Thereafter an indescribable orgie of patriotism had taken place. Red-necked men outbid fat women. The bids mounted; the bidders grew fiercer; the cheers waxed. And all the while a little group of Trade Unionists at the back of the hall kept up a dismal chaunt—
We don't want charity,
We won't have charity.
Then a little dapper figure in the blue of a chauffeur rose in the body of the hall.
"I'm only a workin chauffeur," he said, wagging his big head, "but I got a conscience, and I got a country. And I'm not ashamed of em eether. I can't do much bein only a worker as you might say. But I can do me bit. Put me down for fifty guineas, please, Mr. Town-clerk."
He sat down modestly amidst loud applause.
"Who's that?" whispered the Colonel on the platform.
"Trupp's chauffeur," the Archdeacon, who had a black patch over his eye, answered with a swagger—"my sidesman, Alfred Caspar. Not so bad for a working-man?" He cackled hilariously.
Then a voice from Lancashire, resonant and jarring, came burring across the hall.
"Mr. Chairman, are you aware that Alfred Caspar is turning his sister-in-law out of his house with four children."
Alf leapt to his feet.