Bill Brown was an enthusiastic and ardent Trades Unionist. He observed strictly the laws of his Union, and expressed in terms of withering contempt his opinion of the man who, for any consideration or for any remuneration would in the slightest degree disregard those rules. His pet aversion was the man who would dare to labour on eight-hours day - the people's holiday.

"The man - or the apology for a man who is mean enough to work on eight-hours day," Bill would remark, "ought to be classed with Chinamen and Kanakas. He isn't fit to associate with white workers."

Bill was a high official in the eight-hours celebrations. Besides being one of the standard-bearers of his own Union, he was a steward of the sports, secretary of a committee, and, besides, held other important poisition: and in all he was most enthusiastic.

On the morning of eight-hours day Bill rose early - quite two hours before his usual time - in order to prepare for the day's celebrations.

He dressed himself with exceeding care, and insisted on the family eating a cold breakfast, so that the wife should not labour more than necessary on the "day."

Betimes he was at his post at the starting-point of the procession, struggling with one end of a huge silken banner, of which "the boys" were so proud.

It was a large unwieldy banner, ornate, and handsomely worked, but very heavy. Besides, a stiff wind was blowing, to increase the difficulties of Bill and his companion-bearers.

The procession started, and Bill's banner was borne triumphantly in the march, through endless lines of streets, along against a head-wind that added considerable weight to the burden of the bearers.

A look of pride shone in the eye of Bill. Perspiration stood out on his face in great drops, and fell on the dusty roadway. He struggled and staggered under the weight of that banner; but the look of pride, of loyalty to his Union and his convictions, was never absent.

After a long and trying march they reached their destination, and, with a grunt of relief, Bill carefully set down his burden, helped to roll it carefully, and hurried off to attend to his duties on the ground.

All day long Bill rushed about, hither and thither, ordering, consulting, directing. He found no time to lunch. His services were in demand all the time, and he gave them willingly and enthusiastically. Oh, he was an ardent Unionist, and an eight-hours man to the backbone.

It was late in the evening before Bill's duties were over. He had been on his feet since early morning; he had had not time to eat, scarcely time to swallow a glass of water to quench his raging thirst.

At last he reached home, with dragging feet, aching limbs, and a very tired feeling.

He stumbled into the frontroom and dropped into a chair.

"Ah, it's beem a glorious day!" he said, mopping his forehead wearily and smiling wanly at his proud wife. "A great day, and a credit to the boys. Unionism will never die while we can make a show like that. It's a lesson to all working-men in independence and the advantage of union."

Bill yawned widely. "A great day," he repeated; "and the mean hound who would work on our holiday is not fit to herd with Chinamen and Kanakas. O-o-o. A-a-a-ah! Gimme my supper and let's get to bed."

"Den"
The Gadfly, 4 September 1907, p1453