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 not crossed the threshold before she was shaking his hand and, a moment later, she had drawn him with her through a doorway into a little room at one side of the salon, where she could talk to him more privately.

The most fascinating man alive, volunteered a stranger at my elbow, a little fellow with a few wisps of yellow hair and a face like a pug-dog, that Bill Haywood. No show about him, nothing theatrical, not a bit like the usual labour leader. Genuine power, that's what he has. He never goes in for melodrama, not even at a strike meeting. The other day in Paterson, a child was hurt while the police were clearing the street of strikers. One of the policemen, with his billy, struck down the boy's mother and a man who was helping her to her feet. At the meeting the next day, Haywood recited the facts, just the bare facts, without comment or colour and without raising his voice. What's the policeman's name? cried a voice in the hall. His name, replied Haywood, as coldly as possible, is said to be Edward Duffy; his number is 72. That was all, but Edward Duffy, No 72, had been consigned to the perpetual hatred of every one of the two thousand men present at the meeting. He spurns eloquence and soap-box platitudes. He never gibbers about the brotherhood of man, the socialist commonwealth rising upon the ruins of the capitalist system, death to the exploiters, and all the other clichés of the ordinary labour agitator. Workers