‘Is not the gentleman who has just spoken himself a shareholder in the Puto-Congo Consolidation Company?’
A buzz of horrified consternation went sibilating from stalls to gallery: the whole movement tottered to its base. Mr. Trimblerigg was on his feet.
‘It’s a lie,’ he said; and to show that was the end of it, sat down again.
The audience took a free breath and applauded.
Once more came the voice:
‘Does the speaker deny that he draws any profit from investment in the forced labour of these unhappy natives?’ And again Mr. Trimblerigg was on his feet.
‘Not one pound, not one penny, not one farthing. I would die rather.’
The applause at this was terrific. All heads turned towards the interruption: lost in the dense crowd gathered at the back of the hall it remained merely a voice.
There was a pause, the voice said: ‘I am quite satisfied. I was misinformed.’
A sharp burst of laughter rang through the hall; and everybody was happy again. Mr. Trimblerigg received another ovation; and when he rose to reply to the vote of thanks the noise was deafening.