There was a sudden burst of applause. A little thrill seemed to have
found its way, like zig-zag lightning, here and there amongst them. But
there were many who sat and smoked in stolid silence. Maraton looked
into their faces and sighed to himself. There were too many hungry
people for his mission.

"We are half starved," a man called from the back of the ball. "My wage
is a pound a week and four children to keep. It's fine talk, yours, but
it won't feed 'em."

There was a murmur of sullen approval. Maraton's hand shot out, his
finger quivered as it pointed to the man.

"I don't blame you," he said, "but it's the cry you've just raised which
keeps you and a few other millions exactly in the places you occupy.
There are many generations as yet unborn, to come from your children and
your children's children. Are they, then, to suffer as you have
suffered?"

There was a little stir at the back of the platform. A tall,
broad-shouldered man pushed his way through to the front. His face was
pitted with smallpox; he had black, wiry hair; small, narrow eyes; a
large, brutal mouth. He took up his position in the middle of the
platform, ignoring Maraton altogether.

"Listen, lads," he began; "you are here to-night to decide whether or
not you want another half-crown on to your wages. This man who has been
talking to you has done big things in America. I know nothing about him
and I'm not rightly sure that I know what's at the back of his head. If
he is your friend, he's our friend, and we shall soon fall into line,