It is the headquarters of nearly
all the great labor organizations in the city. Behind its doors,
swinging as easily between the street and the liquor-fumed halls as the
soul swings between right and wrong, the disturbed minds of the
working-men become clouded, heated, and wrothily ready for deeds of
violence.
Outside on the pavements with hundreds of like-excited men, with angry
discussions and bitter recitals of complaints, the seeds of discord sown
some time since, perhaps, sprout afresh, blossom and bear fruits. Is
there a strike? Then special minions of the law are detailed to this
place, for violence and hatred of employers, insurrection and socialism
find here ready followers. Impromptu mass meetings are common, and
law-breaking schemes find their cradle beneath its glittering lights. It
is always thronged within and without, a veritable nursery of riot and
disorder.
And oh, Bohemia, pipes, indolence and beer! The atmosphere is
impregnated with it, the dust sifts it into your clothes and hair, the
sunlight filters it through your brain, the stray snatches of music now
and then beat it rhythmically into your mind. There are some who work,
yes, and a few places outside of the saloons that seem to be animated
with a business motive.
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