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flashed; he bent forward and threw out his long arms in appeal, struck himself on the chest, brought his fist crashing down in the palm of his other hand, to emphasise his points; he argued indignantly, resentfully, with fire and passion; he cared more for this cause he was advocating than for anything else on earth.
    On the fringe of the crowd, leaning against a lamp-post, smoking a cigarette and listening with approving interest, stood his elder brother. Harry had the short, square figure and slightly bowed legs so often seen in the West Riding textile worker; he was of fair complexion, with humorous grey eyes, and a broad, blunt nose.
    â€œWe must have no more war!” shouted Milner at the top of his voice, hoarsely; his large, full mouth—an orator’s mouth—working convulsively. “Do you know what the last war cost in human lives? Seven million men. Seven million men! To give you some idea of what seven million men are, suppose you placed men head to toe, head to toe, from here to Liverpool, from Liverpool across the Atlantic, from the Atlanticacross America, and so on, right round the world, back to Crosland Square in Hudley, where I am standing now, you would still have—”
    â€œWhat size men are you using, mester?” demanded a voice from the audience, with humorous intent.
    The crowd laughed, and craned their necks in the direction of the speaker; and Milner, who felt an interruption of this kind to be an insult to the sacred cause of labour, glared at them wrathfully, at a loss how to proceed.
    â€œThee go home and measure thysen, lad!” a woman’s voice exhorted the jester shrilly.
    At this the crowd roared with delight, and Harry Schofield was moved to take a hand. “Aye,” he shouted, enjoying his own joke: “And then add on a foot, lad, and tha’ll be reet.”
    But Milner had now recovered his presence of mind, and with the quick intuition of the born orator, shifted from the ground where he had been laughed at, and introduced a topic of burning importance, sure to regain his hearers’ attention.
    â€œOr take the economic situation,” he shouted, flashing his brilliant and compelling glance eagerly round the crowd: “Look at unemployment. The unemployment figures are up again this week; they’re up again here, in this very town of Hudley. Last week’s
Hudley News
admits that they’re up. They’re two hundred and sixteen more than they were a year ago at this time, and fifty-two more than they were last week. And they’ll keep on going up till we get a different Government, a Government of our own. Two thousand, two hundred and thirteen of our fellow workers in this town alone are unemployed at the present moment. Unemployment keeps on going up—yes, and wages keeps on going down. My friends, I tell you, though I daresay I’ve no need to tell you, you know it only too well already, that the middle classesof this country are making a bitter and brutal attack on the workers’ standard of living. They fought a capitalist war, and they made a capitalist peace, and now they’re trying to pass all the loss down on to us; they’re trying to make us pay for their mistakes. But why should we pay for their mistakes? As soon as they get our living standards forced down to a point where they can make a big enough profit, the banks’ll let trade be good again, the slump will be over. But is it fair, is it right, that they should do what they like with our standard of living, just because they’ve got the means of production in their hands?” And at this unintended revelation of the impotence of his class, their present powerlessness to compel circumstances to their will, suddenly his whole nature flamed. In a paroxysm of anger, revolt, defiance, he cried out passionately: “The cause of the common people is always righteous …”
    Half an hour later the brothers were walking home. They had