The man's nerves were anywhere. He clung to me for counsel—for mere company—as he would have clung to anybody.
So we found a taxi and climbed in, all three.
But I did not reach the Whips' Office that day.
There was a hold-up as we neared the bridge, and we to came a dead stop. I set it down to some ordinary block of traffic, and with a touch of annoyance: for Farrell by this time was arguing himself out as a victim of circumstances, and with a feebleness of sophistry that tried the patience. I remember saying "The long and short of it is, you've made a fool of yourself.… Why on earth can't this fellow get a move on?"—As though he had heard me, just then the driver slewed about and shot us back a queer half-humorous glance through the glass screen.
Jimmy, lolling crossways on one of the little let-down seats with his leg across the other, caught the glance, sprang up and thrust his head out at the window.
"Hallo!" said he. "Suffragettes? Dog-fight?… Pretty good riot, anyhow,"—and the next moment he was out on the roadway. I craned up for a look through the screen, and stepped out in his wake.
Some thirty yards ahead of us, close by the gates of the South London College, a dense crowd blocked the thoroughfare. It was a curiously quiet crowd, but it swayed violently under some pressure in the centre, and broke as we watched, letting through a small body of police with half a dozen men and youths in firm custody.
My wits gave a leap, and my heart sank on the instant. I stepped to the taxi door and commanded Farrell to tumble out.
"Here's more of your mess-work, unless I'm mistaken," said I.
"Mine?" He looked at me with a dazed face. "Mine?" he quavered. "Oh, but what has happened?… There would seem to be some conspiracy.…"