He had been sitting there for years thinking it out. He had
watched Dr. Dowie and Mrs. Eddy. He knew what he was doing.
A crowd of newspaper men went one night to hear McGregor at a big
outdoor meeting up on the North Side. Dr. Cowell was with them--the
big English statesman and writer who later was drowned on the
_Titanic._ He was a big man, physically and mentally, and was in
Chicago to see McGregor and try to understand what he was doing.
And McGregor got him as he had all men. Out there under the sky the
men stood silent, Cowell's head sticking up above the sea of faces,
and McGregor talked. The newspaper men declared he could not talk.
They were wrong about that. McGregor had a way of throwing up his arms
and straining and shouting out his sentences, that got to the souls of
men.
He was a kind of crude artist drawing pictures on the mind.
That night he talked about labour as always--labour personified--huge
crude old Labour. How he made the men before him see and feel the
blind giant who has lived in the world since time began and who still
goes stumbling blindly about, rubbing his eyes and lying down to sleep
away centuries in the dust of the fields and the factories.
A man arose in the audience and climbed upon the platform beside
McGregor.
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