any one like that?  She sat as one turned to stone, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, so tightly that he could see the cords standing out in her wrists.  There was a look of excitement upon her face, of tense effort, as of one struggling mightily, or witnessing a struggle.  There was a faint quivering of her nostrils; and now and then she would moisten her lips with feverish haste.  Her bosom rose and fell as she breathed, and her excitement seemed to mount higher and higher, and then to sink away again, like a boat tossing upon ocean surges.  What was it?  What was the matter?  It must be something that the man was saying, up there on the platform.  What sort of a man was he?  And what sort of thing was this, anyhow?—­So all at once it occurred to Jurgis to look at the speaker.

It was like coming suddenly upon some wild sight of nature—­a mountain forest lashed by a tempest, a ship tossed about upon a stormy sea.  Jurgis had an unpleasant sensation, a sense of confusion, of disorder, of wild and meaningless uproar.  The man was tall and gaunt, as haggard as his auditor himself; a thin black beard covered half of his face, and one could see only two black hollows where the eyes were.  He was speaking rapidly, in great excitement; he used many gestures—­he spoke he moved here and there upon the stage, reaching with his long arms as if to seize each person in his audience.  His voice was deep, like an organ; it was some time, however, before Jurgis thought of the voice—­he was too much occupied with his eyes to think of what the man was saying.  But suddenly it seemed as if the speaker had begun pointing straight at him, as if he had singled him out particularly for his remarks; and so Jurgis became suddenly aware of his voice, trembling, vibrant with emotion, with pain and longing, with a burden of things unutterable, not to be compassed by words.  To hear it was to be suddenly arrested, to be gripped, transfixed.

“You listen to these things,” the man was saying, “and you say, ’Yes, they are true, but they have been that way always.’  Or you say, ’Maybe it will come, but not in my time—­it will not help me.’  And so you return to your daily round of toil, you go back to be ground up for profits in the world-wide mill of economic might!  To toil long hours for another’s advantage; to live in mean and squalid homes, to work in dangerous and unhealthful places; to wrestle with the specters of hunger and privation, to take your chances of accident, disease, and death.  And each day the struggle becomes fiercer, the pace more cruel; each day you have to toil a little harder, and feel the iron hand of circumstance close upon you a little tighter.  Months pass, years maybe—­and then you come again; and again I am here to plead with you, to know if want and misery have yet done their work with you, if injustice and oppression have yet opened your eyes!  I shall still be waiting—­there is nothing else that I can do.  There is no wilderness