It does not require two glances, however, to assure the people that the man before them is Harvey Trueman. "That's Trueman, or I'm a liar!" shouts an Irishman. "That's who it is," blurts a man beside him. "What is he doing down here? I thought he was to speak on West Street?" Some of the men in the crowd now begin cheering. They cry: "Trueman! Trueman! Rah! rah! rah! Speech! speech!" The proper moment has arrived. Trueman takes off his hat and waves it as a sign for silence. The cheering and the rumor that Trueman has suddenly appeared, turns a sea of people in the direction of the music stand. Fully eight thousand men are within the radius of his voice. He speaks at first in a high metallic key; but after the first minute or so he reaches his normal voice, which with its fullness and exquisite modulation makes his oratory remarkable. Here is an occasion where rhetoric will prove available; the crowd before him is composed for the most part of the better element, so called for reason of its disinclination to change existing conditions. If a sense of justice in this great mass of humanity can be aroused it will impel each and all to yield to the will of the orator. With sharp sarcasm he refers to the precautionary action of the Plutocrats to prevent his addressing a New York audience. Do they fear he may convert it? Rapidly he pictures the scenes of intimidation he has witnessed in the west and northwest. Is New York chained to the wheels of the Plutocratic chariot? As the first sign of sympathy answers his appeal, he urges upon his audience the necessity of declaring anew the independence of the people. The fervor of his speech affects the crowd; the indescribable impulse to yield to the will of a fellow-man who commands the power of oratory, asserts itself. At the declaration of a principle of government which is trite in itself, there is a scattered cheer; an apt epigram evokes a storm of applause. Trueman wins the full sympathy of his audience; they are his to command. "I am expected to address an audience at the foot of Barclay street. It will afford me unbounded pleasure if I may tell them that the meeting will not be disturbed; that you have decided to apply to politics the same spirit of fair play that you would demand in a street brawl." "We're with you," cries a man. "You're all right." Trueman steps from the music stand. The crowd gather about him, shouting and cheering for him. "This is an Independence parade," some one shouts.