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Updated: August 31, 2025
This was, indeed, the great object of the organization. Agriculture, Land, Fisheries, and Water Products. 2. Mining. 3. Transportation and Communication. 4. Manufacturing and General Production. 5. Construction. 6. Public Service. J. G. Brissenden, "The Launching of the Industrial Workers of the World," page 41.
Brissenden departed with the "Love-cycle," and "The Peri and the Pearl," returning next day to greet Martin with: "I want more." Not only did he assure Martin that he was a poet, but Martin learned that Brissenden also was one. He was swept off his feet by the other's work, and astounded that no attempt had been made to publish it.
"There's only one man who could touch it," he murmured aloud, "and that's Conrad. And it ought to make even him sit up and shake hands with me, and say, 'Well done, Martin, my boy." He toiled on all day, recollecting, at the last moment, that he was to have dinner at the Morses'. Thanks to Brissenden, his black suit was out of pawn and he was again eligible for dinner parties.
Everard admired them with increasing fervour. With one exception they were married, and suitably married; that member of the charming group who kept her maiden freedom was Agnes Brissenden, and it seemed to Barfoot that, if preference were at all justified, Agnes should receive the palm.
Here was an intelligence, a living man for him to look up to. "I am down in the dirt at your feet," Martin repeated to himself again and again. "You've studied biology," he said aloud, in significant allusion. To his surprise Brissenden shook his head. "But you are stating truths that are substantiated only by biology," Martin insisted, and was rewarded by a blank stare.
"On the contrary " Brissenden paused and ran an insolent eye over Martin's objective poverty, passing from the well-worn tie and the saw- edged collar to the shiny sleeves of the coat and on to the slight fray of one cuff, winding up and dwelling upon Martin's sunken cheeks. "On the contrary, hack-work is above you, so far above you that you can never hope to rise to it.
Promptly, the next afternoon, Maria was excited by Martin's second visitor. But she did not lose her head this time, for she seated Brissenden in her parlor's grandeur of respectability. "Hope you don't mind my coming?" Brissenden began. "No, no, not at all," Martin answered, shaking hands and waving him to the solitary chair, himself taking to the bed. "But how did you know where I lived?"
He was free to devote himself to Agnes Brissenden, with her six languages, her extreme liberality, her feminine charm. If she could not crush out her love for this man she would poison herself as she had so often decided she would do if ever some hopeless malady, such as cancer, took hold upon her And be content to feed his vanity?
Brissenden went home late that night; and just as he mounted the first step of the car, he swung suddenly back on Martin and thrust into his hand a small, tightly crumpled wad of paper. "Here, take this," he said. "I was out to the races to-day, and I had the right dope."
Of course, they could squirm as they perished, as the socialists squirmed, as the speaker on the platform and the perspiring crowd were squirming even now as they counselled together for some new device with which to minimize the penalties of living and outwit the Cosmos. So Martin thought, and so he spoke when Brissenden urged him to give them hell.
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