The third round of deliveries was finished, and, arrived at his last evening, Erb, coat and collar off, washed away the traces of work in the stable pail with the aid of some aggressive soft soap that seemed to have its own way in everything. He had brought with him that morning a parcel of private clothes, and just before going out with the six o’clock turn, he had changed, and had handed in the corduroy uniform. A relief to feel that he no longer wore the brass buttons of servitude; of late they had seemed to reproach him. He had driven round the Surrey side with the air of a sporting gentleman taking out his own horse and trap; the private clothes helped him to say his good-byes with dignity to all, and especially to his old enemy, the van foreman.

“You would go on in your own tin-pot way,” said the van foreman regretfully, “no matter what I said. Your case ought to act as a warnin’.”

“To you?”

“I should ’ave thought,” said the van foreman, with a wistful air, “after all that’s passed between us we might as well part good friends, at any rate.”

“Look here, old chap,” said Erb good-temperedly, “I tried to out you, and you tried to out me; and you’ve got the best of it. I don’t complain, but I’m not going to pretend I’m on friendly terms with a man when I ain’t.”

“That’s what I say,” retorted the van foreman argumentatively. “You’ve got no discretion.”

The manners of William Henry had about them a fine blend of condescension; the lad came forward from the tail of the van and sat on a hamper, big with news. He had been approached that afternoon and informed that, consequent on the departure of Erb, there would be some changes, and would he, William Henry, accept the position of junior porter at fourteen shillings a week.

“I shall probably work on from that,” said William Henry, “to some even higher position, and then on again. See? And if ever you want a friend, Erb—”

“I don’t let boys call me Erb. Mr. Barnes, if you please.”

“If I’m a boy,” said William Henry thoughtfully, “I don’t quite see where you’re going to find your men. As I was a sayin’, if ever you should be down in the gutter—and, mind you, there’s unlikelier things than that—you come to me. It may be in my power to ’elp you. And I tell you what you can do for me in exchange. You might take the van ’ome to the stables by yourself, so that I can run round to Rotherhithe New Road and tell my young lady.”

“Your young lady!”“And why not?” demanded William Henry with some indignation. “We ain’t all like you.”

It gratified Erb, as he parted his hair with an imperfect pocket comb, and tried to make the obstinate wisp at the back of his head remain flat, to think that he had the reputation of one who exhibited no sort of weakness in regard to women; this came in well with his profound attitude towards the world. He had had a letter from the tall upper housemaid at Eaton Square, to which he had sent no reply; indeed, the communication scarcely demanded an answer, for it furnished only information in regard to the weather, and a fervent hope that his health had not been impaired by his presence at the dance; it would not have remained in his memory but for one sentence, “Her young ladyship has spoken of you once or twice.” An incomplete way of conveying a fact: something, of course, to know that she had referred to him, but it would have been more interesting to know the precise terms. He flushed at the appalling thought that she might have made some humorous comment on his behaviour.

Men balanced themselves on the edge of the kerb outside the “Druid’s Arms,” and whilst a swollen-faced cornet blared patriotic tunes at them from the opposite side in a ferocious way that permitted of no argument, some of the youngest tried to do a few steps of a dance. Two butchers, affecting to be rivals, chaffed each other derisively in raucous voices, one demanding to know how the widow was, and, on the second man replying incautiously, “What widder?” the first explained that he referred to the widow of the man who bought a joint at the second man’s shop last Saturday week. A hoarse-voiced man sold cough tablets for the voice; a mild, sightless old man, with bootlaces, had an eager little girl with him, who cried shrilly and commandingly and unceasingly, “Petronise the belind, petronise the belind, petronise the—” Boys and girls thrust bunches of flowers against the noses of passers by; a depressed woman cried, “Twenty-four comic papers for a punny,” with a catch in her voice that expressed regret at the small demand for humour. Erb nodded to the uniformed men whom he recognised, and, going into the bar, found his competitor Spanswick. Always a short, stout man, Spanswick to-night had every sign of his insufficient neck covered with white collar; Erb was pleased to see that Spanswick’s tie had rucked up at the back.

Spanswick stopped suddenly in the remarks he was making to an interested group who stood leaning over him in the manner of palm trees, and, coming away, shook hands publicly and elaborately with Erb, as men in the boxing ring salute their opponents.

“Feeling fit?”

“Never better,” said Erb. “How’s yourself?”

“Bit of a cold,” said Spanswick with important reserve; “but otherwise—”

If there is time, one would like to explain here Spanswick’s position amongst the men. It was of that assured kind that newcomers do not dare to question, and contemporaries have agreed to respect. If this ever exhibited signs of waning, Spanswick would gather an audience together and beat the bounds of the incident that had made him a man to be treated with consideration, and the story had been re-told so many times, and so many improvements and additions had been made to it, that for the sake of true history the real facts may as well be set down.

Spanswick had given way to drink. To say this meant much, for at the time the limits set upon the consumption of beer by many of the carmen was only that fixed by their own capabilities. Spanswick’s case must have been exceptional, and, indeed, he was so inclined, not so much to the bottle, perhaps, as to the quart, that his appearance on the morning following these carousals was truly deplorable: his strong-minded wife taking these opportunities to damage his face, with the eventual result that his van boy and his horse sneered at him openly. Wherefore Payne and a man named Kirby and another called Old Jim, decided, in the best interests of mankind at large, and of Spanswick in particular, that some steps should be taken, that it was for them to take these steps, and that the following Friday evening (being pay day) was the time to be selected. Payne’s idea was this. They would run Spanswick to earth in one of his resorts, they would form a ring (or as much of a ring as three could make) around him, and by wise counsel and urgent illustration force upon him a recognition of the downward career that was his, and its inevitable end. It took some time to arrive at this decision, because Old Jim, who was not abreast of the times and of modern methods, had a remedy that included the dropping of the patient in the canal; whilst Kirby had another proposal. “Let us set the teetotal chaps on him,” urged Kirby. Payne’s scheme was adopted, and, the Friday night arriving, the three, after they had finished work, had a shave and a wash, and put on their best clothes (Payne himself wore a silk hat of adequate age, but of insufficient size), and they set out solemnly to take up their self-appointed duties.

“Now,” said Old Jim, “the likeliest place is ‘The World Turned Upside Down.’”

“Pardon me,” said Kirby, with the politeness that comes with the wearing of Sunday clothes, “pardon me, but ‘The Chequers’ is his ’ouse.”

“I thought,” remarked Payne, “the ‘Dun Cow’ was.”

“I’m prutty sure I’m right,” said Old Jim.

“I’m jolly well certain you’re both wrong,” declared Kirby with emphasis.

“Standing here all night arguin’,” decided Payne, “won’t settle the matter. Let’s make a start at one of them.”

Spanswick was not in “The World Turned Upside Down,” but the three had a drink there, because it would be notoriously a gross breach of etiquette to go from a public-house without ordering refreshment; to do this were to deride the landlord openly, and insinuate libels on his stock. At the next place the three went into each bar to make sure, and, having money in their pockets, it seemed like doing the thing well and completely to have a drink here in every bar, still discussing the painful case of poor old Spanny, regretting deeply the curse that liquor brought upon men who could not use it with discretion.

“It’s good servant,” said Old Jim, raising his glass and shutting one eye in order to see it clearly, “but bad mas’er. That’s what I always says about it. It’s a good mas’r, but— What I mean to say is it’s a bad servant—”

“Every man,” declared Kirby, attempting to slap the counter, but missing it, “ought to know where to draw line.”

“The chap who don’t,” agreed Payne, “(You’re upsetting your glass, Jim, old man)—the chap who don’t is like the beas’s of field.”

“Worse!” said Old Jim.

“No, not worse!” urged Payne obstinately.

“Fight you for it,” offered Old Jim.

Kirby interfered and made peace, and throughout the evening, wherever they went in search of Spanswick, it happened that some two of the three were always quarrelling, whilst the third endeavoured to appease and conciliate. They were on the very edge of a triangular dispute in the last house of call when Payne, sobering himself for a moment, pointed out to the others that it was closing time, and they must not go to bed without feeling that something accomplished, something done, had earned a night’s repose; necessary that they should proceed now with as much directness as possible to Spanswick’s house, and (if they found him) there deliver the calculated words of warning, the prepared sentences of advice.

“’Ullo, old man,” said Payne, as the door of Spanswick’s house opened. “Many ’appy returns day.”

“What’s all this?” demanded Spanswick coldly. “Brought anything with you in a bottle?”

“We’ve brought good ’dvice,” said Old Jim, seating himself on the sill. “How is it we didn’t see you at any of the places?”

“The wife locked up me boots,” replied Spanswick surlily. “That’s why. But surely one of you’s got a bottle about him somewheres. Search!”

“We want you, old chap,” said Payne, steadying himself with a hand on either side of the doorway, “to give up the drink. ‘Oh that man should put an en’my into his mouth to steal out his brains.’ Chuck it, my friend, chuck it, before it is too late. Shun the flowing bowl, and save your money to buy harmonium with.”

“I’ll harmonium you,” said Spanswick threateningly, “if you don’t all three of you make yourselves precious scarce. How dare you come round here in this disgraceful condition to annoy a sober, honest man? Go to your ’omes and take an example by me. I never saw such a painful exhibition in all me life.”

“How was we to know you’d be sober?” asked Kirby, swaying.

Spanswick emphasised the situation by remaining comparatively sober for a week; a busy week in other ways, for he lost no opportunity of reciting the incident of his own pure and heroic action, establishing thus a concrete foundation for the building up of a character that had never entirely disappeared.

(This is the story of carman Spanswick.)

One or two men standing at the zinc bar called on Erb to have a drink, but Erb replied, “Afterwards,” and went up the wooden staircase to the club room. There, on the landing, men were consulting in undertones, which they changed for much louder speech on seeing Erb, commencing to talk noisily of contests with superiors whom they had, it appeared, worsted in argument; of fresh young horses that required a somewhat similar treatment; of trouble in regard to Shuts-up, to water allowances, to Brought-backs, and other technical matters. A late colleague of Erb’s introduced him to those who were strangers, and Erb made quite a considerable effort to exhibit friendly manners, until a South Western man, mistaking him for Spanswick, told him some of the things that were being said about young Barnes, whereupon Erb left and went into the club room. In the club room tables had been arranged in something of the shape of a capital U, and at the base a wooden hammer had been placed and a decanter and tumbler; sheets of blue foolscap and scarlet blotting paper gave the room an official, business-like appearance. Payne was there in mufti as to coat, in uniform as to waistcoat and corduroy trousers; he was to be proposed as Chairman, and he stood now with his face to a Scotch whisky advertisement, his lips moving silently; he nodded to Erb, and went on with his rehearsal. Spanswick coming up with his entourage, took one of the sheets of paper and, with the stump of a pencil, began to make calculations which were audited, as he went on, by his friends. A few of the men marked the special nature of the proceedings by smoking cigars. The alert clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour in a sharp, energetic way and hurried on.

“I beg to move that Jack Payne do take the chair.”

“I beg to second.”

“All in favour,” said the first voice. “On the contrary? Carried unanimously and nem. con. Jack” (turning to Mr. Payne), “in you go.”

“In ordinary circs,” said Payne, after he had taken the chair and had risen to some applause, “I’m perfectly well aware that the proper course to pursue at an affair like this is for the chair to call on the secretary to read the minutes of the last meeting. I know that without any of you telling me. But we’re in the position to-night of not ’aving no secretary and not ’aving no previous meetin’.”The heads around the table nodded agreement. A gloomy man seated in the position that a vice-chairman might have occupied half rose and said, “Mr. Chairman, sir,” and was at once pulled back into his chair by those near him.

“I was never a man,” went on the Chairman, his forehead damp with nervousness, “to what you may call force me opinions on any body of men. ’Cepting once, and that was at New Cross in ’89. I forget exactly what it was about, and I forget who was there, and I forget what I said, but the entire incident is quite fresh in my memory, and, as I say, that was the only occasion on which—”

“Question, question,” cried the gloomy man at the other end of the room. His neighbours hushed him into silence.

“I’m coming to the question as fast as ever I can. Few know better than me how to conduct a meeting of this kind, although I say it p’raps as shouldn’t, because it sounds like flattery, but it ain’t flattery, it’s only the truth. I’ve had it said to me over and over again, not once or twice, but many times—”

“Mr. Chairman, reely,” said the gloomy man, “I must call you to order. We shall never get the business done this side of Chris’mas if—”

“Kindly sed down,” ordered Mr. Payne, in tones of command, “or else resume your seat; one or the other. It’s me,” tapping his waistcoat, “me, sir, that calls people to order, not you.”

The gloomy man argued in a loud whisper with his neighbours, and, on these counselling that he should simmer down, sat back in his chair, surveying the ceiling, his lips closed determinedly.

“First thing is shall we, being all of a trade, form a separate society, or shall we jolly well do the other thing? That’s the point. Now then, who’s going to give us a start? You, my friend, of the Great Eastern, down at the bottom of this left ’and table, you seem to have a lot to say, p’raps we might give you ten minutes and see whether or not there’s any sense in you.”

The gloomy man affected deafness until this had been explained to him by those sitting near, on which he told them rather haughtily that he spoke when he liked, and not when he was called upon.

“Then we must throw the ’andkerchief to somebody else. Spanswick, you might set the ball a-rolling. Don’t be longer than you can ’elp.”

Erb watched. The impression that his rival made now would affect the later decision, and Erb could not help wishing that Spanswick might prove halting in utterance and clumsy of speech. Cheers greeted Spanswick; some of the men looked at Erb, as they slapped the table with the palms of their hands to see how he took it, and Erb remembered, just in time, to join in the compliment. He recovered his hopefulness as soon as Spanswick spoke, for he noted that his opponent started with great rapidity of utterance, speaking also overloudly—encouraging facts both. Spanswick was, of course, urging that they should form a separate society, but he had no arguments, only hurried expressions of his own opinion. Erb, with his eyes on a sheet of foolscap paper, noticed that the room relaxed its attention; the gloomy man had his watch out, and was clearly preparing to shout at the appropriate moment, “Time, time!” Spanswick halted and went over one sentence twice, word for word. Then he stopped altogether, and the silent room saw him endeavour to recall his fleeting memory, saw him take from the inside pocket of his coat the entire speech and laboriously find the place.

“Beg pardon,” cried the gloomy man, starting up, “but is a member entitled to read—”

Spanswick, with now and again an anxious glance at Erb, read the remainder of his speech in a shamed undertone. There was but little cheering when he finished; he was called up again because he had forgotten to move the resolution. Four men competed for the honour of seconding this.

“Now then!” said the Chairman, with relish, “let’s go on in a orderly manner. First thing is, any amendment? No amendment? Vurry well, then! Now, is there any further remarks? The subject hasn’t been, if I may say so, thor’ly threshed out yet, and if— Thank you! Friend Barnes will now address the meeting.”

Erb rose with the slight nervousness that he always felt in commencing a speech. He began slowly and quietly: the Great Eastern man saw his chance for an interruption, and shouted, “Let’s ’ear you,” but Erb took no notice. They were there, he said, to inaugurate a great work, a work to which some of them had given a considerable amount of care, and the scheme was so far advanced that he thought he could place a few details before them for consideration. There had been the grave question whether they should join the general society of London carmen, or whether they should form an independent society of their own.

“On a point of order, sir—” began the gloomy man.

“If there is one man,” said Erb, raising his voice, “in this room who is absolutely ignorant of order it is our Great Eastern friend at the other end of the room. A yelping little terrier that runs after a van doesn’t make the van go faster.”

The room, now very crowded with uniformed men, especially near the doorway, approved this, and the Great Eastern man first looked round for support from his own colleagues, and, obtaining none, began to take desperate notes as Erb went on.

“I can’t waste time over a man who can only interrupt: I address myself to you. First, let me put my friend Spanswick right on a small detail. He urged that we should work quietly and secretly”—(cheers from Spanswick’s supporters)—“I disagree! I fail to see the usefulness of that. I think that all we do should be fair and above board, and I say this because if you combine, and let the railway companies see that you are combining, you will be treated with greater respect. See what’s happened in the case of my own late fellow carmen! It’s true I was sacrificed, but let that pass; see what advantages they got, just for the asking. They got—”

Payne’s watch must have been suddenly affected, for he allowed Erb to speak for more than the period of ten minutes; no one complained; they were all too much interested. When Erb, in a fiery peroration, appealed to them to extend the recent action and make it general, with a strong reference to individualism, which they did not understand, and about which Erb himself was not quite sure, then the supporters of Spanswick forgot their reticence and cheered with the rest.

“And I trust,” added Erb modestly and finally, “that I ’aven’t took up too much of your time.”

The resolution was carried.

“Now,” said the Chair, “if any of you thought of standing me a drink, or even of ’aving one yourself, p’raps you’ll seize the opportunity whilst the waiters are in the room, and then we can shut them out whilst we go on to the next bisness.”

“Erb!” cried Spanswick along the table, “what’s yours?”

It was felt that this was a great piece of strategy on Spanswick’s part, and Erb’s refusal counted nothing for righteousness; one or two of Erb’s supporters shook their heads to intimate that this was not diplomacy. The waiters brought in japanned trays of glasses on their high, outstretched palms, carrying change everywhere, in their pockets, in their tweed caps, in a knot in their handkerchiefs, in their mouths. They completed their work in a few minutes and went, obeying leisurely the Chairman’s imperious wave of the hammer.

“We come, now,” said Payne loudly, “to what I venture to term the principal item on the agender. That is, the appointment of seceretary.” Both Erb and Spanswick showed signs of puzzled astonishment. “There’s no less than two suggestions that have been ’anded up: one is that we should ’ave a honery seceretary, which I may explain for the benefit of some, means one who will perform his services in a honery way: the other is that we should ’ave a paid seceretary, which means that we should have to plank down about a ’undred a year, otherwise, two quid a week, and that’d cover his slight travelling expenses. There’s a good deal,” added the Chair impartially, “to be said on both sides, and, at this stage of the proceedings, I don’t attempt to dictate. This room’s a bit warmish, and if you don’t mind me taking off my coat, why, I shall be more comfortable than what I am at the present moment.”

The men around the table imitated example, and, hanging their jackets on the backs of the chairs, addressed themselves to the new subject.

“What?” said the Chair. “You woke up again?”

“I should like to ask,” said the gloomy Great Eastern man, ignoring this remark, “whether there’s any sense in paying a ’undred pounds a year for a article that we can get for nothing? That’s all I want to know.”

“Argue the point, my good sir,” urged the Chair, “argue in a speech.”

“I’ve said my say,” retorted the other stubbornly.

“If it was the self-same article,” said the Chair, shaking his hammer in a friendly way towards the Great Eastern man, “then I should be with you. But is it?” The shirt sleeves rested on the tables; the men began to show renewed interest.

“I asked a plain question, I want a plain answer!”

“Oh!” said the Chair, disgustedly, “you go to—well, I won’t say where. You’ve got no more idea of conducting a meeting than this ’ammer. Why don’t someone prepose a resolution?”

“Beg—propose,” said a young man desperately, “my friend Spanswick—honery sec’tary—new society.”

“Beg second that,” jerked another youth.

“In view of the fac’,” said a South Eastern man, half rising, “that if you want a thing done well you ought to pay for it, I think we ought to ’ave a man who’ll devote his whole energies to the work. Therefore, I beg to suggest Erb Barnes as—as—”

“Organisin’ secretary!” whispered a neighbour.

“I second that vote—mean to say, resolution.”

“Any other names?” asked the Chair. “Very good then! Now, I shall ask these two chaps to kindly retire, in other words, to leave the room, so as to leave us free to discuss—”

“Point of order occurs to me,” interrupted the gloomy Great Eastern man acutely, “Can they leave the room?”

The room watched Erb and Spanswick as the two made their way behind the chairs to the doorway. Erb opened the door, and motioned to Spanswick to go first, but Spanswick, not to be outdone in politeness, declined absolutely, insisting that Erb should take precedence, and when they decided to stop the display of courtesy, both blundered out at the same moment. As they closed the door behind them they heard several voices addressing the chair.

“Ever gone in for scarlet runners?” asked Spanswick. “I’ve only got a little bit of a garden, but I suppose there isn’t another man in Rotherhithe that grows the scarlet runners I do; people come from far and near to see ’em. There’s a good deal of art, mind you, in the stickin’ of ’em. Sunflowers, too! I’ve had tremendous luck with my sunflowers. I believe I could grow most anything in my little back place if it wasn’t for the cats. Vurry good plan of dealin’ with cats—”

Erb allowed his rival to make conversation whilst he himself considered the importance of these moments that were passing. He looked hard at a picture on the walls of the landing, a picture representing a cheerful Swiss valley and advertising Somebody’s Ginger Beer; the villagers held goblets containing (presumably) this beverage, and toasted the snow-topped mountains at the back. He forced himself to recognise that his chances were small; unless he had made a particularly good impression by his speech he had no chance at all; he would have to commence to-morrow morning a round of calls on master carmen and on contracting firms with the obsequious inquiry, “You don’t ’appen to want a hand, I s’pose?” and receiving the negative reply. He had obtained a clean character from the Railway Company, and the Chief had wished him good-luck, but the information that he was a stirabout would fly round in advance of him, and all the best places would be on the defensive. It might come to driving a cheap coal van, otherwise known as working in the slate business. There was an alternative even less agreeable to think of. He knew one or two men who had just missed being leaders of labour, who sometimes opened debates at Clubs, and were paid fairly liberal expenses, who were sometimes approached by the capitalists to stump through London in an endeavour to lash working men into a state of indignation in regard to Foreign Competition, Sugar Bounties, or the tyranny of Trades Unions, or some other subject for which the capitalists had affection: these men at times coalesced and, urged by a common jealousy, denounced some prominent men of their own party, and found their names mentioned in the opposition journals, the reporters of which bribed them in order to obtain exclusive information of semi-public meetings. Erb told the Swiss valley that it would be long ere he came down to that.

“You take a spade,” exclaimed his companion, “an ornery spade will do, and you dig it in the garden like so, and what do you find? Why you find—”

Young Louisa would be disappointed too. Louisa had been less successful since the servants’ dance at Eaton Square in cloaking her admiration for her brother, and the last young man had been dismissed with ignominy because he showed hesitation in sacrificing his own views on political subjects and accepting those held by Erb. If he had not already passed from the memory of Lady Frances, she might perhaps inquire of Alice the result of the meeting, and, hearing it, would smile agreeably and push him away from her thoughts. To be shown through Bermondsey by an official in the labour world would be one thing; to be conducted by a grimy-faced carman was another. And there was Rosalind—Rosalind—what was her other name?

“Now, in regard to meenure,” said Spanswick dogmatically, “the long and short of the matter is simply this.”

He had found in Southampton Street, Camberwell, on the previous day (being on the Surrey side round), a painted board on a house announcing here, “Elocution and Public Speaking Taught! Pupils prepared for the Dramatic Stage! Apply within to Professor Danks!” and it then occurred to him that this was the address given him by the footman in Eaton Square. The front garden was filled with monumental statues belonging to an undertaker next door, and engraved with names and dates, tombstones which for some inexplicable reason had not been used. He had gone up the uneven pavement from the front gate to the door and had knocked there, but the door being opened by the tall, bright-eyed girl, plainly and economically dressed, and with a suggestion of care near to her bright eyes, he had for some extraordinary reason, muttered “Beg pardon. Wrong number!” and had stumbled back to the gate, hot-faced with confusion. He knew that his powers of speech lacked refinement, and one or two finishing lessons would work miracles: he might perhaps learn how to aspirate without the show of pain and anxiety that he exhibited now when he endeavoured to observe the trying rule. The bright-eyed girl, he remembered, had stood at the doorway looking after him rather reproachfully.

“Of course,” said the injured voice of Spanswick, “if it’s too much trouble for you to listen, why it isn’t any use me talking.”

“Sorry,” he said absently. “Fact is, I don’t take very much interest in gardening.”

“I was talking about poultry.”

“They both come under the same head,” remarked Erb.

“I suppose, as a matter of fact, you’re pretty keen on this ’ere job?”

“They’re a long time deciding,” said Erb.“I’ve been expectin’,” Spanswick made circles on the landing with his right foot in a hesitating way, “I’ve been expectin’ that you’d approach me and ask me to withdraw from the contest.”

“What’d be the use of that?”

“Well,” said Spanswick in a mysterious whisper, “you know what Shakespeare says?”

“He said a lot.”

“You’re a mere kid in these matters,” remarked the other contemptuously, walking away to the other end of the landing. “Haven’t you never ’eard of buying off the opposition? In the present case, suppose you was to say, ‘Spanny, old man, is twen’y-five bob any use to you?’ and I should answer ‘Well, I could do with it,’ and you paid the money over ’ere.” Spanswick held out one hand. “And I said, ‘Well, now, come to think of it, what’s the good of this job to me? I shan’t make nothing out of it, unless it is a silver teapot for the missus; I’ll withdraw my nomination and leave you a clear field.’ See?”

“Upon my word,” exclaimed Erb indignantly, “upon my word if you ain’t the biggest—”

“Mind you,” interrupted the other, “I was only putting a suppositious case.” The door of the club room opened, and a voice said importantly, “Spanswick and Barnes, this way, please.” They turned to obey. “There y’are,” said Spanswick reproachfully, “you’ve left it too late.”

Looking over the banisters, Erb saw that women-folk had arrived, charged with the double duty of listening to the coming concert and of conveying their male relatives home at a reasonable hour. Louisa’s white young face glanced up at him with a twitch, and asked anxiously whether it was all over; Erb replied that, on the contrary, it was just about to begin.

“Kindly take your former seats,” said the Chairman importantly. The chattering room became quiet as the two men entered, and Payne rapped with his hammer for silence. “The voting has come out,” he went on, looking at some figures on the sheet of foolscap before him, “the voting has come out 29 on one side and 14 on the other.”

The rattle of conversation recommenced.

“Less noise there, less noise!” cried the Chair urgently. “I can’t ’ear meself talk.”

“Wish we couldn’t,” remarked the Great Eastern man from his end of the table.

“Be careful, my friend,” said the Chair warningly. “Be careful, or else I shall rule you out of order. I have the pleasure now of calling on my friend Erb Barnes.” The room cheered. “Order, please, for Erb Barnes.”

“What have I got to talk about?” demanded Erb.

“Talk about?” echoed the Chair amazedly. “Talk about? Why, you’ve got to acknowledge in a few appropriate words your appointment as paid organisin’ secretary of the Railway Carmen’s Society.”