The crowd cheered loudly. Dr. O’Grady whispered to Lord Alfred that he ought to say something about the value of the statue as a work of art. But this time Lord Alfred’s will was stronger than the doctor’s. He jumped off the pedestal and flatly declined to mount it again. He was crimson in the face with mortification and embarrassment. Then, when the cheering subsided a little, Mr. Billing’s voice was heard, clear and incisive. He had pushed his way from the door of the hotel and was standing near the statue.
“That’s a darned poor speech,” he said.
It is extraordinary how close the primitive barbarian is to the most civilised man. No one could have been more carefully trained than Lord Alfred Blakeney. No one possessed more of that suave self-control which distinguishes a man of the governing classes from the members of the mob. Yet Lord Alfred collapsed suddenly under the strain to which he had been subjected. Mr. Billing’s taunt threw him back to an earlier, a very early stage of development.
“Make a better one yourself, then,” he said, “whoever you are.”
“I’ll make one that’ll create a sensation, anyhow,” said Mr. Billing.
He stepped jauntily up the two steps of the pedestal.
“Mr. Lord-Lieutenant, Right Reverend Sir, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said.
Lord Alfred Blakeney clutched Dr. O’Grady by the arm.
“I’m not the Lord-Lieutenant,” he said desperately.
“I’m not even his representative. Do try to make him understand that.”