“Can’t you see,” Maraton continued, “that Society can easily deal with one strike at a time?  That isn’t the way to make yourself felt.  What I want to see in this country is a simultaneous strike of wharfingers, dock labourers, railways, and all the means of communication; a strike which will stop the pulses of the nation, a strike which will cost hundreds of millions, a strike which may cost this country its place amongst the nations, but which will mark the dawn of new conditions.  I’d put out your forge fires from Glasgow to Sheffield and Sheffield to London.  I’d take the big risks—­the rioting, the revolutions, the starvation, the misery that will surely come.  I’d do that for the sake of the new nation which would start again where the old one perished.”

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, but to-night you’re here to meet about that half-crown.  It’s for you to say whether or no you’ll have it.  We’ve saved the money for the fight, saved it from your wages, got it with your sweat.  You’ve given up your beer for it—­aye, and maybe your baccy.  We’ve saved the money and the time’s come to fight.  All that he says”—­jerking his elbow towards Maraton—­“sounds good enough.  That’ll come in later.  Are you for the strike?”

There was no doubt about the reply—­a roar of approving voices.  Maraton smiled at them and stepped down from the platform.  For the moment he was forgotten.  Only Julia whispered passionately in his ear as they moved out of the place.