In the field before him marched some two hundred men,
the largest company he had been able to get together. For a week they
had stayed at the marching evening after evening and were beginning a
little to understand the spirit of it. Their leader on the field, a
tall square shouldered man, had once been a captain in the State
Militia and now worked as engineer in a factory where soap was made.
His commands rang out sharp and crisp on the evening air. "Fours right
into line," he cried. The words were barked forth. The men
straightened their shoulders and swung out vigorously. They had begun
to enjoy the marching.
In the shadow of the factory wall McGregor moved uneasily about. He
felt that this was the beginning, the real birth of his movement, that
these men had really come out of the ranks of labour and that in the
breasts of the marching figures there in the open space understanding
was growing.
He muttered and walked back and forth. A young man, a reporter on one
of the city's great daily papers, leaped from a passing street car and
came to stand near him. "What's up here? What's this going on? What's
it all about? You better tell me," he said.
In the dim light McGregor raised his fists above his head and talked
aloud. "It's creeping in among them," he said.
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