for which he also will laugh in the face of death is in all men. By
grasping that fact Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon and our own Grant have
made heroes of the dullest clods that walk and not a man of all the
thousands who marched with Sherman to the sea but lived the rest of
his life with a something sweeter, braver and finer sleeping in his
soul than will ever be produced by the reformer scolding of
brotherhood from a soap-box. The long march, the burning of the throat
and the stinging of the dust in the nostrils, the touch of shoulder
against shoulder, the quick bond of a common, unquestioned,
instinctive passion that bursts in the orgasm of battle, the
forgetting of words and the doing of the thing, be it winning battles
or destroying ugliness, the passionate massing of men for
accomplishment--these are the signs, if they ever awake in our land,
by which you may know you have come to the days of the making of men.

In Chicago in 1893 and in the men who went aimlessly seeking work in
the streets of Chicago in that year there were none of these signs.
Like the coal mining town from which Beaut McGregor had come, the city
lay sprawling and ineffective before him, a tawdry disorderly dwelling
for millions of men, built not for the making of men but for the
making of millions by a few odd meat-packers and drygoods merchants.

With a slight lifting of his great shoulders McGregor sensed these
things although he could not have expressed his sense of them and the
hatred and contempt of men, born of his youth in the mining town, was
rekindled by the sight of city men wandering afraid and bewildered
through the streets of their own city.

Knowing nothing of the customs of the unemployed McGregor did not walk
the streets looking for signs marked "Men Wanted." He did not sit on