“Yes, sir,” shouted the Wise Men with enthusiasm at the glorious prospect.
“Yes, Sir: we’ll wait a thousand years if you like, Sir!”
“I’ve been waiting all my life,” said one poor old veteran, who had assisted to “carry the ‘Old Flag’ to victory” times out of number in the past and who for his share of the spoils of those victories was now in a condition of abject, miserable poverty, with the portals of the workhouse yawning open to receive him; “I’ve waited all my life, hoping and trusting for better conditions so a few more years won’t make much difference to me.”
“Don’t you trouble to ’urry yourself, Sir,” shouted another Solomon in the crowd. “We don’t mind waiting. Take your own time, Sir. You know better than the likes of us ’ow long it ought to take.”
In conclusion, the great man warned them against being led away by the Socialists, those foolish, unreasonable, impractical people who wanted to see an immediate improvement in their condition; and he reminded them that Rome was not built in a day.
The Wise Men applauded lustily. It did not appear to occur to any of them that the rate at which the ancient Roman conducted their building operations had nothing whatever to do with the case.
Sir Featherstone Blood sat down amid a wild storm of cheering, and then the procession reformed, and, reinforced by the audience from the hall, they proceeded to march about the dreary streets, singing, to the tune of the “Men of Harlech”:
“Vote for Sweater, Vote for Sweater!
Vote for Sweater, VOTE FOR SWEATER!
“He’s the Man, who has a plan,
To liberate and reinstate the workers!
“Men of Mugs’bro”, show your mettle,
Let them see that you’re in fettle!
Once for all this question settle
Sweater shall Prevail!”
The carriage containing Sir Featherstone, Adam Sweater, and Rushton and Didlum was in the middle of the procession. The banner and the torches were at the head, and the grandeur of the scene was heightened by four men who walked—two on each side of the carriage, burning green fire in frying pans. As they passed by the Slave Market, a poor, shabbily dressed wretch whose boots were so worn and rotten that they were almost falling off his feet, climbed up a lamp-post, and taking off his cap waved it in the air and shrieked out: “Three Cheers for Sir Featherstone Blood, our future Prime Minister!”
The Philanthropists cheered themselves hoarse and finally took the horses out of the traces and harnessed themselves to the carriage instead.