In a way he
had taken the decision for granted. Smiling genially and rolling a
cigar across McGregor's desk he had spent an hour telling stories of
famous court room triumphs.
"One such triumph is enough to make a man," he declared. "You have no
idea how far such a success will carry you. The word of it keeps
running through men's minds. A tradition is built up. The remembrance
of it acts upon the minds of jurors. Cases are won for you by the mere
connection of your name with the case."
McGregor walked slowly and heavily through the streets without seeing
the people. In Wabash Avenue near Twenty-third Street he stopped in a
saloon and drank beer. The saloon was in a room below the level of the
sidewalk and the floor was covered with sawdust. Two half drunken
labourers stood by the bar quarrelling. One of the labourers who was a
socialist continually cursed the army and his words started McGregor
to thinking of the dream he had so long held and that now seemed
fading. "I was in the army and I know what I am talking about,"
declared the socialist. "There is nothing national about the army. It
is a privately owned thing. Here it is secretly owned by the
capitalists and in Europe by the aristocracy. Don't tell me--I know.
The army is made up of bums.
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