“The only thing I can think of,” I said, “is to start them singing ‘God Save the King.’ That will commit them more or less—at least it may.”
Moyne rose to his feet and asked all the bands present to play “God Save the King.” Babberly backed him and the bands struck up.
Considering that the audience had just pledged themselves with inarticulate oaths and most terrifying psalmody to march in Malcolmson’s army, their enthusiasm for the King was striking. They sang the National Anthem quite as whole-heartedly as they had sung the hymn. They are a very curious people, these fellow-countrymen of mine.
Moyne cheered up a little when we got back to the club.
“That was a capital idea of yours, Kilmore,” he said. “I don’t see how they can very well accuse us of being rebels after the way we sang the National Anthem.”
“I wonder if they’ll impeach Babberly,” I said.
“Oh, that’s only a Labour Member,” said Moyne. “He doesn’t really mean it. Those fellows never do.”
“Do you think our people really meant it to-day?” I said.
“Meant what? God Save the King? Of course they did.”