“But he’s never lost his taste for tripe!” squeaked a shrill treble. The gibe won roars of laughter, and the back of the chairman’s neck grew crimson.
“Hurrah for Banfield and the poor man’s loaf!” shouted his supporters, as he mounted in his turn.
“It’s little of the crumb he’ll leave the poor man!” squeaked the treble.
It was the candidate’s turn to mount next. “Hooray! Hooray!” shouted the crowd with special fervor. Handkerchiefs were waved from windows, the band played a little more of the Conquering Hero.
As the music ceased, “What’s he doing, Tommy, along o’ these chaps?” asked the treble voice.
“He’s waiting for that there Samaritan, Sammy?” answered the bass.
“Ay, ay? And the wine and oil, Sammy?”
It took the crowd a little time to digest this, but in time they did so, and the gust of laughter that followed covered the appearance of the stranger. He was not to escape, however, for as the noise ceased, “Is this the Samaritan, Sammy?” asked the bass.
“Where’s your eyes?” whined the treble. “He’s the big loaf! and, lor, ain’t he crumby!”
“If I were down there——” the Burnley man began, leaning over the side of the cart.