The secretary is perched on
the stool making entries in a large ledger. An eye shade casts his
face into shadows. Eight or ten men, longshoremen, iron workers,
and the like, are grouped about the table. Two are playing
checkers. One is writing a letter. Most of them are smoking pipes.
A big signboard is on the wall at the rear, "Industrial Workers of
the World--Local No. 57."
YANK--[Comes down the street outside. He is dressed as in Scene
Five. He moves cautiously, mysteriously. He comes to a point
opposite the door; tiptoes softly up to it, listens, is impressed
by the silence within, knocks carefully, as if he were guessing at
the password to some secret rite. Listens. No answer. Knocks again
a bit louder. No answer. Knocks impatiently, much louder.]
SECRETARY--[Turning around on his stool.] What the devil is that--
someone knocking? [Shouts:] Come in, why don't you? [All the men
in the room look up. YANK opens the door slowly, gingerly, as if
afraid of an ambush. He looks around for secret doors, mystery, is
taken aback by the commonplaceness of the room and the men in it,
thinks he may have gotten in the wrong place, then sees the
signboard on the wall and is reassured.]
YANK--[Blurts out.] Hello.
MEN--[Reservedly.] Hello.
YANK--[More easily.
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