“Where do you propose to make your first speech?” asks a youthful reporter.

It is a superfluous question in the minds of all the older newspaper men.  They smile inwardly; but the answer this query evokes sends them all flying to telephones.

“I shall make my first speech at the Battery, where the paraders may have the benefit of a little plain truth.”

The group of Independents are now on the ferryboat.

Across the river the myriad lights of the metropolis give the scene air appearance as of fairyland.  The night is overcast and the clouds act as a reflector to the million lights in the city below; the sky line of Brooklyn is a dull salmon color.  A chill October wind sweeps from east to west.  It is a bad night to speak out of doors.  Upon reaching Cortlandt slip Trueman descends to the lower deck and is among the first to leave the boat.  He crosses West street unobserved, and on reaching the Elevated Station at Cortlandt street, boards a down-town train.  With him are three of the committee of arrangements.  The remainder of the party go to the platform at the foot of Barclay street to address the crowd and announce the cause of Trueman’s delay.

When the South Ferry is reached Trueman sees that Battery Park is packed with people.  He descends to the street and wedges his way to the music stand in the centre of the park.  Without much difficulty he manages to climb upon the stand.

As a piece of good fortune an electric light shines full on his face as he turns to the crowd.

Up to this moment people think that the tall man with the slouch hat is seeking a point of vantage from which to view the formation of the parade.

It does not require two glances, however, to assure the people that the man before them is Harvey Trueman.

“That’s Trueman, or I’m a liar!” shouts an Irishman.

“That’s who it is,” blurts a man beside him.

“What is he doing down here?  I thought he was to speak on West Street?”

Some of the men in the crowd now begin cheering.  They cry: 

“Trueman!  Trueman!  Rah! rah! rah!  Speech! speech!”

The proper moment has arrived.  Trueman takes off his hat and waves it as a sign for silence.  The cheering and the rumor that Trueman has suddenly appeared, turns a sea of people in the direction of the music stand.  Fully eight thousand men are within the radius of his voice.  He speaks at first in a high metallic key; but after the first minute or so he reaches his normal voice, which with its fullness and exquisite modulation makes his oratory remarkable.

Here is an occasion where rhetoric will prove available; the crowd before him is composed for the most part of the better element, so called for reason of its disinclination to change existing conditions.  If a sense of justice in this great mass of humanity can be aroused it will impel each and all to yield to the will of the orator.  With sharp sarcasm he refers to the precautionary action of the Plutocrats to prevent his addressing a New York audience.  Do they fear he may convert it?