The man in the automobile muttered impatient words.  Then he shouted, breaking in on the impassioned anathema which the orator addressed to the rich:  “Stop lying to these men—­stirring them up.  The parks are for the people.  You can go there—­all you men can go there—­if you’ll go without making a disturbance.”

“If men in these days open their mouths to speak for their human rights it’s a disturbance,” retorted the demagogue.  “If we go up to the park and sit there and tremble like rabbits you rich men will let us stay there—­perhaps!  But we don’t have as many rights there as the rabbits, for the rabbits are allowed to step on the grass.”

“You’ve got to obey the law like other citizens—­you will not be allowed to disturb decent and respectable people.  You and men like you must stop putting foolish notions in the heads of loafers in this city.”

“Then put something into our mouths—­give us food.  Why are we loafers?”

“Because you won’t go to work.  I’ll give every able-bodied man here all the work he wants.  Apply at the office of the Consolidated Water Company—­now.”

“What’s the work?” inquired a man in the crowd.

“Digging trenches for water-pipes.  How many men want that work?  Hold up hands.”

“It ain’t work for human beings in this weather,” snarled the man who had inquired.  No hands were raised.

“That’s your style!” blazed the big man.  The policemen had sauntered into the square and their presence was reassuring.  He stood up and began to lecture them.

“And them’s the kind of lord dukes that’s running this country to-day—­own it and run it,” growled a slouchy fellow who stood near the tall young man.  “They ain’t willing to give a poor man a show.”

“He has just offered you a show—­all of you,” stated the young man.

“Yes, a Guinea job for white men.”

“You’re picking a poor excuse for being a loafer, my friend.”

“Who says I’m a loafer?”

The young man shot out his hands and grasped the fellow’s elbow and hand.  The arm was flabby, the palm was soft.  He doubled back the fingers and exhibited the palm to the crowd.

“I don’t find any labor medals here, men.  Is there anybody in the crowd who can show some?” He released the struggling, cursing captive.

“What’s labor medals?” inquired a bystander.

The big man was still denouncing them from his car, but the group paid little attention now.

“Callous spots in the place where a working-man ought to wear them.  And that place isn’t on the tongue.”

“Are you sneering at us because we can’t get a job?”

“You’re a loafer yourself, and anybody can see it,” declared another.

The young man raised his arms, showing them his palms.

“I carry a few labor medals,” he returned, curtly.

“Why ain’t you on your job?  The lord dukes won’t give you one?”