They set out, and then Montague told the Major about the figure in the grape-vine, and the Major laughed and told how it had felt.  There had been more adventures, it seemed; while he was hunting a horse he had come upon two mules loaded with ammunition and entangled with their harness about a tree; he had rushed up to seize them—­when a solid shot had struck the tree and exploded the ammunition and blown the mules to fragments.  And then there was the story of the charge late in the night, which had recovered the lost ground, and kept Stonewall Jackson busy up to the very hour of his tragic death.  And there was the story of Andersonville, and the escape from prison.  Montague could have walked the streets all night, exchanging these war-time reminiscences with the Major.

Absorbed in their talk, they came to an avenue given up to the poorer class of people; with elevated trains rattling by overhead, and rows of little shops along it.  Montague noticed a dense crowd on one of the corners, land asked what it meant.

“Some sort of a meeting,” said the Major.

They came nearer, and saw a torch, with a man standing near it, above the heads of the crowd.

“It looks like a political meeting,” said Montague, “but it can’t be, now—­just after election.”

“Probably it’s a Socialist,” said the Major.  “They’re at it all the time.”

They crossed the avenue, and then they could see plainly.  The man was lean and hungry-looking, and he had long arms, which he waved with prodigious violence.  He was in a frenzy of excitement, pacing this way and that, and leaning over the throng packed about him.  Because of a passing train the two could not hear a sound.

“A Socialist!” exclaimed Montague, wonderingly.  “What do they want?”

“I’m not sure,” said the other.  “They want to overthrow the government.”

The train passed, and then the man’s words came to them:  “They force you to build palaces, and then they put you into tenements!  They force you to spin fine raiment, and then they dress you in rags!  They force you to build jails, and then they lock you up in them!  They force you to make guns, and then they shoot you with them!  They own the political parties, and they name the candidates, and trick you into voting for them—­and they call it the law!  They herd you into armies and send you to shoot your brothers—­and they call it order!  They take a piece of coloured rag and call it the flag and teach you to let yourself be shot—­and they call it patriotism!  First, last, and all the time, you do the work and they get the benefit—­they, the masters and owners, and you—­fools—­fools —­fools!”

The man’s voice had mounted to a scream, and he flung his hands into the air and broke into jeering laughter.  Then came another train, and Montague could not hear him; but he could see that he was rushing on in the torrent of his denunciation.

Montague stood rooted to the spot; he was shocked to the depths of his being—­he could scarcely contain himself as he stood there.  He longed to spring forward to beard the man where he stood, to shout him down, to rebuke him before the crowd.