There was a man who was known in the party as the “Little Giant.” The Lord had used up so much material in the making of his head that there had not been enough to complete his legs; but he got about on the platform, and when he shook his raven whiskers the pillars of Capitalism rocked. He had written a veritable encyclopaedia upon the subject, a book that was nearly as big as himself.⁠—And then there was a young author, who came from California, and had been a salmon-fisher, an oyster-pirate, a longshoreman, a sailor; who had tramped the country and been sent to jail, had lived in the Whitechapel slums, and been to the Klondike in search of gold. All these things he pictured in his books, and because he was a man of genius he forced the world to hear him. Now he was famous, but wherever he went he still preached the gospel of the poor.⁠—And then there was one who was known as the “millionaire Socialist.” He had made a fortune in business, and spent nearly all of it in building up a magazine, which the post-office department had tried to suppress, and had driven to Canada. He was a quiet-mannered man, whom you would have taken for anything in the world but a Socialist agitator. His speech was simple and informal⁠—he could not understand why anyone should get excited about these things.