The largest crowd of all was close packed about a swarthy young chap
whose bushy hair waved in response to the violence of his oratory. He,
too, was perspiring with his ideas. He had a marvellous staccato method
of question and answer. He would shoot a question like a rifle bullet at
the heads of his audience, and then stiffen back like a wary boxer, both
clenched hands poised in a tremulous gesticulation, and before any one
could answer his bullet-like question, he was answering it himself. As I
edged my way nearer to him I discovered that he, also, had a little pile
of books at his feet which a keen-eyed assistant was busily selling. How
well-established the technic of this art of the city eddies! How
well-studied the psychology!

I thought this example the most perfect of them all, and watched with
eagerness the play of the argument as it was mirrored in the intent
faces all about me. And gradually I grew interested in what the man was
saying, and thought of many good answers I could give to his
questionings if he were not so cunning with answers of his own. Finally,
in the midst of one of his loftiest flights, he demanded, hotly:

"Are you not, every one of you, a slave of the capitalist class?"

It was perfectly still for a second after he spoke, and before I knew
what I was doing, I responded:

"Why, no, I'm not."

It seemed to astonish the group around me: white faces turned my way.

But it would have been difficult to dash that swarthy young man. He was