This was not, I suppose, conciliation in the strictest and best sense of the word, but the thing had to be said.
"You don't understand me, sir," he said excitedly. "When I said we didn't know where we were, it was a manner of speaking. We want to know how we stand."
"On your heels," I replied gently, "as I pointed out before."
"I am Brass, sir, of Axminster. My account with Mr. Ukridge is ten pounds eight shillings and fourpence. I want to know—"
The whole strength of the company now joined in.
"You know me, Mr. Garnet. Appleby, in the High—" (voice lost in the general roar) "... and eightpence."
"My account with Mr. Uk——"
"... settle—"
"I represent Bodger—"
A diversion occurred at this point. Charlie, who had long been eyeing Beale sourly, dashed at him with swinging fists and was knocked down again. The whole trend of the meeting altered once more. Conciliation became a drug. Violence was what the public wanted. Beale had three fights in rapid succession. I was helpless. Instinct prompted me to join the fray, but prudence told me that such a course would be fatal.