The words were lost in a hurricane of cheering.
"And ma last word to you," ended the speaker, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth, "is much that of the Great Apostle—Stand and Fight!" He flung the words at his audience with a power and a conviction that were overwhelming.
A great bell was tolling in the Colonel's mind.
"That's a great man," he found himself murmuring.
"Aye, that's Joe," came the deep voice beside him.
The heat, the crush, the tumult of sound, his own intense emotion proved almost too much for the Colonel. He leaned against the wall with closed eyes, but there was joy in his heart.
"Done it," he muttered. "That was England speaking." Then somebody led him out into the fresh air.
"They're all right, sir," said a voice comfortably in his ear. "Joe done the trick. Grand he was."
Some of the Labour extremists recognised him as he lolled against the wall, hat over his eyes, recalled his work for the National Service League, and gathered round for the worry.
"That's him.—Militarist!—Brought the trouble on us! He won't pay.—Leaves that for us to do!—Drunk as a lord!—On the blood of the workers."