McGregor did not know the fullness of the tragic story of his
race. He only knew that the men he had seen were for the most part
pigmies. On the train coming to Chicago a change had come over him.
The hatred of Coal Creek that burned in him had set fire to something
else. He sat looking out of the car window at the stations running
past during the night and the following day at the cornfields of
Indiana, making his plans. In Chicago he meant to do something. Coming
from a community where no man arose above a condition of silent brute
labour he meant to step up into the light of power. Filled with hatred
and contempt of mankind he meant that mankind should serve him. Raised
among men who were but men he meant to be a master.
And his equipment was better than he knew. In a disorderly haphazard
world hatred is as effective an impulse to drive men forward to
success as love and high hope. It is a world-old impulse sleeping in
the heart of man since the day of Cain. In a way it rings true and
strong above the hideous jangle of modern life. Inspiring fear it
usurps power.
McGregor was without fear. He had not yet met his master and looked
with contempt upon the men and women he had known. Without knowing it
he had, besides a huge body hard as adamant, a clear and lucid brain.
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