numbed. They lack will, they lack initiative.
They are narrowed down to a daily life which makes of them something
little different from an animal. Yet they can be roused. David Ross
himself has done it, done it like none of those other M.P.'s. I have
seen him carried out of himself. He is like some of these Welshmen and
Salvation Army people when they're half drunk with religion--the words
seem to come to them in a stream. That's how David Ross is sometimes.
But it isn't often any one can get at them."

"That is what they say over on the other side," he remarked softly.

"They've got to be in such a state," Aaron continued, "that nothing
appeals to them except some material benefit; a pipe of tobacco or a mug
of beer will stir them more than any dream of freedom. Oh! it's sad to
see them, often. I used to go to the gates at the shipbuilding yard and
watch them come out. Ten years about does for a man there. It's a
short spell."

Maraton sighed. "Yet they endure," he muttered to himself.

"Yet they endure," Aaron echoed. "Can't you see why? Don't you know
that it is because they haven't heard the word--the one great word?
That's what they're waiting for--for the prophet to open their eyes and
lead them out of the wilderness. Only just at first it may be that even
his voice will sound in vain. You are sure you won't mind my sister
coming with us, sir? She is so interested and they all know her down
there."

"It will be an advantage to have your sister," Maraton replied. "There
are many things I should like to ask her."

CHAPTER IX

At twenty minutes past eight, Maraton, with his two companions, reached
the building in which the meeting was to take place--a plain,
unimposing-looking edifice, built for a chapel, whitewashed inside, but
with plastered walls and bare floors. The room was almost packed, and
it was with some difficulty that they found seats in the back row.
David Ross, Peter Dale and Graveling occupied chairs on the platform.
Between them, Julia and Aaron kept Maraton informed as to the identity
of each newcomer.

"That's Mr. Docker, who is going to speak now," the latter declared in
an excited whisper. "He is a fighting man. It's he who has manoeuvred
this strike, they say. Now he's off."

Mr. Docker has risen to his feet amidst a little hoarse cheering. For
a quarter of an hour or more, he spoke fluently and convincingly. It
appeared from his statements that boiler-makers were the worst paid