Past the shoulder of the young man went a, shadow. Before his eyes on
the field, fronting the waiting ranks of men, stood McGregor. His fist
shot out and the complaining workman crumpled to the ground.
"This is no time for words," said the harsh voice. "Get back in there.
This is not a game. It's the beginning of men's realisation of
themselves. Get in there and say nothing. If you can't march with us
get out. The movement we have started can pay no attention to
whimperers."
Among the ranks of men a cheer arose. By the factory wall the excited
newspaper man danced up and down. At a word of command from the
captain the line of marching men again swept down the field and he
watched them with tears standing in his eyes. "It's going to work," he
cried. "It's bound to work. At last a man has come to lead the men of
labor."
CHAPTER II
John Van Moore a young Chicago advertising man went one afternoon to
the offices of the Wheelright Bicycle Company. The company had both
its factory and offices far out on the west side. The factory was a
huge brick affair fronted by a broad cement sidewalk and a narrow
green lawn spotted with flower beds. The building used for offices was
smaller and had a veranda facing the street. Up the sides of the
office building vines grew.
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