Nothing was heard in the building but the tread of feet on the marble floor as the crowd passed through without stopping at the rate of about one hundred and sixty a minute. Each individual had time only for a hasty glance as he was urged forward by the police and by those who followed. The plan was so arranged that four persons could pass the coffin, two abreast on each side, at the same moment. As the afternoon wore on and the lines grew longer at their source, much faster than they were melting away at the hall, the police found it necessary to urge greater haste in order that as many as possible might be admitted. “Move right along; move right along, now; step lively, please; hurry up; move right up, now,” they repeated over and over, at the same time urging the crowd forward with their hands. In spite of their efforts, which necessarily marred to some extent the solemnity of the scene, the crowds outside continued to increase. The great majority of the crowd was made up of what political orators call the “common people.” It was noticed that there were many workingmen in the lines, and apparently they were not the least sincere of the mourners. A workingman and his wife and children were the first to see the face of the departed President when the lines commenced to move. Nothing could more clearly show the hold which William McKinley had on the hearts of the great mass of the people. While he lived they gave him their votes. Dead, they did their all to testify the regard in which they held him. Accustomed to rising early six days in the week, they rose early again on this seventh and took possession of the streets. From breakfast time until afternoon they held their places. The first woman seen to shed a tear was clad in rusty brown. Her garb, neat and well brushed though it was, and the knotted finger with which she clasped a faded shawl, told of life by hard work. She looked once on the dead face and burst into tears. Men and women struggled along for hours through the press in stolid patience to press kisses upon the cold glass. Little children were led past weeping as if they had lost a father. G. A. R. men marched by, lifting their hands to their hats in a last military salute to “the major” and the President, who was to them also “commander.” Not by any means all who passed were born under the flag they now call theirs. From the East Side came troops of Poles, denouncing the act of Czolgosz, their countryman in blood. Italians came in troops, their women uncovering shawled heads and dropping tears for the man whose language they probably could not speak. And before and behind throughout the constant stream was the American workingman, bearing himself as if he realized the loss of his best friend.