As they approached the site of the company picnic, Dewey and his parents saw a crowd of weird-looking people standing along the roadside waving picket signs. Dewey’s father muttered, “God damn” under his breath.
“Roll up your window, Dewey,” said his mother.
“Who are they?” Dewey asked, putting up the rear window of the station wagon.
“Anarchists,” his father said. “They’d like to see us all turned into animals — and worse.”