He never had any intention of
letting his Marching Men Movement become merely a disorganised band of
walkers such as we have all seen in many a labour parade. He meant
that they should learn to march rhythmically, swinging along like
veterans. He was determined that the thresh of feet should come
finally to sing a great song, carrying the message of a powerful
brotherhood into the hearts and brains of the marchers.
McGregor gave all of his time to the movement. He made a scant living
by the practice of his profession but gave it no thought. The murder
case had brought him other cases and he had taken a partner, a ferret-
eyed little man who worked out the details of what cases came to the
firm and collected the fees, half of which he gave to the partner who
was intent upon something else. Day after day, week after week, month
after month, McGregor went up and down the city, talking to workers,
learning to talk, striving to make his idea understood.
One evening in September he stood in the shadow of a factory wall
watching a group of men who marched in a vacant lot. The movement had
become by that time really big. A flame burned in his heart at the
thought of what it might become. It was growing dark and the clouds of
dust raised by the feet of the men swept across the face of the
departing sun.
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