A shiver ran over the body of the young man. In his off hours he was a writer of plays and stories and his trained dramatic sense caught quickly the import of McGregor's words. Into his mind came a scene on a village street of his own place in Ohio. In fancy he saw the village fife and drum corps marching past. His mind recalled the swing and the cadence of the tune and again as when he was a boy his legs ached to run out among the men and go marching away. Filled with excitement he began also to talk. “I see,” he cried; “you think there is a thought in that, a big thought that men have not understood?” On the field the men, becoming bolder as they became less self-conscious, came sweeping by, their bodies falling into a long swinging stride. The young man pondered. “I see. I see. Every one who stood watching as I did when the fife and drum corps went past felt what I felt. They were hiding behind a mask. Their legs also tingled and the same wild militant thumping went on in their hearts. You have found that out, eh? You mean to lead labour that way?” With open mouth the young man stared at the field and at the moving mass of men. He became oratorical in his thoughts. “Here is a big man,” he muttered. “Here is a Napoleon, a Caesar of labour come to Chicago. He is not like the little leaders. His mind is not sicklied over with the pale cast of thought. He does not think that the big natural impulses of men are foolish and absurd. He has got hold of something here that will work. The world had better watch this man.” Half beside himself he walked up and down at the edge of the field, his body trembling. Out of the ranks of the marching men came a workman. In the field words arose. A petulant quality came into the voice of the captain who gave commands. The newspaper man listened anxiously. “That's what will spoil everything. The men will begin to lose heart and will quit,” he thought, leaning forward and waiting. “I've worked all day and I can't march up and down here all night,” complained the voice of the workman. Past the shoulder of the young man went a shadow. Before his eyes on the field, fronting the waiting ranks of men, stood McGregor. His fist shot out and the complaining workman crumpled to the ground. “This is no time for words,” said the harsh voice. “Get back in there. This is not a game. It's the beginning of men's realisation of themselves. Get in there and say nothing. If you can't march with us get out. The movement we have started can pay no attention to whimperers.” Among the ranks of men a cheer arose. By the factory wall the excited newspaper man danced up and down. At a word of command from the captain the line of marching men again swept down the field and he watched them with tears standing in his eyes. “It's going to work,” he cried. “It's bound to work. At last a man has come to lead the men of labor.” CHAPTER II