They would get the glory, Sotcher assured him, and the consciousness of striking a mighty blow at this, and that, and the other; but that was all. And instantly the faces of the group grew long.
"But," said Old Baker, "I thought all you blokes always got somethink from the—the committee?"
There was no committee, and no funds: there was nothing but glory, and victory, and triumph, and the social revolution, and things of that kind. For a little, the comrades looked at each other awkwardly, but they soon regained their cheerfulness, with zeal no whit abated. The sitting closed with promises of an early gathering for the next night.
But when the next night came Sotcher was later than usual. "Ullo," shouted Gunno Polson, as he entered, "'ere you are at last. We've 'ad to do important business without you. See," he added in a lower tone, "'ere's the stuff!" And he produced an old physic-bottle nearly full of a thick, yellowish fluid.
Sotcher started back half a pace, and slightly paled. "Don't shake it," he whispered hoarsely. "Don't shake it, for Gawd's sake!... Wot—wotjer bring it 'ere for, like that? It's—it's awful stuff, blimy." He looked uneasily about the group, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "I—I thought you'd git the job over soon as the stuff was ready.... 'Ere, my Gawd!" he squeaked under his breath, "don't put it down 'ard on the table like that. It's sich—sich awful stuff." He wiped his forehead again, and, still standing, glanced once more apprehensively round the circle of impassive faces. Then after a pause, he asked, with an effort, "Wot—wotjer goin' to do now?"
"Blow up the bleed'n' gas-works, o' course," answered Gunno Polson complacently. "'Ere's a penn'orth o' silver sand, an' a 'bacca canister, an' some wire, an' a big cracker with a long touch-paper, so as to stick out o' the canister-lid. That ought to set it auf, oughtn't it? 'Ere, you pour the stuff over the sand, doncher?" And he pulled out the cork and made ready to mix.
"'Old on—'old on—don't! Wait a bit, for Gawd's sake!" cried Sotcher, in a sweat of terror. "You—you dunno wot awful stuff it is—s'elp me, you don't! You—you'll blow us all up if you don't keep it still. Y—you'll want some—other things. I'll go an'—"
But Jerry Shand stood grimly against the door. "This 'ere conspiracy'll 'ave to be gawn through proper," he said. "We can't 'ave no waverers nor blokes wot want to clear out in the middle of it, and p'r'aps go an' tell the p'lice. Them sort we 'as to suppress, see? There's all the stuff there, me lad, an' you know it. Wot's more, it's you as is got to put it up agin the gas-works an' set it auf."
The hapless Sotcher turned a yellower pallor and asked faintly, "Me? Wy me?"