“That is quite right,” said the chairman, in whose memory by some obscure mental process this fact seemed to have found a lodging.
“It is moved that this committee do now adjourn.”
“Mr. Chairman! I protest,” shrieked Brother Simmons frantically.
“Ay, he's a grand protester!” said Brother McNish.
The motion was carried by a majority of one, Brothers Wigglesworth, McNish and Maitland voting in the affirmative.
“Traitors!” shrieked Brother Simmons. “Capitalistic traitors!”
“Hoot mon! Ye're no in Hyde Park. Save yere breath for yere porritch the morn—” said McNish, relaxing into a grim smile as he left the rooms.
“We'll get 'im,” said Simmons to his ally and friend. “'E's in with that there young pup. 'E knows 'ow to work 'im and 'e'd sell us all up, 'e would.” Brother Simmons' brand of profanity strongly savoured of the London pavements in its picturesque fluency.
“Get in here, McNish,” said Maitland, who was waiting at the door. With some hesitation McNish accepted the invitation.
“Now, what does this mean?” said Maitland savagely, then checking his rage, “but I ought to thank you for getting me out of the grip of that frantic idiot. What is this fool thing?”