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There came a stabbing pencil
of light from over Karl's
shoulder.
Gray Denim
By Harl Vincent
| The blood of the Van Dorn's ran in Karl's veins. He rode the skies like an avenging god. |
Beneath the huge central arch in Cooper Square a meeting was in progress—a gathering of the gray-clad workers of the lower levels of New York. Less than two hundred of their number were in evidence, and these huddled in dejected groups around the pedestal from which a fiery-tongued orator was addressing them. Lounging negligently at the edge of the small crowd were a dozen of the red police.
"I tell you, comrades," the speaker was shouting, "the time has come when we must revolt. We must battle to the death with the wearers of the purple. Why work out our lives down here so they can live in the lap of luxury over our
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