The tale concerned a purely imaginary young workman who spent all of the earlier years of his life labouring terribly. At evening he ran quickly from the shop where he was employed and going without sleep toiled for long hours in a little garret. When the workman had discovered the secret that made successful the Wheelright bicycle he opened a shop and began to reap the reward of his efforts. “That was me. I was that fellow,” cried the fat man who in reality had bought his interest in the bicycle company after the age of forty. Tapping himself on the breast he paused as though overcome with feeling. Tears came into his eyes. The young workman had become a reality to him. “All day I ran about the little shop crying 'Quality! Quality!' I do that now. It is a fetish with me. I do not make bicycles for money but because I am a workman with pride in my work. You may put that in the book. You may quote me as saying that. A big point should be made of my pride in my work.” The advertising man nodded his head and scribbled upon the pad of paper. Almost he could have written the story without the visit to the factory. When the fat man was not looking he turned his face to one side and listened attentively. With a whole heart he wished the president would go away and leave him alone to wander in the factory. On the evening before, John Van Moore had taken part in an adventure. With a companion, a fellow who drew cartoons for the daily papers, he had gone into a saloon and there had met another man of the newspapers. In the saloon the three men had sat until late into the night drinking and talking. The second newspaper man--that same dapper fellow who had watched the marchers by the factory wall--had told over and over the story of McGregor and his Marchers. “I tell you there is something growing up here,” he had said. “I have seen this McGregor and I know. You may believe me or not but the fact is that he has found out something. There is an element in men that up to now has not been understood--there is a thought hidden away within the breast of labour, a big unspoken thought--it is a part of men's bodies as well as their minds. Suppose this fellow has figured that out and understands it, eh!” Becoming more and more excited as he continued to drink the newspaper man had been half wild in his conjectures as to what was to happen in the world. Thumping with his fist upon a table wet with beer he had addressed the writer of advertisements. “There are things that animals know that have not been understood by men,” he cried. “Consider the bees. Have you thought that man has not tried to work out a collective intellect? Why should man not try to work that out?” The newspaper man's voice became low and tense. “When you go into a factory I want you to keep your eyes and your ears open,” he said. “Go into one of the great rooms where many men are at work. Stand perfectly still. Don't try to think. Wait.”