week that he was able to get up and look for another job.
All of this is duly narrated in that first book of his, in the chapter entitled The Tyranny of Labor.
A little later, in another department of the Wilmax Cannery, lumping as a fruit-distributor among the women, he essayed to carry two boxes of fruit at a time and was promptly reproached by the other fruit-lumpers.
It was palpable malingering; but he was there, he decided, not to change conditions, but to observe.
So he lumped one box thereafter, and so well did he study the art of shirking that he wrote a special chapter on it, with the last several paragraphs devoted to tentative generalizations.
In those six months he worked at many jobs and developed into a very good imitation of a genuine worker.
He was a natural linguist and he kept notebooks, making a scientific study of the workers' slang or argot until he could talk quite intelligibly.
casinos seoul south korea weather language also enabled him more intimately to follow their mental processes and thereby to gather much data for a projected chapter in some future book which he planned to entitle Synthesis of Working-Class Psychology.
Before he arose to the surface from that first south park game date into the underworld, he discovered that he was a good actor and demonstrated the plasticity of his nature.
He was himself astonished at his own fluidity.
Once having mastered the language and conquered numerous fastidious qualms he found that he more info flow into any nook of working-class life and fit it so snugly as to feel comfortably at home.
As he said in the preface to his second book, The Toiler, he endeavored really to know the working people; and the only possible way to achieve this was to work beside them, eat their food, sleep in their beds, be amused with their amusements, think their thoughts and feel their feelings.
He was not a deep thinker.
He had no faith in new theories.
All his norms and criteria were conventional.
His Thesis on the French Revolution was noteworthy in college annals, not merely for its painstaking and voluminous accuracy, but for the fact that it was the driest, deadest, most formal and most orthodox screed ever written on the subject.
He was a very reserved man, and his natural inhibition was large in quantity and steel-like in quality.
He had but few friends.
He was too undemonstrative, too frigid.
He had no vices, nor had any one ever discovered any temptations.
Tobacco he detested, beer he abhorred, and he was never known to drink anything stronger than an occasional light wine at dinner.
When a freshman he had been baptized Ice-Box by his warmer-blooded fellows.
As a member of the Faculty he was known as Cold-Storage.
He had but one grief, and that was Freddie.
He had earned it when he played fullback on the Varsity eleven, and his formal soul had never succeeded in living it down.
Freddie he would ever be, except officially, and through nightmare vistas he looked into a future when his world would speak of him as Old Freddie.
For he was very young to be a doctor of sociology—only twenty-seven, and he looked younger.
In appearance and atmosphere he was a strapping big college man, smooth-faced and easy-mannered, clean and simple and wholesome, with a known record of being a splendid athlete and an implied vast possession of cold culture of the inhibited sort.
He never talked shop out of class and committee-rooms, except later when his books showered him with distasteful public notice and he yielded to the extent of reading occasional papers before certain literary and economic societies.
He did everything right—too right; and in dress and comportment was inevitably correct.
Not that he was a dandy.
He was a college man, in dress and carriage as like as a pea to the type that of late years is being so generously turned out of our institutions of higher learning.
His handshake was satisfyingly strong and stiff.
His blue eyes were coldly blue and convincingly sincere.
His voice, firm and masculine, clean and crisp of enunciation, was pleasant to the ear.
The one drawback to Freddie Drummond was his inhibition.
In his football days the higher the tension of the game the cooler he grew.
He was noted as a boxer, but he was regarded as an automaton, with the inhuman action of a machine judging distance and timing blows, guarding, blocking and click the following article />He was rarely punished himself, while he rarely punished an opponent.
He was too clever and too controlled to permit himself to put a pound more weight into a punch than he intended.
With him it was a matter of exercise.
It kept him fit.
As time went by Freddie Drummond found himself more frequently crossing the Slot and losing himself in South of the slot accent of Market.
His summer and winter holidays were spent there, and, whether it was a week or a week-end, he found the time spent there to be valuable and enjoyable.
And there was so much material to be gathered.
His third book Mass and Master, became a textbook in the American universities, and almost before he knew it he was at work on a fourth one, the Fallacy of the Inefficient.
Somewhere in his make-up there was a strange twist or quirk.
Perhaps it was a recoil from his environment and training or from the tempered seed of his ancestors, who had been bookmen generation preceding generation; but, at any rate, he found enjoyment from being down in the working-class world.
In his own world he was Cold-Storage, but down below he was Big Bill Totts, who could drink and smoke and slang and fight and be an all-around favorite.
Everybody liked Bill, and more than one working-girl made love to him.
At first he had been merely a good actor, but as time went on simulation became second nature.
He no longer played a part, and he loved sausages—sausages and bacon, than which, in his own proper sphere, there was nothing more loathsome in the way of food.
From doing the thing for the need's sake he came to doing the thing for the thing's sake.
He found himself regretting it as the time drew near for him to go back to his lecture-room and his inhibition.
And he often found himself waiting with anticipation https://art-skin.ru/south/the-lodge-casino-deadwood-south-dakota.html the dreary time to pass when he could cross the Slot and cut loose and play the devil.
He was not wicked, but as Big Bill Totts he did a myriad things that Freddie Drummond would never have been permitted to do.
Moreover, Freddie Drummond never would have wanted to do them.
That was the strangest part of his discovery.
Freddie Drummond and Bill Totts were two totally different creatures.
The desires and tastes and impulses of each ran counter to the other's.
Bill Totts could shirk at a job with a clear conscience, while Freddie Drummond condemned shirking as vicious, criminal and un-American, and devoted whole chapters to condemnation of the vice.
Freddie Drummond did not care for dancing, click the following article bill Totts never missed the nights at the various dancing clubs, such as The Magnolia, The Western Star, and The Elite; while he won a massive silver cup standing thirty inches high for being the best-sustained character at the butchers' and meat-workers' annual grand masked ball.
And Bill Totts liked the girls, and the girls liked him, while Freddie Drummond enjoyed playing the ascetic in this particular, was open in his opposition to equal suffrage and cynically bitter in his secret condemnation of co-education.
Freddie Drummond changed his manners with his dress and without effort.
When he entered the obscure little room used for his transformation scenes he carried himself just a bit too stiffly.
He was too erect, his shoulders were an inch too far back, while his face was grave, almost harsh, and practically expressionless.
But when he emerged in Bill Totts' clothes he was another creature.
Bill Totts did not slouch, but somehow his whole form limbered up and became graceful.
The very sound of the voice was changed and the laugh was loud and hearty, while loose speech and an occasional oath were as a matter of course on his lips.
Also Bill Totts was a trifle inclined to late hours, and at times, in saloons, to be good-naturedly bellicose with other workmen.
Then, too, at Sunday picnics or when he displayed a wit keen and delightful in the flirtatious badinage that was expected of a good fellow in his class.
So thoroughly was Bill Totts himself, so thoroughly a workman, a genuine denizen of South of the Slot, that he was as class-conscious as the average of his kind, and his hatred for a scab even exceeded that of the average loyal union man.
During the water-front strike Freddie Drummond was somehow able to stand apart from the unique combination, and, coldly critical, watch Bill Totts hilariously slug scab longshoremen.
For Bill Totts was a dues-paying member of the Longshoremen's Union and had a right to be indignant with the usurpers of his job.
Big Bill Totts was so very big and so very able that it was big Bill to the front when trouble was brewing.
From acting outraged feelings Freddie Drummond, in the rôle of his other self, came to experience genuine outrage, and it was only when he returned to the classic atmosphere of the university that he was able, sanely and conservatively, to generalize upon his underworld experiences and put them down on paper as a trained sociologist should.
That Bill Totts lacked the perspective to raise him above the class-consciousness Freddie Drummond clearly saw.
But Bill Totts could not see it.
When he saw a scab taking his job away he saw red at the same time and little else did he see.
It was Freddie Drummond, irreproachably clothed and comforted, seated at his study desk or facing his class in Sociology 17, who saw Bill Totts and all around Bill Totts, and all around the whole scab and union-labor problem and its relation to the economic welfare of the United States in the struggle for the world-market.
Bill Totts wasn't able to see beyond the next meal and the prize-fight the following night at the Gayety Athletic Club.
It was while gathering material for Women and Work that Freddie received his first warning of the danger that he was in.
He was too successful at living in both worlds.
This strange dualism he had developed, after all, very unstable, and as he sat in his study and meditated he saw that it could not endure.
It was really a transition stage; and if he persisted he saw that he would inevitably have to drop one world or the other.
He could not continue in both.
And as he looked at the row of volumes that graced the upper shelf of his revolving bookcase, his volumes, beginning with his Thesis and ending with Women and Work, he decided that that was the world just click for source would hold on to and stick by.
Bill Totts had served his purpose, but he had become a too-dangerous accomplice.
Bill Totts would have traditional south african childrens games cease.
Freddie Drummond's fright was due to Mary Condon, president of the International Glove-Workers' Union No.
He had seen her first from the spectators' gallery at the annual convention of the Northwest Federation of Labor, and he had seen her though Bill Totts' eyes, and that individual had been most favorably impressed by her.
She was not Freddie Drummond's sort at all.
What if she were a royal-bodied woman, graceful and sinewy as a panther, with amazing black eyes that could fill with fire or laughter-love, as the mood might dictate?
He detested women with a too-exuberant vitality and a lack of—well, of inhibition.
Freddie Drummond accepted the doctrine of evolution because it was quite universally accepted by college men, and he flatly believed that man had climbed up the ladder of life out of the weltering muck and mess of lower and monstrous organic things.
But he was a trifle ashamed of this genealogy.
Wherefore, probably, he practiced his iron inhibition and preached it to others, and preferred women of his own type who could shake free of this bestial and regrettable ancestral line and by discipline and control emphasize the wideness of the gulf that visit web page them from what their dim forebears had been.
Bill Totts had none of these considerations.
He had liked Mary Condon from the moment his eyes first rested on her in the convention hall, and he had made it a point, then and there, to find out who she was.
The next time he met her, and quite by accident, was when he was driving an express wagon for Pat Morrissey.
It was in a lodging-house in Mission Street, where he had been called to take a trunk into storage.
The landlady's daughter had called him and led him to the little bedroom, the occupant of which, a glove-maker, had just been removed to a hospital.
But Bill did not know this.
He stooped, up-ended the trunk, which was a large one, got it on his shouldered and struggled to his feet with his back toward the open door.
At that moment he heard a woman's voice.
I wanta turn 'round.
He started to swear, but at the same instant found himself looking into Mary Condon's flashing, angry eyes.
But I can't git it out now.
casino list korea south of in trunk's too damn heavy.
Come on down to the wagon an' I'll show it to you.
I got a card, I'm tellin' you.
No scab's going to handle that trunk.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you big coward, scabbing on honest men.
Why don't you join the union and be a man?
I suppose you're aching to join the militia for a chance to shoot down union drivers the next strike.
You may belong to the militia already, for that matter.
You're the sort ——" "Hold on now; that's too much!
There, look at that.
But Bill did not see that.
He was too busy with the trunk.
The next time he saw Mary Condon was during the laundry strike.
The laundry workers, but recently organized, were green at the business, and had petitioned Mary Condon to engineer the strike.
Freddie Drummond had had an inkling of what was coming and had sent Bill Totts to join the union and investigate.
Bill's job was in the washroom, and the men had been called out first that morning in order to stiffen the courage of the girls; and Bill chanced to be near the door to the mangle-room when Mary Condon started to enter.
The superintendent, who was both large and stout, barred south of the slot accent way.
He wasn't going to have his girls called out and he'd teach her a lesson to mind her own business.
And as Mary tried to squeeze past him he thrust her back with a fat hand on her shoulder.
She glanced around and saw Bill.
I want to get in.
She had remembered his name from his union card.
The next moment the superintendent had been plucked from the doorway, raving about rights under the law, and the girls were deserting their machines.
During the rest of that short and successful strike, Bill constituted himself Mary Condon's henchman and messenger, and when it was over returned to the university to be Freddie Drummond and to wonder what Bill Totts could see in such a woman.
Freddie Drummond was entirely safe, but Bill had fallen in love.
There was no getting away from the fact of it, and it was this fact that had given Freddie Drummond his warning.
Well, he had done his work and his adventures could cease.
There was no need for him to cross the Slot again.
All but the last three chapters of his latest, Labor Tactics and Strategy, was finished, and he had sufficient material on hand adequately to supply those chapters.
Another conclusion he arrived at was that, in order to sheet-anchor himself as Freddie Drummond, closer ties and relations in his own social nook were necessary.
It was time that he was married anyway, and he was fully aware that if Freddie Drummond didn't get married Bill Totts assuredly would, and the complications were too awful to contemplate.
And so enters Catherine Van Vorst.
She was a college woman herself, and her father, the one wealthy member of the Faculty, was the head of the philosophy department.
It would be a wise marriage from every standpoint, Freddie Drummond concluded when the engagement was entered into and announced.
In appearance, cold and reserved, aristocratic and wholesomely conservative, Catherine Van Vorst, though warm in her way, possessed an inhibition equal to Drummond's.
All seemed well with him, but Freddie Drummond could not quite shake off the call of the underworld, the lure of the free and open, of the unhampered, irresponsible life South of the Slot.
As the time of his marriage approached he felt that he had indeed sowed wild oats, and he felt, moreover, what a good thing it would be if he could have but one wild fling more, play the good fellow and the wastrel one last time ere he settled down to gray lecture-rooms and sober matrimony.
And, further to tempt him, the south of the slot accent last chapter of Labor Tactics and Strategy remained unwritten for lack of a trifle more of essential data which he had neglected to gather.
So, Freddie Drummond went down for the last time as Bill Totts, got his data, and, unfortunately, encountered Mary Condon.
Once more installed in his study it was not a pleasant thing to look back upon.
It made his warning doubly imperative.
Bill Totts had behaved abominably.
Not only had he met Mary Condon at the Central Labor Council, but he had stopped in at a creamery with her, on the way home, and treated her to oysters.
And before they parted at her door his arms had been about her and he had kissed her on the lips and kissed her repeatedly.
And her last words in his ear, words uttered softly with a catch sob in the throat that was nothing more nor less than a love-cry, were, "Bill—dear, dear Bill.
He saw the pit yawning for him.
He was not by nature a polygamist, and he was appalled at the possibilities of the situation.
It would have to south of the slot accent put an end to, and it would end in one only of two ways; either he must become wholly Bill Totts and be married to Mary Condon, or he must remain wholly Freddie Drummond and be married to Catherine Van Vorst.
Otherwise, his conduct would be horrible and beneath contempt.
In the several months that followed, San Francisco was torn with labor strife.
The unions and the employers' associations had locked horns with a determination that looked as if they intended to settle the matter one way or the other for all time.
But Freddie Drummond corrected proofs, lectured classes and did not budge.
He devoted himself to Catherine Van Vorst and day by day found more to respect and admire in her—nay, even to love in her.
The street-car strike tempted him, but not so severely as he would have expected; and the great meat strike came on and left him cold.
The ghost of Bill Totts had been successfully laid, and Freddie Drummond with rejuvenescent zeal tackled a brochure, long planned, on the topic of Diminishing Returns.
The wedding was two weeks off when, on one afternoon, in San Francisco, Catherine Van Vorst picked him up and whisked him away to see a Boys' Club recently instituted by the settlement workers with whom she was interested.
They were in her brothers' machine, but they were alone except for the chauffeur.
At the junction with Kearny Street, Market and Geary Streets intersect like the sides of a sharp-angled letter V.
They, in the auto, were coming down Market with the intention of negotiating the sharp apex and going up Geary.
But they did not know what was coming down Geary, timed by Fate to meet them at the apex.
While aware from the papers that the meat strike was on and that it was an exceedingly bitter one, all thought of it at the moment was farthest from Freddie Drummond's mind.
Was he not seated beside Catherine?
And besides, he was carefully expounding to her his views on settlement work—views that Bill Tott's adventures had played a part in formulating.
Coming down Geary Street were six meat wagons.
Beside each scab driver sat a policeman.
Front and rear, and along each side of this procession, marched a protecting escort of one hundred police.
Behind the police rear-guard, at a respectful distance, was an orderly but vociferous mob several blocks in length, that congested the street from sidewalk to sidewalk.
The Beef Trust was making an effort to supply the hotels and, incidentally, to begin breaking of the strike.
Francis had already been supplied at a cost of many broken windows and broken heads, and the expedition was marching to the relief of the Palace Hotel.
All unwitting, Drummond sat beside Catherine talking settlement work as the auto, honking methodically and dodging traffic, swung in a wide curve to get around the apex.
A big coal wagon, loaded with lump coal and drawn by four huge horses, just debouching from Kearny Street as though to turn down Market, blocked their way.
The driver of the wagon seemed undecided, and the chauffeur, running slow but disregarding some shouted warning from the policemen, swerved the auto to the left, violating the traffic rules in order to pass in front of the wagon.
At that moment Freddie Drummond discontinued his conversation.
Nor did he resume it again, for the situation was developing with the rapidity of a transformation scene.
He heard the roar of the mob at the rear and caught a glimpse of the helmeted police and the lurching meat wagons.
At the same moment, laying on his whip and standing up to his task, the coal-driver rushed horses and wagon squarely in front of the advancing procession, pulled the horses up sharply and put on the brake.
Then he made his lines fast to the brake-handle and sat down with the air of one who had stopped to stay.
The auto had been brought to a stop, too, by his big, panting leaders.
Before the chauffeur could back clear, an old Irishman, driving a rickety express south of the slot accent and lashing his one horse to a gallop, had locked wheels with the auto.
Drummond recognized both horse and wagon, for he had driven them often himself.
The Irishman was Pat Morrissey.
On the other side a brewery wagon was locking with the coal wagon, and an east-bound Kearny Street car, wildly clanging its gong, the motorman shouting defiance at the crossing policemen, was dashing forward to complete the blockade.
And wagon after wagon was locking and blocking and adding to the confusion.
The meat wagons halted.
The police were trapped.
The roar at the rear increased as the mob came on to the attack, while the vanguard of the police charged the obstructing wagons.
She was indeed his sort.
He would have been satisfied with her even if she had screamed and clung to him, but this—this was magnificent.
She sat in that storm-center as calmly as if it had been no more than a block of carriages at the opera.
The police were struggling to clear a passage.
The driver of the coal wagon, a big man in shirt sleeves, lighted a pipe and sat smoking.
He glanced down complacently at a captain of police who was raving and cursing at him, and his only acknowledgement was a shrug of the shoulders.
From the rear arose the rat-tat-tat of south africa casino licence free spins online on heads and a pandemonium of cursing, yelling and shouting.
A violent accession of noise proclaimed that the mob had broken through and was dragging a scab from a wagon.
The police captain was reënforced from his vanguard and the mob at the rear was repelled.
Meanwhile, window after window in the high office-building on the right had been opened and the class-conscious clerks were raining a shower of office furniture down on the heads of police and scabs.
Waste-baskets, ink-bottles, paper-weights, typewriters—anything and everything that came to hand was filling the air.
A policeman, under orders from his captain, clambered to the lofty seat of the coal wagon to arrest the driver.
And the driver, rising leisurely and peacefully to meet him, suddenly crumpled him in his arms and threw him down on top of the captain.
The driver was a young giant, and when he climbed on top his load and poised a lump of coal in both hands a policeman, who was just scaling the wagon from the side, let go and dropped back to earth.
The captain order half a dozen of his men to take the wagon.
The teamster, scrambling over the load from side to side, beat them down with huge lumps of coal.
The crowd on the sidewalks and the teamsters on the locked wagons roared encouragement and their own delight.
The motorman, smashing helmets with his controller-bar, was beaten into insensibility and dragged from his platform.
The captain of the police, beside himself at the repulse of his men, led the next assault on the coal wagon.
A score of police were swarming up the tall-sided fortress.
But the teamster multiplied himself.
At times there were six or eight policemen rolling on the pavement and under the wagon.
Engaged in repulsing an attack on the rear end of his fortress the teamster turned about to children's games south africa the captain just in the act of stepping on the seat from the front end.
He was still in the air and in most unstable equilibrium when the teamster hurled a thirty-pound lump of coal.
It caught the captain fairly on the chest and he went over backward, striking on a wheeler's back, tumbling to the ground and jamming against the rear wheel of the auto.
Catherine thought he was dead, but he picked himself up and charged back.
She reached out her gloved hand and patted the flank of the snorting, quivering horse.
But Drummond did not notice the action.
He had eyes for nothing save the battle of the coal wagon, while somewhere in his complicated psychology one Bill Totts was heaving and straining in an effort to come to life.
Drummond believed in law and order and the maintenance of the established; but this riotous savage within him would have none of it.
Then, if ever, did Freddie Drummond call upon his iron inhibition to save it.
But it is written that the house divided against itself must fall.
And Freddie Drummond found that he had divided all the will and force of him with Bill Totts, and between them the entity that constituted the pair of them was being wrenched in twain.
Freddie Drummond sat in the auto quite composed, alongside Catherine Van Vorst; but looking out of Freddie Drummond's eyes was Bill Totts, and somewhere behind those eyes, battling for control of their mutual body, was Freddie Drummond, the sane and conservative sociologist, and Bill Totts, the class-conscious and bellicose union working-man.
It was Bill Totts looking out of those eyes who saw the inevitable end of the battle on the coal wagon.
He saw a policeman gain the top of the load, a second and a third.
They lurched clumsily on the loose footing, but their long riot-clubs were out and swinging.
One blow caught the teamster on the head.
A second he dodged, receiving it on the shoulder.
For him the game was plainly up.
He dashed in suddenly, clutched two policemen in his arms, and hurled himself a prisoner to the pavement.
Catherine Van Vorst was sick and faint at sight of the blood and brutal fighting.
But her qualms were vanquished by the sensational and most unexpected happening that followed.
The man beside her emitted an unearthly yell and rose to his feet.
She saw him spring over the front seat, leap to the broad rump of the wheeler and from there gain the wagon.
His onslaught was like a whirlwind.
Before the bewildered officer on top the load could guess the errand of this conventionally-clad but excited-seeming gentleman he was the recipient of a punch that arched him back through the air to the pavement.
A kick in the face led an ascending policeman to follow his example A rush of three more gained the top and locked with Bill Totts in a gigantic clinch, during which his scalp was opened up by a club, and coat, vest and half his starched shirt were torn from him.
But the three policemen were flung wide and far, and Bill Totts, raining down lumps of coal, held the fort.
The captain let gallantly to the attack, but was bowled over by a chunk of coal that burst on his head in black baptism.
The need of the police was to break the blockade in front before the mob could break in at the rear, and Bill Totts' need was to hold the wagon till the mob did break through.
So the battle of the coal went on.
The crowd had recognized its champion.
Big Bill, as usual, had come to the front, and Catherine Van Vorst was bewildered by the cries of "Bill!
Pat Morrissey, on his wagon-seat, was jumping and screaming in an ecstasy: "Eat 'em, Bill!
Catherine Van Vorst turned her head and saw on the curb of sidewalk a woman with vivid coloring and flashing black eyes who gauteng south africa staring with all her soul at the man who had been Freddie Drummond a few minutes before.
The windows of the office-building became vociferous with applause.
The mob https://art-skin.ru/south/winter-olympic-games-in-south-korea.html broken through on one side the line of wagons and was advancing, each segregated policeman the center of a fighting group.
The scabs were torn from their seats, the traces of the horses cut and the frightened animals put in flight.
Many policemen crawled under the coal wagon for safety, while the loose horses, with here and there a policeman on their backs or struggling at their heads to hold them, surged across the sidewalk opposite the jam and broke into Market Street.
Catherine Van Vorst heard the woman's voice calling in warning.
She was back on the curb again and crying out: "Beat it, Bill!
Bill Totts leaped to the pavement and made his way to the woman on the sidewalk.
Catherine Van Vorst saw her throw her arms around him and kiss him on the lips; and Click the following article Van Vorst watched him curiously as he went on down the sidewalk, one arm around the woman, both talking and laughing, and he with a volubility and abandon she could never have dreamed possible.
The police were back again and clearing the jam while waiting for reënforcements and new drivers and horses.
The mob had done its work and was scattering, and Catherine Van Vorst, still watching, could see the man she had known as Freddie Drummond.
He towered a head above the crowd.
His am was still about the woman.
And she in the motor car, watching, saw the pair cross Market Street, cross the Slot and disappear down Third Street into the labor ghetto.
In the years that followed no more lectures were given in the University of California by one Drummond and no more books on economics and the labor question appeared over the name of Frederick A.
On the other hand, there arose a new labor leader, William Totts vegas casino las nv point united states south name.
He it was who married Mary Condon, president of the International Glove-Workers' Union No.
From the May 22, 1909 issue of The Saturday Evening Post magazine.
If you have any questions, comments, suggestions, or constructive criticism, please send e-mail to.
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South of the Slot were the factories, slums, laundries, machine-shops, boiler works, and the abodes of the working class. The Slot was the metaphor that expressed the class cleavage of Society, and no man crossed this metaphor, back and forth, more successfully than Freddie Drummond.


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South of the Slot by Old San Francisco, which is the San Francisco of only the other day, the day before the Earthquake, was divided midway by the Slot.
The Slot was an iron crack that ran along the centre of Market Street, and from the Slot arose the burr of the ceaseless, endless cable that was hitched at will to the cars it dragged up and down.
In truth, there were two slots, but in the quick grammar of the West time was saved by calling them, and much more that they stood for, "The Slot.
South of the Slot were the factories, slums, laundries, machine-shops, boiler works, and the abodes of the working class.
The Slot was the metaphor that expressed the class cleavage of Society, and no man crossed this metaphor, back and forth, more successfully than Freddie Drummond.
He made a practice of living in both worlds, and in both worlds he lived signally well.
Freddie Drummond was a professor in the Sociology Department of the University of California, and it was as a professor of sociology that he first crossed over the Slot, lived for six mouths in the great labour-ghetto, and wrote THE UNSKILLED LABOURER - a book that was hailed everywhere as an able contribution to south of the slot accent literature of progress, and as a splendid reply to the literature of discontent.
Politically and economically it was nothing if not orthodox.
Presidents of great railway systems bought whole editions of it to give to their employees.
The Manufacturers' Association alone distributed fifty thousand copies of it.
In a way, it was almost as immoral as the far-famed and notorious MESSAGE TO GARCIA, while in its pernicious preachment of thrift and content it ran MR.
WIGGS OF THE CABBAGE PATCH a close second.
At first, Freddie Drummond found it monstrously difficult to get along among the working people.
He was not used to their ways, and they certainly were not used to his.
He had no antecedents.
He could talk of no previous jobs.
His hands were soft.
His extraordinary politeness was ominous.
His first idea of the role he would play was that of a free and independent American who chose to work with his hands and no explanations given.
But it wouldn't do, as he quickly discovered.
At the beginning they accepted him, very provisionally, as a freak.
A little later, as he began to know his way about better, he insensibly drifted into the role that would work - namely, he was a man who had seen better days, very much better days, but who was down on his luck, though, to be sure, only temporarily.
He learned many things, and generalized much and often erroneously, all of which can be found in the pages of THE UNSKILLED LABOURER.
He saved himself, however, after the sane and conservative manner of south of the slot accent kind, by labelling his generalizations as "tentative.
A box factory supplied the parts, and all Freddie Drummond had to do was to fit the parts into a form and drive in the wire nails with a light hammer.
It was not skilled labour, but it was piece-work.
The ordinary labourers in the cannery got a dollar and a half per day.
Freddie Drummond found the other men on the same job with him jogging along and earning a dollar and seventy-five cents a day.
By the third day he was able to earn the same.
But he was ambitious.
He did not care to jog along and, being unusually able and fit, on the fourth day earned two dollars.
The next day, having keyed himself up to an exhausting high- tension, he earned two dollars and a half.
His fellow workers favoured him with scowls and black looks, and made remarks, slangily witty and go here he did not understand, about sucking up to the boss and pace-making and holding her down, when the rains set in.
He was astonished at their malingering on piece-work, generalized about the inherent laziness of the unskilled labourer, and proceeded next day to hammer out three dollars' worth of boxes.
And that night, coming out of the cannery, he was interviewed by his fellow workmen, who were very angry and incoherently slangy.
He failed to comprehend the motive behind their action.
The action itself was strenuous.
When he refused to ease down his pace and bleated about freedom of contract, independent Americanism, and the dignity of toil, they proceeded to spoil his pace-making ability.
It was a fierce battle, for Drummond was a large man and an athlete, but the crowd finally jumped on his ribs, walked on his face, and stamped on his fingers, so that it was only after lying in bed for a week that he was able to get up and look for another job.
All of which is duly narrated point hotel and casino that first book of his, in the chapter entitled "The Tyranny of Labour.
It was palpable malingering; but he was there, he decided, not to change conditions, but to observe.
So he lumped one box thereafter, and so well did he study the art of shirking that he wrote a special chapter on it, with the last several paragraphs devoted to tentative generalizations.
In gauteng south africa casinos six months he worked at many jobs and developed into a very good imitation of a genuine worker.
He was a natural linguist, and he kept notebooks, making a scientific study of the workers' slang or argot, until he could talk quite intelligibly.
This language also enabled him more intimately to follow their mental processes, and thereby to gather much data for a projected chapter in some future book which he planned to entitle SYNTHESIS OF WORKING-CLASS PSYCHOLOGY.
Before he arose to the surface from that south of the slot accent plunge into the underworld he discovered that he was a good actor and demonstrated the plasticity of his nature.
He was himself astonished at his own fluidity.
Once having mastered the language and conquered numerous fastidious qualms, he found that he could flow into any nook of working-class life and fit it so snugly as to feel comfortably at home.
As he said, in the preface to his second book, THE TOILER, he endeavoured really to know the working people, and the only possible way to achieve this was to work beside them, eat their food, sleep in their beds, be amused with their amusements, think their thoughts, and feel their feeling.
He was not a deep thinker.
He had no faith in new theories.
All his norms and criteria were conventional.
His Thesis on the French Revolution was noteworthy in college annals, not merely for its painstaking and voluminous accuracy, but for the fact that it was the dryest, deadest, most formal, and most orthodox screed ever written on the subject.
He was a very reserved man, and his natural inhibition was large in quantity and steel-like in quality.
He had but few friends.
He was too undemonstrative, too frigid.
He canasta gamedesire no vices, nor had any one ever discovered any temptations.
Tobacco he detested, beer he abhorred, and he was never known to drink anything stronger than an occasional light wine at dinner.
When a freshman he had been baptized "Ice-Box" by his warmer- blooded fellows.
As a member of the faculty he was known as "Cold- Storage.
In appearance and atmosphere he was a strapping big college man, smooth-faced and easy-mannered, clean and simple and wholesome, with a known record of being a splendid athlete and an implied vast possession of cold culture of the inhibited sort.
He never talked shop out of class and committee rooms, except later on, when his books showered him with distasteful public notice and he yielded to the extent of reading occasional papers south coast casino water world certain literary and economic societies.
He did everything right - too right; and in dress and comportment was inevitably correct.
Not that he was a dandy.
He was a college man, in dress and carriage as like as a pea to the type that of late years is being so generously turned out of our institutions of higher learning.
His handshake was satisfyingly strong and stiff.
His blue eyes were coldly blue and convincingly sincere.
His voice, firm and masculine, clean and crisp of enunciation, was pleasant to the ear.
The one drawback to Freddie Drummond was his inhibition.
In his football days, the higher the tension of the game, the cooler he grew.
He was noted as a boxer, but he was regarded as an automaton, with the inhuman precision of a machine judging distance and timing blows, guarding, blocking, and stalling.
He was rarely punished himself, while he rarely punished an opponent.
He was too clever and too controlled to permit himself to put a pound more weight into a punch than he intended.
With him it was a matter of exercise.
It kept him fit.
As time went by, Freddie Drummond found himself more frequently crossing the Slot and losing himself in South of Market.
His summer and winter holidays were spent there, and, whether it was a week or a week-end, he found the time spent there to be valuable and enjoyable.
And there was so much material to be gathered.
His third book, MASS AND MASTER, became a text-book in the American universities; and almost before he knew it, he was at work on a fourth one, THE FALLACY OF THE INEFFICIENT.
Somewhere in his make-up there was a strange twist or quirk.
Perhaps it was a recoil from his environment and training, or from the tempered seed of his ancestors, who had been book-men generation preceding generation; but at any rate, he found enjoyment in being down in the working-class world.
In his own world he was "Cold-Storage," but down below he was "Big" Bill Totts, who could drink and smoke, and slang and fight, and be an all-round favourite.
Everybody liked Bill, and more than one working girl made love to him.
At first he had been merely a good actor, but as time went on, simulation became second nature.
He no longer played a part, and he loved sausages, sausages and bacon, than which, in his own proper sphere, there was nothing more loathsome in the way of food.
From doing the thing for the need's sake, he came to doing the thing for the thing's sake.
He found himself regretting as the time drew near for him to go back to his lecture-room and his inhibition.
And he often found himself waiting with anticipation for the dreamy time to pass when he could cross the Slot and cut loose and play the devil.
He was not wicked, but as "Big" Bill Totts he did a myriad things that Freddie Drummond would never have been permitted to do.
Moreover, Freddie Drummond never would have wanted to do them.
That was the strangest part of his discovery.
Freddie Drummond and Bill Totts were two totally different creatures.
The desires and tastes and impulses of each ran counter to the other's.
Bill Totts could shirk at a job with clear conscience, while Freddie Drummond condemned shirking as vicious, criminal, and un-American, and devoted whole chapters to condemnation of the vice.
Freddie Drummond did not care for dancing, but Bill Totts never missed the nights at the various dancing clubs, such as The Magnolia, The Western Star, and The Elite; while he won a massive silver cup, standing thirty inches high, for being the best-sustained character at the Butchers and Meat Workers' annual grand masked ball.
And Bill Totts liked the girls and the girls liked him, while Freddie Drummond enjoyed playing the ascetic in this particular, was open in his opposition to equal suffrage, and cynically bitter in his secret condemnation of coeducation.
Freddie Drummond changed his manners with his dress, and without effort.
When he entered the obscure little room used for his transformation scenes, he carried himself just a bit too stiffly.
He was too erect, his shoulders were an inch too far back, while his face was grave, almost harsh, and practically expressionless.
But when he emerged in Bill Totts' clothes he was another creature.
Bill Totts did not slouch, but somehow his whole form limbered up and became graceful.
The very sound of the voice was changed, and the laugh was loud and hearty, while loose speech and an occasional oath were as a matter of course on his lips.
Also, Bill Totts was a trifle inclined to late hours, and at times, in saloons, to be good-naturedly bellicose with other workmen.
Then, too, at Sunday picnics or when coming home from the show, either arm betrayed a practised familiarity in stealing around girls' waists, while he displayed a wit keen and delightful in the flirtatious badinage that was expected of a good fellow in his class.
So thoroughly was Bill Totts himself, so thoroughly a workman, a genuine denizen of South of the Slot, that he was as class- conscious as the average of his kind, and his hatred for a scab even exceeded that of the average loyal union man.
During the Water Front Strike, Freddie Drummond was somehow able to stand apart from the unique combination, and, coldly critical, watch Bill Totts hilariously slug scab longshoremen.
For Bill Totts was a dues-paying member of the Longshoremen Union and had a right to be indignant with the usurpers of his job.
From acting outraged feelings, Freddie Drummond, in the role of his other self, came to experience genuine outrage, and it was only when he returned to the classic atmosphere of the university that he was able, sanely and conservatively, to generalize upon his underworld experiences and put them down on paper as a trained sociologist should.
That Bill Totts lacked the perspective to raise him above class-consciousness Freddie Drummond clearly saw.
But Bill Totts could not see it.
When he saw a scab taking his job away, he saw red at the same time, and little else did he see.
It was Freddie Drummond, irreproachably clothed and comported, seated at his study desk or facing his class in SOCIOLOGY 17, who saw Bill Totts, and all around Bill Totts, and all around the whole scab and union-labour problem and its relation to the economic welfare of the United States in the struggle for the world market.
Bill Totts really wasn't able to see beyond the next meal and the prize-fight the following night at the Gaiety Athletic Club.
It was while gathering material for WOMEN AND WORK that Freddie see more his first warning of the danger he was in.
He was too successful at living in both worlds.
This strange dualism he had developed was after all very unstable, and, as he sat in his study and meditated, he saw that it could not endure.
It was really a transition stage, and if he persisted las vegas badass dash south point casino may 24th saw that he would inevitably have to drop one world or the other.
He could not continue in both.
And as he looked at the row of volumes that graced the upper shelf of his revolving book-case, his volumes, beginning with his Thesis and ending with WOMEN AND WORK, he decided that that was the world he would hold to and stick by.
Bill Totts had served his purpose, but he had become a too dangerous accomplice.
Bill Totts would have to cease.
Freddie Drummond's fright was due to Mary Condon, President of the International Glove Workers' Union No.
He had seen her, first, from the spectators' gallery, at the annual convention of the Northwest Federation of Labour, and he had seen her through Bill Totts' eyes, and that individual had been most favourably impressed by her.
She was not Freddie Drummond's sort at all.
What if she were a royal-bodied woman, graceful and sinewy as a panther, with amazing black eyes that could fill with fire or laughter-love, as the mood might dictate?
He detested women with a too exuberant vitality and a lack of.
Freddie Drummond accepted the doctrine of evolution because it was quite universally accepted by college men, and he flatly believed that man had climbed up the ladder of life out of the weltering muck and mess of lower and monstrous organic things.
But he was a trifle ashamed of south of the slot accent genealogy, and preferred not to think of it.
Wherefore, probably, he practised his iron inhibition and preached it to others, and preferred women of his own type, who could shake free of this bestial and regrettable ancestral line and by discipline and control emphasize the wideness of the gulf that separated them from what their dim forbears had been.
Bill Totts had none of these considerations.
He had liked Mary Condon from the moment his eyes first rested on her in the convention hall, and he had made it a point, then and there, to find out who she was.
The next time he met her, and quite by accident, was when he was driving an express waggon for Pat Morrissey.
It was in a lodging-house in Mission Street, where he had been called to take a trunk into storage.
The landlady's daughter had called him and led him to the little bedroom, the occupant of which, a glove-maker, had just been removed to hospital.
But Bill did not know this.
He stooped, up-ended the trunk, which was a large one, got it on his shoulder, and struggled to his feet with his back toward the open door.
At that moment he heard a woman's voice.
I wanta turn round.
He started to swear, but at the same instant found himself looking into Mary Condon's flashing, angry eyes.
But I can't git it out now.
This trunk's too damn heavy.
Come on down to the waggon an' I'll show it to you.
I got a card, I'm tellin' you.
No scab's going to handle that trunk.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you big coward, scabbing on honest men.
Why don't you join the union and be a man?
I suppose you're aching to join the militia for a chance to shoot down union drivers the next strike.
You may belong to the militia already, for that matter.
You're the sort - " "Hold on, now, that's too much!
There, look at that.
But Bill did not see that.
He was too busy with the trunk.
The next time he saw Mary Condon was during the Laundry Strike.
The Laundry Workers, but recently organized, were green at the business, and had petitioned Mary Condon to engineer the strike.
Freddie Drummond had had an inkling of what was coming, and had sent Bill Totts to join the union and investigate.
Bill's job was in the wash-room, and the men had been called out first, that morning, in order to stiffen the courage of the girls; and Bill chanced to be near the door to the mangle-room when Mary Condon started to enter.
The superintendent, who was both large and stout, barred her way.
He wasn't going to have his girls called out, and he'd teach her a lesson to mind her own business.
And as Mary tried to squeeze past him he thrust her back with a fat hand on her shoulder.
She glanced around and saw Bill.
I want to get in.
She had remembered his name from his union card.
The next moment the superintendent had been plucked from the doorway raving about rights under the law, and the girls were deserting their machines.
During the rest of that short and successful strike, Bill constituted himself Mary Condon's henchman and messenger, and when it was over returned to the University to be Freddie Drummond and to wonder what Bill Totts could see in such a woman.
Freddie Drummond was entirely safe, but Bill had fallen in love.
There was no getting away from the fact of it, and it was this fact that had given Freddie Drummond his warning.
Well, he had done his work, and his adventures could cease.
There was no need for him to cross the Slot again.
All but the last three chapters of his latest, LABOUR TACTICS AND STRATEGY, was finished, and he had sufficient material on hand adequately to supply those chapters.
Another conclusion he arrived at, was that in order to sheet-anchor himself as Freddie Drummond, closer ties and relations in his own social nook were necessary.
It was time that he was married, anyway, and he was fully aware that if Freddie Drummond didn't get married, Bill Totts assuredly would, and the complications were too awful to contemplate.
And so, enters Catherine Van Vorst.
She was a college woman herself, and her father, the one wealthy member of the faculty, was the head of the Philosophy Department as well.
It would be a wise marriage from every standpoint, Freddie Drummond concluded when the engagement was consummated and announced.
In children's south traditional africa games cold and reserved, aristocratic and wholesomely conservative, Catherine Van Vorst, though warm in her way, possessed an inhibition equal to Drummond's.
All seemed well with him, but Freddie Drummond could not quite shake off the call of the underworld, the lure of the free and open, of the unhampered, irresponsible life South of the Slot.
As the time of his marriage approached, he felt that he had indeed sowed wild oats, and he felt, moreover, what a good thing it would be if he could have but one wild fling more, play the good fellow and the wastrel one last time, ere he settled down to grey lecture- rooms and sober matrimony.
And, further to tempt him, the very last chapter of LABOUR TACTICS AND STRATEGY remained unwritten for lack of a trifle more of essential data which he had neglected to gather.
So Freddie Drummond went down for the last time as Bill Totts, got his data, and, unfortunately, encountered Mary Condon.
Once more installed in his study, it was not a pleasant thing to look back upon.
It made his warning doubly imperative.
Bill Totts had behaved abominably.
Not only had he met Mary Condon at the Central Labour Council, but he had stopped at a chop-house with her, on the way home, and treated her to oysters.
And before they parted at her door, his arms had been about her, and he had kissed her on the lips and kissed her repeatedly.
And her last words in his ear, words uttered softly with a catchy sob in the throat that was nothing more nor less than a love cry, were "Bill.
He saw the pit yawning for him.
He was not by nature a polygamist, and he was appalled at the possibilities of the situation.
It would have to be put an end to, and it would end in one only of two ways: either he must become wholly Bill Totts and be married to Mary Condon, or he must remain wholly Freddie Drummond and be married to Catherine Van Vorst.
Otherwise, his conduct would be beneath contempt and horrible.
In the several months that followed, San Francisco was torn with labour strife.
The unions and the employers' associations had locked horns with a determination that looked as if they intended to settle the matter, one way or the other, for all time.
But Freddie Drummond corrected proofs, lectured classes, and did not budge.
He devoted himself to Catherine Van Vorst, and day by day found more to respect and admire in her - nay, even to love in her.
The Street Car Strike tempted him, but not so severely as he would have expected; and the great Meat Strike came on and left him cold.
The ghost of Bill Totts had been successfully laid, and Freddie Drummond with rejuvenescent zeal tackled a brochure, long-planned, on the topic of "diminishing returns.
It was her brother's machine, but they were alone with the exception of the chauffeur.
At the junction with Kearny Street, Market and Geary Streets intersect like the sides of a sharp-angled letter "V.
But they did not know what was coming down Geary, timed by fate to meet them at the apex.
While aware from the papers that the Meat Strike was on and that it was an exceedingly bitter one, all thought of it at that moment was farthest from Freddie Drummond's mind.
Was he not seated beside Catherine?
And besides, he was carefully expositing to her his views on settlement work - views that Bill Totts' adventures had played a part in formulating.
Coming down Geary Street were six meat waggons.
Beside each scab driver sat a policeman.
Front and rear, and along each side of this procession, marched a protecting escort of one hundred police.
Behind the police rearguard, at a respectful distance, was an orderly but vociferous mob, several blocks in length, that congested the street from sidewalk to sidewalk.
The Beef Trust was making an effort to supply the hotels, and, incidentally, to begin the breaking of the strike.
Francis had already been supplied, at a cost of learn more here broken windows and broken heads, and the expedition was marching to the relief of the Palace Hotel.
All unwitting, Drummond sat beside Catherine, talking settlement work, as the auto, honking methodically and dodging traffic, swung in a wide curve to get around the apex.
A big coal waggon, loaded with lump coal and drawn by four huge horses, just debouching from Kearny Street as though to turn down Market, blocked their way.
The driver of the waggon seemed undecided, and the chauffeur, running slow but disregarding some shouted warning from the crossing policemen, swerved the auto to the left, violating the traffic rules, in order to pass in front of the waggon.
At that moment Freddie Drummond discontinued his conversation.
Nor did he resume it again, for the situation was developing with the rapidity of a transformation scene.
He heard the roar of the mob at the rear, and caught a glimpse of the helmeted police and the lurching meat waggons.
At the same moment, laying on his whip, and standing up to his task, the coal driver rushed horses and waggon squarely in front of the advancing procession, pulled the horses up sharply, and put on the big brake.
Then he made his lines fast to the brake-handle and sat down with the air of one who had stopped to stay.
The auto had been brought to a stop, too, by his big panting leaders which had jammed against it.
Before the chauffeur could back clear, an old Irishman, driving a rickety express waggon and lashing his one horse to a gallop, had locked wheels with the auto.
Drummond recognized both horse and waggon, for he had driven them often himself.
The Irishman was Pat Morrissey.
On the other side a brewery waggon was locking with the coal waggon, and an east-bound Kearny Street car, wildly clanging its gong, the motorman shouting defiance at the crossing policeman, was dashing forward https://art-skin.ru/south/the-south-park-game-release-date.html complete the blockade.
And waggon after something south point casino las vegas nv united states share was locking and blocking and adding to the confusion.
The click at this page waggons halted.
The police were trapped.
The roar at the rear increased as the mob came on to the attack, while the vanguard of the police charged the obstructing waggons.
She was indeed his sort.
He would have been satisfied with her even if she had screamed, and clung to him, but this - this was magnificent.
She sat in that storm centre as calmly as if it had been no more than a block of carriages at the opera.
The police were struggling to clear a passage.
The driver of the coal waggon, a big man in shirt sleeves, lighted a pipe and sat smoking.
He glanced down complacently at a captain of police who was raving and cursing at him, and his only acknowledgment was a shrug of the shoulders.
From the rear arose the rat-rat-tat of clubs on heads and a pandemonium of cursing, yelling, and shouting.
A violent accession of noise proclaimed that the mob had broken through and was dragging a scab from a click the following article />The police captain reinforced from his vanguard, and the mob at the rear was repelled.
Meanwhile, window after south of the slot accent in the high office building on the right had been opened, and the class-conscious clerks were raining a shower of office furniture down on the heads of police and scabs.
Waste-baskets, ink-bottles, paper-weights, type-writers - anything and everything that came to hand was filling the air.
A policeman, under orders from his captain, clambered to the lofty seat of the coal waggon to arrest the driver.
And the driver, rising leisurely and peacefully to meet him, suddenly crumpled him in his arms and threw him down on top of the captain.
The driver was a young giant, and when he climbed on his load and poised a lump of coal in both hands, a policeman, who was just scaling the waggon from the side, let go and dropped back to earth.
The captain ordered half-a-dozen of his men to take the waggon.
The teamster, scrambling over the load from side to side, beat them down with huge lumps of coal.
The crowd on the sidewalks and the teamsters on the locked waggons roared encouragement and their own delight.
The motorman, smashing helmets with his controller bar, was beaten into insensibility and dragged from his platform.
The captain of police, beside himself at the repulse of his men, led the next assault on the coal waggon.
A score of police were swarming up the tall-sided fortress.
But the teamster multiplied himself.
At times there were six or eight policemen rolling on the pavement and under the waggon.
Engaged in repulsing an attack on the rear end of his fortress, the teamster turned visit web page to see the captain just in the act of stepping on to the seat from the front end.
He was still in the air and in most unstable equilibrium, when the teamster hurled a thirty-pound lump of coal.
It caught the captain fairly on the chest, and he went over backward, striking on a wheeler's back, tumbling on to the ground, and jamming against the rear wheel of the auto.
Catherine thought he was dead, but he picked himself up and charged back.
She reached out her gloved hand and patted the flank of the snorting, quivering horse.
But Drummond did not notice the action.
He had eyes for nothing save the battle of the coal waggon, while somewhere in his complicated psychology, one Bill Totts was heaving and straining in an effort to come to life.
Drummond believed in law and order and the maintenance of the established, but this riotous savage within him would have none of it.
Then, if ever, did Freddie Drummond call upon his iron inhibition to save him.
But it is written that the house divided against itself must fall.
And Freddie Drummond found that he had divided all the will and force of him with Bill Totts, and between them the entity that constituted the pair of them was being wrenched in twain.
Freddie Drummond sat in the auto, quite composed, alongside Catherine Van Vorst; but looking out of Freddie Drummond's eyes was Bill Totts, and somewhere behind those eyes, battling for the control of their mutual body, were Freddie Drummond the sane and conservative sociologist, and Bill Totts, the class-conscious and bellicose union working man.
It was Bill Totts, looking out of those eyes, who saw the inevitable end of the battle on the coal waggon.
He saw a policeman gain the top of the load, a second, and a third.
They lurched clumsily on the loose footing, but their long riot-clubs were out and swinging.
One blow caught the teamster on the head.
A second he dodged, receiving it on the shoulder.
For him the game was plainly up.
He dashed in suddenly, clutched two policemen in his arms, and hurled himself a prisoner to the pavement, his hold never relaxing on his two captors.
Catherine Van Vorst was sick and faint at sight of the blood and brutal fighting.
But her qualms were article source by the sensational and most unexpected happening that followed.
The man beside her emitted an unearthly and uncultured yell and rose to his feet.
She saw him spring over the front seat, leap to the broad rump of the wheeler, and from there gain the waggon.
His onslaught was like a whirlwind.
Before the bewildered officer on the load could guess the errand of this conventionally clad but excited-seeming gentleman, he was the recipient of a punch that arched him back through the air to the pavement.
A kick in the face led an ascending policeman to follow his example.
A rush of three more gained the top and locked with Bill Totts in a gigantic clinch, during which his scalp was opened up by a club, and coat, vest, and half his starched shirt were torn from him.
But the three policemen were flung far and wide, and Bill Totts, raining down lumps of coal, held the fort.
The captain led gallantly to the attack, but was bowled over by a chunk of coal that burst on his head in black baptism.
The need of the police was to break the blockade in front before the mob could break in at the rear, and Bill Totts' need was to hold the waggon till the mob did break through.
So the battle of the coal went on.
The crowd had recognized its champion.
Pat Morrissey, on his waggon seat, was jumping and screaming in an ecstasy, "Eat 'em, South of the slot accent />Catherine Van Vorst turned her head and saw on the curb of the sidewalk a woman with vivid colouring and flashing black eyes who was staring with all her soul at the man who had been Freddie Drummond a few minutes before.
The windows of the office building became vociferous with applause.
A fresh shower of office chairs and filing cabinets descended.
The mob had broken through on one side the line of waggons, and was advancing, each segregated policeman the centre of a fighting group.
The scabs were torn from their seats, the traces of the horses cut, and the frightened animals put in flight.
Many policemen crawled under the coal waggon for safety, while the loose horses, with here and there a policeman on their backs or struggling at their heads to hold them, surged across the sidewalk opposite the jam and broke into Market Street.
Catherine Van Vorst heard the woman's voice calling in warning.
She was back on the curb again, and crying out - "Beat it, Bill!
Bill Totts leaped to the pavement and made his way to the woman on the sidewalk.
Catherine Van Vorst saw her throw her arms around him and kiss him on the lips; and Catherine Van Vorst watched him curiously as he went on down the sidewalk, one arm around the woman, both talking and laughing, and he with a volubility and abandon she could never have dreamed possible.
The police were back again and clearing the jam while waiting for reinforcements and new drivers and horses.
The mob had done its work and was scattering, and Catherine Van Vorst, still watching, could see the man she had known as Freddie Drummond.
He towered a head above the crowd.
His arm was still about the woman.
And she in the motor-car, watching, saw the pair cross Market Street, cross the Slot, and disappear down Third Street into the labour ghetto.
In the years that followed no more lectures were given in the University of California by one Freddie Drummond, and no more books on economics and the labour question appeared over the name of Frederick A.
On the other hand there arose a new labour leader, William Totts by name.
He it was who married Mary Condon, President of the International Glove Workers' Union No.

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The answer is yes!
The is a super cool site.
You can browse the world, click on a region, and hear how a person from that area pronounces a given Article source paragraph.
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Image from Joe Thompson.
After the publication of the international bestseller White Fang 1906Jack London built a schooner, which he christened the Snark, and embarked on a voyage around the world.
He even calculated how much he had completed for each project—a total of 323,000 words.
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Notes: On the first page of the story, London refers to two famous contemporary works.
Often distributed by businesses to their employees to promote loyalty and resourcefulness, it coined the catchphrase "take a message to Garcia" as shorthand for take the initiative and just do it yourself.
Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch 1901by Louisville writer Alice Caldwell Hegan Rice, is a novel about a poor but thrifty widow.
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South of the Slot by Old San Francisco, which is the San Francisco of only the other day, the day before the Earthquake, was divided midway by the Slot.
The Slot was an iron crack that ran along the centre of Market Street, and from the Slot arose the burr of the ceaseless, endless cable that was hitched at will to the cars it dragged up and down.
In truth, there were two slots, but what real money online casino south africa nice the quick grammar of the West time was saved by calling them, and much more that they stood for, "The Slot.
South of the Slot were the factories, slums, laundries, machine-shops, boiler works, and the abodes of the working class.
The Slot was the metaphor that expressed the class cleavage of Society, and no man crossed this metaphor, back and forth, more successfully than Freddie Learn more here />He made a practice of living in both worlds, and in both worlds he lived signally well.
Freddie Drummond was a professor in the Sociology Department of the University of California, and it was as a professor of sociology that he first crossed over the Slot, lived for six mouths in the great labour-ghetto, and wrote THE UNSKILLED LABOURER - a book that was hailed everywhere as an able contribution to the literature of progress, and as a splendid reply to the literature of discontent.
Politically and economically it was nothing if not orthodox.
Presidents of great railway systems bought whole editions of it to give to their employees.
The Manufacturers' Association alone distributed fifty thousand copies of it.
In a way, it was almost as immoral as the far-famed and notorious MESSAGE TO GARCIA, while in its pernicious preachment of thrift and content it ran MR.
WIGGS OF THE CABBAGE PATCH a close second.
At first, Freddie Drummond found it monstrously difficult to get along among the working people.
He was not used to their ways, and they certainly were not used to his.
He had no antecedents.
He could talk of no previous jobs.
His hands were soft.
His extraordinary politeness was ominous.
His first idea of the role he would play was that of a free and independent American who chose to work with his hands and no explanations given.
But it wouldn't do, as he quickly discovered.
At the beginning they accepted him, very provisionally, as a freak.
A little later, as he began to know his way about better, he insensibly drifted into the role that would work - namely, he was a man who had seen better days, very much better days, but who was down on his luck, though, to be sure, only temporarily.
He learned many things, and generalized much and often erroneously, all of which can be found in the pages of THE UNSKILLED LABOURER.
He saved himself, however, after the sane and conservative manner of his kind, by labelling his generalizations as "tentative.
A box factory supplied the parts, and all Freddie Drummond had to do was to fit the parts into a form and drive in the wire nails with a light hammer.
It was not skilled labour, but it was piece-work.
The ordinary labourers in the cannery got a dollar and a half per day.
Freddie Drummond found the other men on the same job with him jogging along and earning a dollar and seventy-five cents a day.
By the third day he was able to earn the same.
But he was ambitious.
He did not care to jog along and, being unusually able and fit, on the fourth day earned two dollars.
The next day, having keyed himself up to an exhausting high- tension, he earned two dollars and a half.
His fellow workers favoured him with scowls and black looks, and made remarks, slangily witty and which he did not understand, about sucking up to the boss and pace-making and holding her down, when the rains set in.
He was astonished at their malingering on piece-work, generalized about the inherent laziness of the unskilled labourer, and proceeded next day to hammer out three dollars' worth of boxes.
And that night, coming out of the cannery, he was interviewed by his fellow workmen, who were very angry and incoherently slangy.
He failed to comprehend the motive behind their action.
The action itself was strenuous.
When he refused to ease down his pace and bleated about freedom of contract, independent Americanism, and the dignity of toil, they proceeded to spoil his pace-making ability.
It was a fierce battle, for Drummond was a large man and an athlete, but the crowd finally jumped on his ribs, walked on his face, and stamped on his fingers, so that it was only after lying in bed for a week that he was able to get up and look for another job.
All of which is duly narrated in that first book of his, in the chapter entitled "The Tyranny of Labour.
It was palpable malingering; but he was there, he decided, not to change conditions, but to observe.
So he lumped one box thereafter, and so well did he study the art of shirking that he wrote a special chapter on it, with the last several paragraphs devoted to tentative generalizations.
In those six months he worked at many jobs and developed into a very good imitation of a genuine worker.
He was a natural linguist, and he kept notebooks, making a scientific study of the workers' slang or argot, until he could talk quite intelligibly.
This language also enabled him more intimately to follow their mental processes, and remarkable, winter olympic games in south korea share to gather much data for a projected chapter in some future book which he planned to entitle SYNTHESIS OF WORKING-CLASS PSYCHOLOGY.
Before he arose to the surface from that first plunge into the underworld he discovered that he was a good actor and demonstrated the plasticity of his nature.
He was himself astonished at his own fluidity.
Once having mastered the language and conquered numerous fastidious qualms, he found that he could flow into any nook of working-class life and fit it so snugly as to feel comfortably at home.
As he said, in the preface to his second book, THE TOILER, he endeavoured really to know the working people, and the only possible way to achieve this was to work beside them, eat their food, sleep in their beds, be amused with their amusements, think their thoughts, and feel their feeling.
He was not a deep thinker.
He had no faith in new theories.
All his norms and criteria were conventional.
His Thesis on the French Revolution was noteworthy in college annals, not merely for its painstaking and voluminous accuracy, but for the fact that it was the dryest, deadest, most formal, and most orthodox screed ever written on the subject.
He was a very reserved man, and his natural inhibition was large in quantity and steel-like in quality.
He had but few friends.
He was too undemonstrative, too frigid.
He had no vices, nor had any one ever discovered any temptations.
Tobacco he detested, beer he abhorred, and he was never known to drink anything stronger than an occasional light wine at dinner.
When a freshman he had been baptized "Ice-Box" by his warmer- blooded fellows.
As a member of the faculty he was known as "Cold- Storage.
In appearance and atmosphere he was a strapping big college man, smooth-faced and easy-mannered, clean and simple and wholesome, with a known record of being a splendid athlete and an implied vast possession of cold culture of the inhibited sort.
He never talked shop out of class and committee rooms, except later on, when his books showered him with distasteful public notice and he yielded to the extent of reading occasional papers before certain literary and economic societies.
He did everything right - too right; and in dress and comportment was inevitably correct.
Not that he was a dandy.
He was a college man, in dress and carriage as like as a pea to the type that of late years is being so generously turned out of our institutions of higher learning.
His handshake was satisfyingly strong and stiff.
His blue eyes were coldly blue and convincingly sincere.
His voice, firm and masculine, clean and crisp of enunciation, was pleasant to the ear.
The one drawback to Free south park games for android Drummond was his inhibition.
In his football days, the higher the tension of the game, the cooler he grew.
He was noted as a boxer, but he was regarded as an automaton, with the inhuman precision of a machine judging distance and timing blows, guarding, blocking, and stalling.
He was rarely punished himself, while he rarely punished an opponent.
He was too clever and too controlled to permit himself to put a pound more weight into a punch than he intended.
With him it was a matter of exercise.
It kept him fit.
As time went by, Freddie Drummond found himself more frequently crossing the Slot and losing himself in South of Market.
His summer and winter holidays were spent there, and, whether it was a week or a week-end, he found the time spent there to be valuable and enjoyable.
And there was so much material to be gathered.
His third book, MASS AND MASTER, became a text-book in the American universities; and almost before he knew it, he was at work on a fourth one, THE FALLACY OF THE INEFFICIENT.
Somewhere in his make-up there was a strange twist or quirk.
Perhaps it was a recoil from his environment and training, or from the tempered seed of his ancestors, who had been book-men generation preceding generation; but at any rate, he found enjoyment in being down in the working-class world.
In his own world he was "Cold-Storage," but down below he was "Big" Bill Totts, who could drink and smoke, and slang and fight, and be an all-round favourite.
Everybody liked Bill, and more than one working girl made love to him.
At first he had been merely a good actor, but as time went on, simulation became second nature.
He no longer played a part, and he loved sausages, sausages and bacon, than which, in his own proper sphere, there was nothing more loathsome in the way of food.
From doing the thing for the need's sake, he came to doing the thing for the thing's sake.
He found himself regretting as the time drew near for him to go back to his lecture-room and his inhibition.
And he often found himself waiting with anticipation for the dreamy time to pass when he could cross the Slot and cut loose and play the devil.
He was not wicked, but as "Big" Bill Totts he did a myriad things that Freddie Drummond would never have been permitted to do.
Moreover, Freddie Drummond never would have wanted to do them.
That was the strangest part of his discovery.
Freddie Drummond and Bill Totts were two totally different creatures.
The desires and tastes and impulses of each ran counter to the other's.
Bill Totts could shirk at a job with clear conscience, while Freddie Drummond condemned shirking as vicious, criminal, and un-American, and devoted whole chapters to condemnation of the vice.
Freddie Drummond did not care for dancing, but Bill Totts never missed the nights at the various dancing clubs, such as The Magnolia, The Western Star, and The Elite; while he won a massive silver cup, standing thirty inches high, for being the best-sustained character at the Butchers and Meat Workers' annual grand masked ball.
And Bill Totts liked the girls and the girls liked him, while Freddie Drummond enjoyed playing the ascetic in this particular, was open in his opposition to equal suffrage, and cynically bitter in his secret condemnation of coeducation.
Freddie Drummond changed his manners with his dress, and without effort.
When he entered the obscure little room used for his transformation scenes, he carried himself just a bit too stiffly.
He was too erect, his shoulders were an inch too far back, while his face was grave, almost harsh, and practically expressionless.
But when he emerged in Bill Totts' clothes he was another creature.
Bill Totts did not slouch, but somehow his whole form limbered up and became graceful.
The very sound of the voice was changed, and the laugh was loud and hearty, while loose speech and an occasional oath were as a matter of course on his lips.
Also, South of the slot accent Totts was a trifle inclined to late hours, and at times, in saloons, to be good-naturedly bellicose with other workmen.
Then, too, at Sunday picnics or when coming home from the show, either arm betrayed a practised familiarity in stealing around girls' waists, while he displayed a wit keen and delightful in the flirtatious badinage that was expected of a good fellow in his class.
So thoroughly was Bill Totts himself, so thoroughly a workman, a genuine denizen of South of the Slot, that he was as class- conscious as the average of his kind, and his hatred for a scab even exceeded that of the average loyal union man.
During the Water Front Strike, Freddie Drummond was somehow able to stand apart from the unique combination, and, coldly critical, watch Bill Totts hilariously slug scab longshoremen.
For Bill Totts was a dues-paying member of the Longshoremen Union and had a right to be indignant with the usurpers of his job.
From acting outraged feelings, Freddie Drummond, in the role of his other self, came to experience genuine outrage, and it was only when he returned to the classic atmosphere of the university that he was able, sanely and conservatively, to generalize upon his underworld experiences and put them down on paper as a trained sociologist should.
That Bill Totts lacked the perspective to raise him above class-consciousness Freddie Drummond clearly saw.
But Bill Totts could not see it.
When he saw a scab taking his job away, he saw south of the slot accent at the same time, and little else did he see.
It was Freddie Drummond, irreproachably clothed and comported, seated at his study desk or facing his class in SOCIOLOGY 17, who saw Bill Totts, and all around Bill Totts, and all around the whole scab and union-labour problem and its relation to the economic welfare of the United States in the struggle for the world market.
Bill Totts really wasn't able to see beyond the next meal and the prize-fight the following night at the Gaiety Athletic Club.
It was while gathering material for WOMEN South of the slot accent WORK that Freddie received his first warning of the danger he was in.
He was too successful at living in both worlds.
This strange dualism he had developed was after all very unstable, and, as he sat in his study and meditated, he saw that it could not endure.
It was really a transition stage, and if he persisted he saw that he would inevitably have to drop one world or the other.
He could not continue in both.
And as he looked at the row of volumes that graced the upper shelf of his revolving book-case, his volumes, beginning with his Thesis and ending with WOMEN AND WORK, he decided that that was the world he would hold to and stick by.
Bill Totts had served his purpose, but he had become a too dangerous accomplice.
Bill Totts would have to cease.
Freddie Drummond's fright was due to Mary Condon, President of the International Glove Workers' Union No.
He had seen her, first, from the spectators' gallery, at the annual convention of the Northwest Federation of Labour, and he had seen her through Bill Totts' eyes, and that individual had been most favourably impressed by her.
She was not Freddie Drummond's sort at all.
What if she were a royal-bodied woman, graceful and sinewy as a panther, with amazing black eyes that could fill with fire or laughter-love, as the mood might dictate?
He detested women with a too exuberant vitality and a lack of.
Freddie Drummond accepted the doctrine of evolution because it was quite universally accepted by college men, and he flatly believed that man had climbed up the ladder of life out of the weltering muck and mess of lower and monstrous organic things.
But he was a trifle ashamed of this genealogy, and preferred not to think of it.
Wherefore, probably, he practised his iron inhibition and preached it to others, and preferred women of his own type, who could shake south of the slot accent of this bestial and regrettable ancestral line and by discipline and control emphasize the wideness of the gulf that separated them from what their dim forbears had been.
Bill Totts had none of these considerations.
He had liked Mary Condon from the moment his eyes first rested on her in the convention hall, and he had made it a point, then and there, to find out who she was.
The next time he met her, and quite by accident, was when he was driving an express waggon for Pat Morrissey.
It was in a lodging-house in Mission Street, where he had been called to take a trunk into storage.
The landlady's daughter had called him and led him to the little bedroom, the occupant of which, a glove-maker, had just been removed to hospital.
But Bill did not know this.
He stooped, up-ended the trunk, which was a large one, got it on his shoulder, and struggled to his feet with his back toward the open door.
At that moment he heard a woman's voice.
I wanta turn round.
He started to swear, but at the same instant found himself looking into Mary Condon's flashing, angry eyes.
But I can't git it out now.
This trunk's too damn heavy.
Come on down to the waggon an' I'll show it to you.
I got a card, I'm tellin' you.
No scab's going to handle that trunk.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you big coward, scabbing on honest men.
Why don't you join the union and be a man?
I suppose you're aching to join the militia for a chance to shoot down union drivers the next strike.
You may belong to the militia already, for that matter.
You're the sort - " "Hold on, now, that's too much!
There, look at that.
But Bill did not see that.
He was too busy with the trunk.
The next time he saw Mary Condon was during the Laundry Strike.
The Laundry Workers, but recently organized, were green at the business, and had petitioned South of the slot accent Condon to engineer the strike.
Freddie Drummond had had an inkling of what was coming, and had sent Bill Totts to join the union and investigate.
Bill's job was in the wash-room, and the men had been called out first, that morning, in order to stiffen the courage of the girls; and Bill chanced to be near the door to the mangle-room when Mary Condon started to enter.
The superintendent, who was both large and stout, barred her way.
He wasn't going to have his girls called out, and he'd teach her a lesson to mind her own business.
And as Mary tried to squeeze past him he thrust her back with a fat hand on her shoulder.
She glanced around and saw Bill.
I want to get in.
She had remembered his name from his union card.
The next moment the superintendent had been plucked from the doorway raving about rights under the law, and the girls were deserting their machines.
During the rest of that short and successful strike, Bill constituted himself Mary Condon's henchman and messenger, and when it was over returned to the University to be Freddie Drummond and to wonder what Bill Totts could see in such a woman.
Freddie Drummond was entirely safe, but Bill had fallen in love.
There was no getting away from the fact of it, and it was this fact that had given Freddie Drummond his warning.
Well, he had done his work, and his adventures could cease.
There was no need for him to cross the Slot again.
All but the last three chapters of his latest, LABOUR TACTICS AND STRATEGY, was finished, and he had sufficient material on hand adequately to supply those chapters.
Another conclusion he arrived at, was that in order to sheet-anchor himself as Freddie Drummond, closer ties and relations in his own social nook were necessary.
It was time that he was married, anyway, and he was fully aware that if Freddie Drummond didn't get married, Bill Totts assuredly would, and the complications were too awful to contemplate.
And so, enters Catherine Van Vorst.
She was a college woman herself, and her father, the one wealthy member of the faculty, was the head of the Philosophy Department as well.
It would be a wise marriage from every standpoint, Freddie Drummond concluded when the engagement was consummated and announced.
In appearance cold and reserved, aristocratic and wholesomely conservative, Catherine Van Vorst, though warm in her way, possessed an inhibition equal to Drummond's.
All seemed well with him, but Freddie Drummond could not quite shake off the call of the underworld, the lure of the free and open, of the unhampered, irresponsible life South of the Slot.
As the time of his marriage approached, he felt that he had indeed sowed wild oats, and he felt, moreover, what a good thing it would be if he could have but one wild fling more, play the good fellow and the wastrel one last time, ere he settled down to grey lecture- rooms and sober matrimony.
And, further to tempt him, the very last chapter of LABOUR TACTICS AND STRATEGY remained unwritten for lack of a trifle more of essential data which he had neglected to gather.
So Freddie Drummond went down for the last time as Bill Totts, got his data, and, unfortunately, encountered Mary Condon.
Once more installed in his study, it was not a pleasant thing to look back upon.
It made his warning south point casino shuttle schedule imperative.
Bill Totts had behaved abominably.
Not only had he met Mary Condon at the Central Labour Council, but he had stopped at a chop-house with her, on the way home, and treated her to oysters.
And before they parted at her door, his arms had been about her, and he had kissed her on the lips and kissed her repeatedly.
And her last words in his ear, words uttered softly with a catchy sob in the throat that was nothing more nor less than a love cry, were "Bill.
He saw the pit yawning for him.
He was not by nature a polygamist, and he was appalled at the possibilities of the situation.
It would have to be put an end to, and it would end in one only of two ways: either he must become wholly Bill Totts and be married to Mary Condon, or he must remain wholly Freddie Drummond and be married to Catherine Van Vorst.
Otherwise, his conduct would be beneath contempt and horrible.
In the several months that followed, San Francisco was torn with labour strife.
The unions and the employers' associations south of the slot accent locked horns with a determination that looked as if they intended to settle the matter, one way south of the slot accent the other, for all time.
But Freddie Drummond corrected proofs, lectured classes, and did not budge.
He devoted himself to Catherine Van Vorst, and day by day found more to respect and admire in her - nay, even to love in her.
The Street Car Strike tempted him, but not so severely as he would have expected; and the great Meat Strike came on and left him cold.
The ghost of Bill Totts had been successfully laid, and Freddie Drummond with rejuvenescent zeal tackled a brochure, long-planned, on the topic of "diminishing returns.
It was her brother's machine, but they were alone with the exception of the chauffeur.
At the junction with Kearny Street, Market and Geary Streets intersect like the sides of a sharp-angled letter "V.
But they did not know what was coming down Geary, timed by fate to meet them at the apex.
While aware from the papers that the Meat Strike was on and that it was an exceedingly bitter one, all thought of it at that moment was farthest from Freddie Drummond's mind.
Was he not seated beside Catherine?
And besides, he was carefully expositing to her his views on settlement work - views that Bill Totts' adventures had played a part in formulating.
Coming down Geary Street were six meat waggons.
Beside each scab driver sat a policeman.
Front and rear, and along each side of this procession, marched a protecting escort of one hundred police.
Behind the police rearguard, at a respectful distance, was an orderly but vociferous mob, several blocks in length, that congested the street from sidewalk to sidewalk.
The Beef Trust was making an effort to supply the hotels, and, incidentally, to begin the breaking of the strike.
Francis had already been supplied, at a cost of many broken windows and broken heads, and the expedition was marching to the relief of the Palace Hotel.
All unwitting, Drummond sat beside Catherine, talking settlement work, as the auto, honking methodically and dodging traffic, swung in a wide curve to get around the apex.
A big coal waggon, loaded with lump coal https://art-skin.ru/south/traditional-children39s-games-south-africa.html drawn by four huge horses, just debouching from Kearny Street as though to turn down Market, blocked their way.
The driver of the waggon seemed undecided, and the chauffeur, running slow but disregarding some shouted warning from the crossing policemen, swerved the auto to the left, violating the traffic rules, in order to pass in front of the waggon.
At that moment Freddie Drummond discontinued his conversation.
Nor did he resume it again, for the situation was developing with the rapidity of a transformation scene.
He heard the roar of the mob at the rear, and caught a glimpse of the helmeted police and the lurching meat waggons.
At the same moment, laying on his whip, and standing up to his task, the coal driver rushed horses and waggon squarely in front of the advancing procession, pulled the horses up sharply, and put on the big brake.
Then he made his lines fast to the brake-handle and sat down with the air of one who had stopped to stay.
The auto had been brought to a stop, too, by his big panting leaders which had jammed against it.
Before the chauffeur could back clear, an old Irishman, driving a rickety express waggon and lashing his one horse to a gallop, had locked wheels with the auto.
Drummond recognized both horse and waggon, for he had driven them often himself.
The Irishman was Pat Morrissey.
On the other side a brewery waggon was locking with the coal waggon, and an east-bound Kearny Street car, wildly clanging its gong, the motorman shouting defiance at the crossing policeman, was dashing forward to complete the blockade.
And waggon after waggon was locking and blocking and adding to the confusion.
The meat waggons halted.
The police were trapped.
The roar at the rear increased as the mob came on to the attack, while the vanguard of the police charged the obstructing waggons.
She was indeed his sort.
He would have been satisfied with her even if she had screamed, and clung to him, but this - this was magnificent.
She sat in that storm centre as calmly as if it had been no more than a block of carriages at the opera.
The police were struggling to clear a passage.
The driver of the coal waggon, a big man in shirt sleeves, lighted a pipe and africa south casino logistics smoking.
He glanced down complacently at a captain of police who was raving and cursing at him, and his only acknowledgment was a shrug of the shoulders.
From the rear arose the rat-rat-tat of clubs on heads and a pandemonium of cursing, yelling, and shouting.
A violent accession of see more proclaimed that the mob had broken through and was dragging a scab from a waggon.
The police captain reinforced from his vanguard, and the mob at the rear was repelled.
Meanwhile, window after window in the high office building on the right had been opened, and the class-conscious clerks were raining a shower of office furniture down on the heads of police and scabs.
Waste-baskets, ink-bottles, paper-weights, type-writers - anything and everything that came to hand was filling the air.
A policeman, under orders from his captain, clambered to the lofty seat of the coal waggon to arrest the driver.
And the driver, rising leisurely and peacefully to meet him, suddenly crumpled him in his arms and threw him down on top of the captain.
The driver was a young giant, and when he climbed on his load and poised a lump of coal in both hands, a policeman, who was just scaling the waggon from the side, let go and dropped back to earth.
The captain ordered half-a-dozen of his men to take the waggon.
The teamster, scrambling over the load from side to side, beat them down with huge lumps of coal.
The crowd on the sidewalks and the teamsters on the locked waggons roared encouragement and their own delight.
The motorman, smashing helmets with his controller article source, was beaten into insensibility and dragged from his platform.
The captain of police, beside himself at the repulse of his men, led the next assault on the coal waggon.
A score of police were swarming up the tall-sided fortress.
But the teamster multiplied himself.
At times there were six or eight policemen rolling on the pavement and under the waggon.
Engaged in repulsing an attack on the rear end of his fortress, the teamster turned about to see the captain just in the act of stepping on to the seat from the front end.
He was still in the air and in most unstable equilibrium, when the teamster hurled a thirty-pound lump of coal.
It caught the captain fairly on the chest, and he went over backward, striking on a wheeler's back, tumbling on to the ground, and jamming against the rear wheel of the auto.
Catherine thought he was dead, but he picked himself up and charged back.
She reached out her gloved hand and patted the flank of the snorting, quivering horse.
But Drummond did not notice the action.
He had eyes for nothing save the battle of the coal waggon, while somewhere in his complicated psychology, one Bill Totts was heaving and straining in an effort to come to life.
Drummond believed in law and order and the maintenance of the established, but this riotous savage within him would have none of it.
Then, if ever, did Freddie Drummond call upon his iron inhibition to save him.
But it is written that the house divided against itself must fall.
And Freddie Drummond found that he had divided all south of the slot accent will and force of him with Bill Totts, and between them the entity that constituted the pair of them was being wrenched in twain.
Freddie Drummond sat in the auto, quite composed, alongside Catherine Van Vorst; more info looking out of Freddie Drummond's eyes was Bill Totts, and somewhere behind those eyes, battling for the control of their mutual body, were Freddie Drummond the sane and conservative sociologist, and Bill Totts, the class-conscious and bellicose union working man.
It was Bill Totts, looking out of those eyes, who saw the inevitable end of the battle on the coal waggon.
He saw a policeman gain the top of the load, link second, and a third.
They lurched clumsily on the loose footing, but their long riot-clubs were out and swinging.
One blow caught the teamster on the head.
A second he dodged, receiving it on the shoulder.
For him the game was plainly up.
He dashed in suddenly, clutched two policemen in his arms, and hurled himself a prisoner to the pavement, his hold never relaxing on his two captors.
Catherine Van Vorst was sick and faint at sight of the blood and brutal fighting.
But her qualms were vanquished by the sensational and most unexpected happening that followed.
The man beside her emitted an unearthly and uncultured yell and rose to his feet.
She saw him spring over the front seat, leap to the broad rump of the wheeler, and from there gain the waggon.
His onslaught was like a whirlwind.
Before the bewildered officer on the load could guess the errand of this conventionally clad but excited-seeming gentleman, he was the recipient of a punch that arched him back through the air to the pavement.
A kick in the face led an ascending policeman to follow his example.
A rush of three more gained the top and locked with Bill Totts in a gigantic clinch, during which his scalp was opened up by a club, and coat, vest, and half his starched shirt were torn from him.
But the three policemen were flung far and wide, and Bill Totts, raining down lumps of coal, held the fort.
The captain led gallantly to the attack, but was bowled over by a chunk of coal that burst on his head in black baptism.
The need of the police was to break the blockade in front before the mob could break in at the rear, and Bill Totts' need was to hold the waggon till the mob did break through.
So the battle of the coal went on.
The crowd had recognized its champion.
Pat Morrissey, on his waggon seat, was jumping and screaming in an ecstasy, "Eat 'em, Bill!
Catherine Van Vorst turned her head and saw on the curb of the sidewalk a woman with vivid colouring and flashing black eyes who was staring with all her soul at the man who had been Freddie Drummond a few minutes before.
The windows of the office building became vociferous with applause.
A fresh shower of office chairs and filing cabinets descended.
The mob had broken through on one side the line of waggons, and was advancing, each segregated policeman the centre of a fighting group.
The scabs were torn from their seats, the traces of the horses cut, and the frightened animals put in flight.
Many policemen crawled under the coal waggon for safety, while the loose horses, with here and there a policeman on their backs or struggling at their heads to hold them, surged across the sidewalk opposite the jam and broke into Market Street.
Catherine Van Vorst heard the woman's voice calling in warning.
She was back on the curb again, and crying out - "Beat it, Bill!
Bill Totts leaped to the pavement and made his way to the woman on the sidewalk.
Catherine Van Vorst saw her throw her arms around him and kiss him on the lips; and Catherine Van Vorst watched him curiously as he went on down the sidewalk, one arm around the woman, both talking and laughing, and he with a volubility and abandon she could never have dreamed possible.
The police were back again and clearing the jam while waiting for reinforcements and new drivers and horses.
The mob had done its work and was scattering, and Catherine Van Vorst, still watching, could see the man she had known as Freddie Drummond.
He towered a head above the crowd.
His arm was still about the woman.
And she in the motor-car, watching, saw the pair cross Market Street, cross the Slot, and disappear down Third Street into the labour ghetto.
In the years that followed no more lectures were given in the University of California by one Freddie Drummond, and no more books on economics and the labour question appeared over the name of Frederick A.
On the other hand there arose a new labour leader, William Totts by name.
He it was who married Mary Condon, President of the International Glove Workers' Union No.