For now the crowd began to question, think and plan. Ideas were thrown out pell mell. I found that every plan of action, everything felt and thought and spoken, though it might start from a single man, was at once transformed by the feeling of all, expressed in fragments of speech, in applause, or in loud bursts of laughter, or again by a chilling silence in which an unwelcome thought soon died. The crowd spoke its will through many voices, through men who sprang up and talked hard a few moments, then sat down and were lost to sight--some to rise later again and again and grow in force of thought and expression, others not to be seen again, they had simply been parts of the crowd, and the crowd had made them rise and speak. On the first day of this labor parliament, up rose a stolid Pole. He was no committeeman but simply a member of the throng. "Yo' sand a spickair to my dock," he said. "Pier feefty-two--East Reever. I t'ink he make de boys come out." He sat down breathing heavily. "You don't need any speaker, go yourself," an Irishman called from across the hall. "I no spick," said the Pole emphatically. "You're spicking now, ain't you?" There was a burst of laughter, and the big man's face grew red. "You don't need to talk," the voice went on. "Just go into your dock and yell 'Strike!' You've got chest enough, you Pollock." The big Pole made his way out of the hall. In the rear I saw him light his pipe and puff and scowl in a puzzled way. Then he disappeared. The next day, in the midst of some discussion, he rose from another part of the hall. "I want to say I strike my dock," he shouted. Nobody seemed to hear him, it had nothing whatever to do with the subject, but he sat down with a glow of pride. A Norwegian had arisen and was speaking earnestly, but his English was so wonderful that no one could understand. "Shut up, you big Swede, go and learn English," somebody said. "He don't have to shut up." The voice of Marsh cut in, and the mass backed up his curt rebuke by a murmur of approval. He had risen and come forward, and now waited till there was absolute silence. "Everyone gets a hearing here," he said. "We've got nine nationalities, but each one checks his race at the door. Every man is to have a fair show. What we need is an interpreter. Where's someone who can help this Swede?" There was a quick stirring in the mass and then a man was shoved out of it. He went over to the speaker, who at once began talking intensely. "The first thing he wants to say," said the interpreter at the end of the torrent, "is that he'd rather be dead than a Swede. He says he's a Norwegian. His second point is that all bad feeling between nationalities ought to be stopped if the strike's to be won. He says he's seen fights already between Irish and Eyetalians." Up leaped an enormous negro docker who sounded as though he preached often on Sundays.