Part 5 (1/2)

The big fellow smiled with a childish pride, and doubling up his arm, as huge as an average man's thigh, he patted his biceps. ”I get it all right. I pa.s.s examination, no flaws in me, never been to hospital, not one day. Yes, I get it.”

”Get what?”

”Paternity,” said the man in a lower voice, as he glanced about to see if any of his fellows was listening. ”Paternity, you know? Women!”

I thought of many questions but feared to ask them. The worker waited for some men to pa.s.s, then he bent over me, grinning sardonically. ”Did you see them? You have seen women, yes?”

”Yes,” I ventured, ”I have seen women.”

”Pretty good, beautiful, yes?”

”Yes,” I stammered, ”they are very beautiful.” But I was getting nervous and moved away. The workman, hesitating a little, then followed at my side.

”But tell me,” I said, ”about these calories. What did you do to get the big meals? Why do some get more to eat than others?”

”Better man,” he replied without hesitation.

”But what makes a better man?”

”You don't know; of course, you are an intellectual and don't work. But we work hard. The harder we work the more we eat. I load aluminum pigs on the elevator. One pig is two calories, nineteen hundred pigs a day, pretty good, yes? All kind of work has its calories, so many for each thing to do.

”More work, more food it takes to do it. They say all is alike, that no one can get fat. But all work calories are not alike because some men get fatter than others. I don't get fat; my work is hard. I ought to get two and a half calories for each pig I load. Still I do not get thin, but I do not play hard in gymnasium, see? Those lathe men, they got it too easy and they play hard in gymnasium. I don't care if you do report.

I got it mad at them; they got it too easy. One got paternity last year already, and he is not as good a man as I am. I could throw him over my shoulder in wrestling. Do you not think they get it too easy?”

”Do the men like this system,” I asked; ”the measuring of food by the amount of work one does? Do any of them talk about it and demand that all be fed alike?”

”The skinny minimum eaters do,” said the workman with a sneer, ”when we let them talk, which isn't often, but when they get a chance they talk Bellamism. But what if they do talk, it does them no good. We have a red flag, we have Imperial Socialism; we have the House of Hohenzollern.

Well, then, I say, let them talk if they want to, every man must eat according to his work; that is socialism. We can't have Bellamism when we have socialism.”

This speech, so much more informative and evidencing a knowledge I had not antic.i.p.ated, quite disturbed me. ”You talk about these things,” I ventured, ”in your Free Speech Halls?”

The hitherto pleasant face of the workingman altered to an ugly frown.

”No you don't,” he growled, ”you don't think because I talk to you, that you can go asking me what is not your right to know, even if you are an officer?”

I remained discreetly silent, but continued to walk at the side of the striding giant. Presently I asked:

”What do you do now, are you going to work?”

”No,” he said, looking at me doubtfully, ”that was dinner, not breakfast. I am going now to the picture hall.”

”And then,” I asked, ”do you go to bed?”

”No,” he said, ”we then go to the gymnasium or the gaming tables. Six hours' work, six hours' sleep, and four hours for amus.e.m.e.nt.”

”And what do you do,” I asked, ”the remainder of the day?”

He turned and stared at me. ”That is all we get here, sixteen hours.