In the shadow of the factory wall McGregor moved uneasily about. He felt that this was the beginning, the real birth of his movement, that these men had really come out of the ranks of labour and that in the breasts of the marching figures there in the open space understanding was growing. He muttered and walked back and forth. A young man, a reporter on one of the city's great daily papers, leaped from a passing street car and came to stand near him. “What's up here? What's this going on? What's it all about? You better tell me,” he said. In the dim light McGregor raised his fists above his head and talked aloud. “It's creeping in among them,” he said. “The thing that can't be put into words is getting itself expressed. Something is being done here in this field. A new force is coming into the world.” Half beside himself McGregor ran up and down swinging his arms. Again turning to the reporter who stood by a factory wall--a rather dandified figure he was with a tiny moustache--he shouted: “Don't you see?” he cried. His voice was harsh. “See how they march! They are finding out what I mean. They have caught the spirit of it!” McGregor began to explain. He talked hurriedly, his words coming forth in short broken sentences. “For ages there has been talk of brotherhood. Always men have babbled of brotherhood. The words have meant nothing. The words and the talking have but bred a loose-jawed race. The jaws of men wabble about but the legs of these men do not wabble.” He again walked up and down, dragging the half-frightened man along the deepening shadow of the factory wall. “You see it begins--now in this field it begins. The legs and the feet of men, hundreds of legs and feet make a kind of music. Presently there will be thousands, hundreds of thousands. For a time men will cease to be individuals. They will become a mass, a moving all-powerful mass. They will not put their thoughts into words but nevertheless there will be a thought growing up in them. They will of a sudden begin to realise that they are a part of something vast and mighty, a thing that moves, that is seeking new expression. They have been told of the power of labour but now, you see, they will become the power of labour.” Swept along by his own words and perhaps by something rhythmical in the moving mass of men McGregor became feverishly anxious that the dapper young man should understand. “Do you remember--when you were a boy--some man who had been a soldier telling you that the men who marched had to break step and go in a disorderly mob across a bridge because their orderly stride would have shaken the bridge to pieces?”