longshoreman, a sailor; who had tramped the country and been sent to jail, had lived in the Whitechapel slums, and been to the Klondike in search of gold.  All these things he pictured in his books, and because he was a man of genius he forced the world to hear him.  Now he was famous, but wherever he went he still preached the gospel of the poor.  And then there was one who was known at the “millionaire Socialist.”  He had made a fortune in business, and spent nearly all of it in building up a magazine, which the post office department had tried to suppress, and had driven to Canada.  He was a quiet-mannered man, whom you would have taken for anything in the world but a Socialist agitator.  His speech was simple and informal—­he could not understand why any one should get excited about these things.  It was a process of economic evolution, he said, and he exhibited its laws and methods.  Life was a struggle for existence, and the strong overcame the weak, and in turn were overcome by the strongest.  Those who lost in the struggle were generally exterminated; but now and then they had been known to save themselves by combination—­which was a new and higher kind of strength.  It was so that the gregarious animals had overcome the predaceous; it was so, in human history, that the people had mastered the kings.  The workers were simply the citizens of industry, and the Socialist movement was the expression of their will to survive.  The inevitability of the revolution depended upon this fact, that they had no choice but to unite or be exterminated; this fact, grim and inexorable, depended upon no human will, it was the law of the economic process, of which the editor showed the details with the most marvelous precision.

And later on came the evening of the great meeting of the campaign, when Jurgis heard the two standard-bearers of his party.  Ten years before there had been in Chicago a strike of a hundred and fifty thousand railroad employees, and thugs had been hired by the railroads to commit violence, and the President of the United States had sent in troops to break the strike, by flinging the officers of the union into jail without trial.  The president of the union came out of his cell a ruined man; but also he came out a Socialist; and now for just ten years he had been traveling up and down the country, standing face to face with the people, and pleading with them for justice.  He was a man of electric presence, tall and gaunt, with a face worn thin by struggle and suffering.  The fury of outraged manhood gleamed in it—­and the tears of suffering little children pleaded in his voice.  When he spoke he paced the stage, lithe and eager, like a panther.  He leaned over, reaching out for his audience; he pointed into their souls with an insistent finger.  His voice was husky from much speaking, but the great auditorium was as still as death, and every one heard him.