“Yes! come on ’ere!” cried Crass, feeling in his waistcoat pocket for the cutting. “Tell us wot’s the real cause of poverty.”
“’Ear, ’ear,” shouted the man on the pail. “Git up into the bloody pulpit and give us a sermon.”
As Owen made no response to the invitations, the crowd began to hoot and groan.
“Come on, man,” whispered Philpot, winking his goggle eye persuasively at Owen. “Come on, just for a bit of turn, to pass the time away.”
Owen accordingly ascended the steps—much to the secret delight of Crass—and was immediately greeted with a round of enthusiastic applause.
“There you are, you see,” said Philpot, addressing the meeting. “It’s no use booin’ and threatenin’, because ’e’s one of them lecturers wot can honly be managed with kindness. If it ’adn’t a bin for me, ’e wouldn’t ’ave agreed to speak at all.”
Philpot having been unanimously elected chairman, proposed by Harlow and seconded by the man on the pail, Owen commenced:
“Mr Chairman and gentlemen:
“Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, it is with some degree of hesitation that I venture to address myself to such a large, distinguished, fashionable, and intelligent looking audience as that which I have the honour of seeing before me on the present occasion.” (Applause.)
“One of the finest speakers I’ve ever ’eard!” remarked the man on the pail in a loud whisper to the chairman, who motioned him to be silent.