Early the next morning in a bedroom in a rooming house for aliens in Fifteenth Street, a man sat in a chair scanning the want columns of a newspaper.

Occasionally he jotted down something on a slip of paper.
This man's job was rather an unusual one.

He hunted jobs for other men--jobs in steel mills, great factories, in the textile districts, the street-car lines, the shipping yards and docks, any place where there might be a grain or two of the powder of unrest and discontent.

His business was to supply the human matches.
No more parading the streets, no more haranguing from soap boxes.

The proper place nowadays was in the yard or shop corners at noontime.