Honest Sir Munt, having made his point, subsided now in a brief period of deglutition.
A few minutes later, in a favorite corner of the smoking room, he had a little serious talk with Alderman Murrell.
“I don’t like voting Yellow,” the Imperialist confided in a rather perplexed voice. “Somehow it goes against the grain, as it did against that of my father before me, but if Mr. Endor can satisfy us that he is not in favor of playing tricks with the Navy and the two-power standard will be maintained, I’m not sure it isn’t my duty on this occasion”—even in the sanctity of the Club precincts the worthy alderman could not resist a rhetorical flourish—“on this occasion to record my vote for the Clean, the Decent, the Aboveboard.”
Sir Munt looked in quite “an old-fashioned way” at his friend. “You must be careful, Murrell, my boy,”—the grin of the great man was almost saturnine—“you must be vur-ry careful how you interfere wi’ the liberties o’ the Press.”
XXXVIII
WHEN, at a quarter to three, the Mayor left the Club, he linked his arm in that of Alderman Murrell, whose famous shop stood cheek by jowl with the City Hall at the other side of Market Square. As they came slowly down the steps, both gentlemen had a sense not merely of having lunched, but also of having done ample justice to the affairs of the nation. But amid the press of sharp realities into which they slowly projected themselves, they were soon aware that the affairs of the nation were still in the foreground of the picture. Above Market Square a monstrous air-ship still hovered, on whose Gargantuan belly the magic letters U. P. were clearly visible. And at that moment, dashing across the great Square itself, was a familiar mustard-colored contraption, with the legend “First with the News as Usual” flaring above it. The news was heralded by a large placard hung at the tail of the machine. “Aunt Mittie to address Charwoman’s Conference” was its cryptic nature.
To the initiate, however, the “news” was not without significance. And Sir Munt and the worthy Alderman were themselves at the brink of enlightenment. As slowly and with a touch of pomp they descended the Club steps, for the awed eyes of ordinary workaday citizens were upon them, a shower of small white leaflets fell from the sky. It was a part and only a trivial part of the U. P. propaganda but the general effect was remarkably like a stage snowstorm. Indeed, Sir Munt emitted a quiet “very pretty” as he stooped augustly to retrieve one of these handbills which had fluttered and rotated to its long home at the bottom of the Club steps.
Sir Munt always liked to speak of himself as a practical man. Therefore, with an air of supreme nonchalance, the chief magistrate paused amid the citizens to adjust his eyeglasses.
The handbill gave the following information:
TORCHLIGHT PROCESSION OF THE
CHARWOMEN OF ENGLAND!!!