The Undefeated

by J. C. Snaith

There was more than one reason for the representative character of the audience. In the first place it was felt to be a royal opportunity to exalt the horn of patriotism. This public recognition of the heroic Miss Munt was a compliment paid to the women of Britain, to those many thousands of magnificent women whose deeds had proved them worthy of their brothers, their husbands and their sons. Again, the figure of Sally herself had fired the public imagination. A Joan of Arc profile overlaid by a general air of you-be-damnedness made an ideal picture postcard as her father had already found to his cost. All sorts of people seemed to take a fantastic pleasure in addressing them to Josiah Munt, Esquire, J.P., Strathfieldsaye, The Rise, Blackhampton. “How proud you must be of her,” et cetera. Ad nauseam.

Moreover, this function was intended as a tribute to the Mayor himself. His worth was now recognized by all classes. He was the right man in the right place; his boundless energy and his practical sense were of the utmost value to the community; and the wise men of that thickly populated district seized the chance of paying homage to Josiah and at the same time of exploiting a powerful personality in the interests of the state.

At three o’clock, when the Mayor came on to the platform, the large hall was very full. He was followed by the Duke of Dumbarton, a genial, young-middle-aged nobleman, who was to make the presentation, and by other magnates. Behind the Chairman many notables were seated already; and to lend point to the somewhat intimate nature of the proceedings, which may or may not have been part of the design of these “in the know,” the members of Josiah’s family with the national heroine in their midst had been grouped prominently upon his right hand.

The Town Clerk, a little wickedly perhaps, had intimated beforehand to the Mayor that the proceedings would really be in the nature of “a family party.” At all events, his worship took the hint “of that Aylett” literally. Before sitting down at the table and taking formal charge of the meeting his eyes chanced to light on a group of men in hospital blue for whom places had been reserved in the front row of the balcony. Among these he recognized Corporal Hollis, whose leg as a result of five weeks’ special treatment had improved quite remarkably.

The Mayor went to the end of the platform and called loudly, “Bill, you are wanted down here. Come on to the platform, my boy.”

The Corporal did not covet notoriety, but it would have been as wise to thwart the waters of Niagara as to resist the will of the City’s chief magistrate at a public meeting. Until his instructions had been carried out there was not a chance of a start being made. Reluctantly realizing this the Corporal in the course of three minutes had made his way down from the gallery and on to the platform, a crutch in each hand, where his august father-in-law received him.

“Come on, Bill.” He was shepherded along the front row of chairs as if the presence of three thousand people was a very ordinary matter. “You come and sit with the wife. Colonel Hickman, kindly move up a bit. Thank you. Like a chair for your leg? If you do, I’ll get one.”

The Corporal declined a chair for his leg, just as the meeting incited by certain officious members of the Town Council broke into cheers. Melia and the Corporal, seated side by side, were covered in momentary confusion. Then the chairman took his seat at the table, reduced the meeting to silence by rapping the board sternly with his mallet and stood up again briefly to open the proceedings. These consisted in patriotic speeches from Lieutenant-General Sir William Hardcastle, K.C.B., and the Duke of Dumbarton, and the presentation of an illuminated scroll in a gold casket to Miss Sarah Ann Munt.

First, a speech excellent in its kind, which paid tribute to the deeds of the sons and daughters of the Empire in all parts of the world; also it emphasized the sternness of the hour and the need for “keeping on, keeping on.” Then, amid a flutter of excitement, came the presentation to Miss Munt. It was made by the Duke, a figure deservedly popular all over the district from which, to be sure, he derived immense revenues. A master of courtly phrase and well turned compliment, he gave the heroine of the occasion the full benefit of his powers. And when at last, in the purview of three thousand people, the dauntless Sally came forth to the table to receive the casket and scroll she was a sight to behold.