"Certainly," said Mr. Clay. "James, remind me that I take the chair."
"How shall I remind you?" replied the terrified boy.
"How shall you remind me, you fool? Write it down—book it—make a note of it. Anything more?" he continued.
"No, I think that's about all," said Mr. Bailey. But as he turned to go slowly out Mr. Clay's curiosity got the better of his extremely businesslike habits.
"Mr. Bailey," he said, coughing slightly, "Bailey, I beg your pardon, but what will the meeting be about?"
"Oh, what on earth does that matter?" said Mr. Bailey good-naturedly. "Just a meeting."
"About the unseating of our member?" asked Mr. Clay anxiously.
"Yes," answered Mr. Bailey with jollity, "all sorts of things of that sort."
"I'm your man," said Mr. Clay, "I'm your man. None of that about here: we're free born in Mickleton, we are. Mickleton men," he added, as though Mickleton were an island that had fiercely defended its independence in long and bloody wars—"Mickleton men, Mr. Bailey." Then he nodded, and remembering the true secret of success, began writing rapidly again.
Mr. Bailey sauntered out. He looked about him to find his direction, turned down Mafeking Avenue, and when towards ten o'clock he had reached the agents for the Second Jubilee Hall and the Coronation Annexe, his foolish and disastrous intention was fixed.