At the trial
McGregor was able to introduce one of those breath-taking dramatic
climaxes that catch the attention of the mob. At the tense dramatic
moment of the trial a frightened hush fell upon the court room and
that evening in their houses men turned instinctively from the reading
of the papers to look at their beloved sitting about them. A chill of
fear ran over the bodies of women. For a moment Beaut McGregor had
given them a peep under the crust of civilisation that awoke an age-
old trembling in their hearts. In his fervour and impatience McGregor
had cried out, not against the incidental enemies of Brown but against
all modern society and its formlessness. To the listeners it seemed
that he shook mankind by the throat and that by the power and
purposefulness of his own solitary figure he revealed the pitiful
weakness of his fellows.
In the court room McGregor had sat, grim and silent, letting the State
build up its case. In his face was a challenge. His eyes looked out
from beneath swollen eyelids. For weeks he had been as tireless as a
bloodhound running through the First Ward and building his case.
Policemen had seen him emerge from alleyways at three in the morning,
the soft spoken boss hearing of his activities had eagerly questioned
Henry Hunt, a bartender in a dive on Polk Street had felt the grip of
a hand at his throat and a trembling girl of the town had knelt before
him in a little dark room begging protection from his wrath.
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