His best means of Socialist propaganda, he had found, was in just such meanderings along the highways and hedges of existence--a casual job, here or there, for a day, a week, a month--then, quick friendships; a little talk; a few leaflets handed to the intelligent, if he could find any.

He had laced the continent with such peregrinations, always sowing the seed of revolution wherever he had passed; getting in touch with the Movement all over the republic; keeping his finger on the pulse of ever-growing, always-strengthening Socialism.
Such had his habits long been.

And now, once more adrift and jobless, but with the most tremendous secret of the ages in his possession, he naturally turned to the comfort and the calming influence of the broad highway, in his long journey towards the place where he was to meet, in desperate opposition, the machinations of the Air Trust magnates.
"It's the only way for me," he decided, as he turned into the road leading toward Saint George and the Manhattan Ferry.

"Flint and Herzog will be sure to put Slade and the Cosmos people after me.

Blacklisting will be the least of what they'll try to do.