Near the end of the King’s Road he remembered his brandy and soda, and entered a flaunting public-house. A good many persons were present, a waterman from a cab-stand, half a dozen of the chronically unemployed, a gentleman (in one corner) trying to sell æsthetic photographs out of a leather case to another and very youthful gentleman with a yellow goatee, and a pair of lovers debating some fine shade (in the other). But the centrepiece and great attraction was a little old man, in a black, ready-made surtout, which was obviously a recent purchase. On the marble table in front of him, beside a sandwich and a glass of beer, there lay a battered forage-cap. His hand fluttered abroad with oratorical gestures; his voice, naturally shrill, was plainly tuned to the pitch of the lecture-room; and by arts, comparable to those of the Ancient Mariner, he was now holding spell-bound the barmaid, the waterman, and four of the unemployed.
“I have examined all the theatres in London,” he was saying; “and pacing the principal entrances, I have ascertained them to be ridiculously disproportionate to the requirements of their audiences. The doors opened the wrong way—I forget at this moment which it is, but have a note of it at home; they were frequently locked during the performance, and when the auditorium was literally thronged with English people. You have probably not had my opportunities of comparing distant lands; but I can assure you this has been long ago recognised as a mark of aristocratic government. Do you suppose, in a country really self-governed, such abuses could exist? Your own intelligence, however uncultivated, tells you they could not. Take Austria, a country even possibly more enslaved than England. I have myself conversed with one of the survivors of the Ring Theatre, and though his colloquial German was not very good, I succeeded in gathering a pretty clear idea of his opinion of the case. But, what will perhaps interest you still more, here is a cutting on the subject from a Vienna newspaper, which I will now read to you, translating as I go. You can see for yourselves; it is printed in the German character.” And he held the cutting out for verification, much as a conjurer passes a trick orange along the front bench.
“Hullo, old gentleman! Is this you?” said Michael, laying his hand upon the orator’s shoulder.
The figure turned with a convulsion of alarm, and showed the countenance of Mr. Joseph Finsbury.
“You, Michael!” he cried. “There’s no one with you, is there?”
“No,” replied Michael, ordering a brandy and soda, “there’s nobody with me; whom do you expect?”
“I thought of Morris or John,” said the old gentleman, evidently greatly relieved.
“What the devil would I be doing with Morris or John?” cried the nephew.
“There is something in that,” returned Joseph. “And I believe I can trust you. I believe you will stand by me.”
“I hardly know what you mean,” said the lawyer, “but if you are in need of money I am flush.”