'Oh, you shut up,' says the old champion, out of patience. 'You've 'ad 'arf a pint too much.'
Everybody in the vicinity was obliged to turn and look at the youth to see what proportion of the charge was humour and how much was fact. The youth resented so deeply the turn the conversation had taken that he fell back for a moment on bitter silence.
'When you go to call on some one,' the chairman was continuing, with the patient air of one instructing a class in a kindergarten, 'it is the custom to ring the bell. What do you suppose a door-bell is for? Do you think our deputation should have tried to get in without ringing at the door?'
'They 'adn't no business goin' to 'is private 'ouse.'
'Oh, look 'ere, just take that extry 'arf pint outside the meetin' and cool off, will yer?'
It was the last time that particular opponent aired his views. The old man's judicious harping on the '’arf pint' induced the ardent youth to moderate his political transports. They were not rightly valued, it appeared. After a few more mutterings he took his 'extry 'alf pint' into some more congenial society. But there were several others in the crowd who had come similarly fortified, and they were everywhere the most audible opponents. But above argument, denial, abuse, steadily in that upper air the clear voice kept on—
'Do you think they wanted to go to his house? Haven't you heard that they didn't do that until they had exhausted every other means to get a hearing?'
To the shower of denial and objurgation that greeted this, she said with uplifted hand—
'Stop! Let me tell you about it.'