“They will cheer presently when they hear the news,” said the Prime Minister hopefully; “hark! They are booing some one now! That must be McKenna.”
The Home Secretary entered the room a moment later, disaster written on his face.
“He won’t go!” he exclaimed.
“Won’t go? Won’t leave gaol?”
“He won’t go unless he has a brass band. He says he never has left prison without a brass band to play him out, and he’s not going to go without one now.”
“But surely that sort of thing is provided by his supporters and admirers?” said the Prime Minister; “we can hardly be supposed to supply a released prisoner with a brass band. How on earth could we defend it on the Estimates?”
“His supporters say it is up to us to provide the music,” said the Home Secretary; “they say we put him in prison, and it’s our affair to see that he leaves it in a respectable manner. Anyway, he won’t go unless he has a band.”
The telephone squealed shrilly; it was a trunk call from Nemesis.
“Poll opens in five minutes. Is Platterbaff out yet? In Heaven’s name, why—”
The Chief Organiser rang off.