At the door McGregor stopped and put out his hand
to David who took it and looked at the big lawyer
respectfully.
“I’m glad to see you go,” said the
ploughmaker briefly.
“I’m glad to be going,” said McGregor,
understanding that there was nothing but relief and
honest antagonism in the voice and in the mind of
David Ormsby.
The Marching Men Movement was never a thing to intellectualise.
For years McGregor tried to get it under way by talking.
He did not succeed. The rhythm and swing that
was at the heart of the movement hung fire. The
man passed through long periods of depression and had
to drive himself forward. And then after the scene
with Margaret and Edith in the Ormsby house came action.
There was a man named Mosby about whose figure the
action for a time revolved. He was bartender
for Neil Hunt, a notorious character of South State
Street, and had once been a lieutenant in the army.
Mosby was what in modern society is called a rascal.
After West Point and a few years at some isolated
army post he began to drink and one night during a
debauch and when half crazed by the dullness of his
life he shot a private through the shoulder.
He was arrested and put on his honour not to escape
but did escape. For years he drifted about the
world a haggard cynical figure who got drunk whenever
money came his way and who would do anything to break
the monotony of existence.
Mosby was enthusiastic about the Marching Men idea.
He saw in it an opportunity to worry and alarm his
fellow men. He talked a union of bartenders and
waiters to which he belonged into giving the idea a
trial and in the morning they began to march up and
down in the strip of parkland that faced the lake
at the edge of the First Ward. “Keep your
mouths shut,” commanded Mosby. “We
can worry the officials of this town like the devil
if we work this right. When you are asked questions
say nothing. If the police try to arrest us we
will swear we are only doing it for the sake of exercise.”
Mosby’s plan worked. Within a week crowds
began to gather in the morning to watch the Marching
Men and the police started to make inquiry. Mosby
was delighted. He threw up his job as bartender
and recruited a motley company of young roughs whom
he induced to practise the march step during the afternoons.
When he was arrested and dragged into court McGregor
acted as his lawyer and he was discharged. “I
want to get these men out into the open,” Mosby
declared, looking very innocent and guileless.
“You can see for yourself that waiters and bartenders
get pale and stoop-shouldered at their work and as
for these young roughs isn’t it better for society
to have them out there marching about than idling
in bar rooms and planning God knows what mischief?”
