The young man pondered. "I see. I see. Every one who stood watching as
I did when the fife and drum corps went past felt what I felt. They
were hiding behind a mask. Their legs also tingled and the same wild
militant thumping went on in their hearts. You have found that out,
eh? You mean to lead labour that way?"
With open mouth the young man stared at the field and at the moving
mass of men. He became oratorical in his thoughts. "Here is a big
man," he muttered. "Here is a Napoleon, a Caesar of labour come to
Chicago. He is not like the little leaders. His mind is not sicklied
over with the pale cast of thought. He does not think that the big
natural impulses of men are foolish and absurd. He has got hold of
something here that will work. The world had better watch this man."
Half beside himself he walked up and down at the edge of the field,
his body trembling.
Out of the ranks of the marching men came a workman. In the field
words arose. A petulant quality came into the voice of the captain who
gave commands. The newspaper man listened anxiously. "That's what will
spoil everything. The men will begin to lose heart and will quit," he
thought, leaning forward and waiting.
"I've worked all day and I can't march up and down here all night,"
complained the voice of the workman.
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