It was a daring thing to do and men's knees trembled. While
the man was crawling up to the platform shouts arose. One has in mind
a picture of a bustling little fellow going into the house and into
the upper room where Jesus and his followers were having the last
supper together, going in there to wrangle about the price to be paid
for the wine.
The man who got on the platform with McGregor was a socialist. He
wanted to argue.
But McGregor did not argue with him. He sprang forward, it was a quick
tiger-like movement, and spun the socialist about, making him stand
small and blinking and comical before the crowd.
Then McGregor began to talk. He made of the little stuttering arguing
socialist a figure representing all labour, made him the
personification of the old weary struggle of the world. And the
socialist who went to argue stood with tears in his eyes, proud of his
position in men's eyes.
All over the city McGregor talked of old Labour and how he was to be
built up and put before men's eyes by the movement of the Marching
Men. How our legs tingled to fall in step and go marching away with
him.
Out of the crowds there came the note of that wailing march. Some one
always started that.
That night on the North Side Doctor Cowell got hold of the shoulder of
a newspaper man and led him to a car.
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