Book VI: Chapter II

by Sherwood Anderson

　　John Van Moore a young Chicago advertising man went one afternoon tothe offices of the Wheelright Bicycle Company. The company had bothits factory and offices far out on the west side. The factory was ahuge brick affair fronted by a broad cement sidewalk and a narrowgreen lawn spotted with flower beds. The building used for offices wassmaller and had a veranda facing the street. Up the sides of theoffice building vines grew.

　　Like the reporter who had watched the Marching Men in the field by thefactory wall John Van Moore was a dapper young man with a moustache.In his leisure hours he played a clarinet. "It gives a man somethingto cling to," he explained to his friends. "One sees life going pastand feels that he is not a mere drifting log in the stream of things.Although as a musician I amount to nothing, it at least makes medream."

　　Among the men in the advertising office where he worked Van Moore wasknown as something of a fool, redeemed by his ability to string wordstogether. He wore a heavy black braided watch chain and carried a caneand he had a wife who after marriage had studied medicine and withwhom he did not live. Sometimes on a Saturday evening the two met atsome restaurant and sat for hours drinking and laughing. When the wifehad gone to her own place the advertising man continued the fun, goingfrom saloon to saloon and making long speeches setting forth hisphilosophy of life. "I am an individualist," he declared, strutting upand down and swinging the cane about. "I am a dabbler, an experimenterif you will. Before I die it is my dream that I will discover a newquality in existence."

　　For the bicycle company the advertising man was to write a booklettelling in romantic and readable form the history of the company. Whenfinished the booklet would be sent out to those who had answeredadvertisements put into magazines and newspapers. The company had aprocess of manufacture peculiar to Wheelright bicycles and in thebooklet this was to be much emphasised.

　　The manufacturing process in regard to which John Van Moore was to waxeloquent had been conceived in the brain of a workman and wasresponsible for the company's success. Now the workman was dead andthe president of the company had decided that he would take credit forthe idea. He had thought a good deal of the matter and had decidedthat in truth the notion must have been more than a little his own."It must have been so," he told himself, "otherwise it would not haveworked out so well."

　　In the offices of the bicycle company the president, a grey gross manwith tiny eyes, walked up and down a long room heavily carpeted. Inreply to questions asked by the advertising man, who sat at a tablewith a pad of paper before him, he raised himself on his toes, put athumb in the armhole of his vest and told a long rambling tale ofwhich he was the hero.

　　The tale concerned a purely imaginary young workman who spent all ofthe earlier years of his life labouring terribly. At evening he ranquickly from the shop where he was employed and going without sleeptoiled for long hours in a little garret. When the workman haddiscovered the secret that made successful the Wheelright bicycle heopened a shop and began to reap the reward of his efforts.

　　"That was me. I was that fellow," cried the fat man who in reality hadbought his interest in the bicycle company after the age of forty.Tapping himself on the breast he paused as though overcome withfeeling. Tears came into his eyes. The young workman had become areality to him. "All day I ran about the little shop crying 'Quality!Quality!' I do that now. It is a fetish with me. I do not makebicycles for money but because I am a workman with pride in my work.You may put that in the book. You may quote me as saying that. A bigpoint should be made of my pride in my work." The advertising mannodded his head and scribbled upon the pad of paper. Almost he couldhave written the story without the visit to the factory. When the fatman was not looking he turned his face to one side and listenedattentively. With a whole heart he wished the president would go awayand leave him alone to wander in the factory.

　　On the evening before, John Van Moore had taken part in an adventure.With a companion, a fellow who drew cartoons for the daily papers, hehad gone into a saloon and there had met another man of thenewspapers.

　　In the saloon the three men had sat until late into the night drinkingand talking. The second newspaper man--that same dapper fellow who hadwatched the marchers by the factory wall--had told over and over thestory of McGregor and his Marchers. "I tell you there is somethinggrowing up here," he had said. "I have seen this McGregor and I know.You may believe me or not but the fact is that he has found outsomething. There is an element in men that up to now has not beenunderstood--there is a thought hidden away within the breast oflabour, a big unspoken thought--it is a part of men's bodies as wellas their minds. Suppose this fellow has figured that out andunderstands it, eh!"

　　Becoming more and more excited as he continued to drink the newspaperman had been half wild in his conjectures as to what was to happen inthe world. Thumping with his fist upon a table wet with beer he hadaddressed the writer of advertisements. "There are things that animalsknow that have not been understood by men," he cried. "Consider thebees. Have you thought that man has not tried to work out a collectiveintellect? Why should man not try to work that out?"

　　The newspaper man's voice became low and tense. "When you go into afactory I want you to keep your eyes and your ears open," he said. "Gointo one of the great rooms where many men are at work. Standperfectly still. Don't try to think. Wait."

　　Jumping out of his seat the excited man had walked up and down beforehis companions. A group of men standing before the bar listened, theirglasses held half way to their lips.

　　"I tell you there is already a song of labour. It has not got itselfexpressed and understood but it is in every shop, in every field wheremen work. In a dim way the men who work are conscious of the songalthough if you talk of the matter they only laugh. The song is lowharsh rhythmical. I tell you it comes out of the very soul of labour.It is akin to the thing that artists understand and that is calledform. This McGregor understands something of that. He is the firstleader of labour that has understood. The world shall hear from him.One of these days the world shall ring with his name."

　　In the bicycle factory John Van Moore looked at the pad of paperbefore him and thought of the words of the half drunken man in thesaloon. In the great shop at his back there was the steady grindingroar of many machines. The fat man, hypnotised by his own words,continued to walk up and down telling of the hardship that had onceconfronted the imaginary young workman and above which he had risentriumphant. "We hear much of the power of labour but there has been amistake made," he said. "Such men as myself--we are the power. Do yousee we have come out of the mass? We stand forth."

　　Stopping before the advertising man and looking down the fat manwinked. "You do not need to say that in the book. There is no need ofquoting me there. Our bicycles are being bought by workingmen and itwould be foolish to offend them but what I say is nevertheless true.Do not such men as I, with our cunning brains and our power ofpatience build these great modern organisations?"

　　The fat man waved his arm toward the shops from which the roar ofmachinery came. The advertising man absentmindedly nodded his head. Hewas trying to hear the song of labour talked of by the drunken man. Itwas quitting time and there was the sound of many feet moving aboutthe floor of the factory. The roar of the machinery stopped.

　　Again the fat man walked up and down talking of the career of thelabourer who had come forth from the ranks of labour. From the factorythe men began filing out into the open. There was the sound of feetscuffling along the wide cement sidewalk past the flowerbeds.

　　Of a sudden the fat man stopped. The advertising man sat with pencilsuspended above the paper. From the walk below sharp commands rangout. Again the sound of men moving about came in through the windows.

　　The president of the bicycle company and the advertising man ran tothe window. There on the cement sidewalk stood the men of the companyformed into columns of fours and separated into companies. At the headof each company stood a captain. The captains swung the men about."Forward! March!" they shouted.

　　The fat man stood with his mouth open and looked at the men. "What'sgoing on down there? What do you mean? Quit that!" he bawled.

　　A derisive laugh floated up through the window.

　　"Attention! Forward, guide right!" shouted a captain.

　　The men went swinging down the broad cement sidewalk past the windowand the advertising man. In their faces was something determined andgrim. A sickly smile flitted across the face of the grey-haired manand then faded. The advertising man, without knowing just what wasgoing on felt that the older man was afraid. He sensed the terror inhis face. In his heart he was glad to see it.

　　The manufacturer began to talk excitedly. "Now what's this?" hedemanded. "What's going on? What kind of a volcano are we men ofaffairs walking over? Haven't we had enough trouble with labour? Whatare they doing now?" Again he walked up and down past the table wherethe advertising man sat looking at him. "We'll let the book go," hesaid. "Come to-morrow. Come any time. I want to look into this. I wantto find out what's going on."

　　Leaving the office of the bicycle company John Van Moore ran along thestreet past stores and houses. He did not try to follow the MarchingMen but ran forward blindly, filled with excitement. He remembered thewords of the newspaper man about the song of labour, and was drunkwith the thought that he had caught the swing of it. A hundred timeshe had seen men pouring out of factory doors at the end of the day.Always before they had been just a mass of individuals. Each had beenthinking of his own affairs and each man had shuffled off into his ownstreet and had been lost in the dim alleyways between the tall grimybuildings. Now all of this was changed. The men did not shuffle offalone but marched along the street shoulder to shoulder.

　　A lump came also into the throat of this man and he like that other bythe factory wall began to say words. "The song of labour is here. Ithas begun to get itself sung!" he cried.

　　John Van Moore was beside himself. The face of the fat man pale withterror came back into his mind. On the sidewalk before a grocery storehe stopped and shouted with delight. Then he began dancing wildlyabout, startling a group of children who with fingers in their mouthsstood with staring eyes watching.