“Take your ’ands out of your pockets and let’s ’ave a look at them.” The man turned to go, but the circle declined to permit this. “Take a sight at his little hansy-pansy.” Order complied with. “What d’you make of ’em?” “Soft,” retorted the expert. “I knew he was a loafer,” said Erb. “Let him go now and prop up his favourite pubs; I want to talk to genuine working men, not to bits of touch-wood. My first question is,” here he referred to the notes on the back of an envelope which he held in his hand, “my first question is, what is it we working men most keenly desire at the present moment?”
“Tankard of bitter,” said someone.
“Ah!” Herbert Barnes whirled round, and pointed a forefinger at the humorist and his friends. “There’s a man who speaks the truth. There’s a man what says jest the thing he really thinks. There’s a man who utters that which is uppermost in his mind. There’s a man,” he leaned forward as though about to give one last applauding compliment, “whose ’ighest ambition, whose most elevated thought, whose one supreme anxiety is for a tankard of bitter. Friends,” with a whirl of both arms, “we talk about the tyranny and what not of capital; the enmity of the upper circles, but there, jest over there, is the class of man that is our greatest opponent, the man from whom we have most to fear. A ten-kard of bit-ter!” he repeated deliberately.
“Well, but,” said the humorist in an injured tone, “I suppose a chep can open his mouth?”
“You can open your mouth, and when you do, apparently, it’s generally for the purpose of em’tying down it a—”
He hesitated. The crowd, glad to find personalities introduced, gave the words in a muffled chorus.
“Makin’ a bloomin’ song of it,” grumbled the humorist, going off. “Some people can’t take a joke.”
“’Aving finished with our friend,” said Herbert Barnes, loudly, “we will now resume our attention to our original argument. What is it that the working man—”
His voice grew so much in volume that people at Christadelphian and other crowds near the iron gates deserted these, and came across in the hope of better sport. One of his arguments created some dissension, and two men, detaching themselves from the crescent, went off to debate it, and an interested circle formed around these, listening with almost pained interest, and seemingly (from the nodding of their heads) convinced by each argument in turn. The round-faced young man on the Windsor chair, now aiming the fist of one hand into the palm of the other as he laboured at an argument, and giving a tremendous and convincing thump as he made his point, noted the new crowd with approval: it was good to have said the stimulating thing. There were no interrupters now, but occasionally a voice would throw an approving sentence, caught neatly by Herbert Barnes, and used if he thought it wise or necessary; his best retorts were given with a glance at the one young woman of the crowd. He was in the middle of a long sentence decked out with many a paraphrase, and whole regiments of adjectives hurrying to the support of a noun, when the hem of his jacket was pulled, and he stopped. “Surely,” he said, in an undertone, “the time ain’t up?” The man next him replied, “Oh, ain’t it though?” rather caustically.
“Friends,” said Herbert resuming his quiet voice, “I’m afraid I’ve kept you rather long. We’ve had opportunities before of meetin’ each other; we shall ’ave opportunities again. I ’ave only to add one word.” The man next to him frowned up at him on hearing this ominous phrase. “It’s my firm and steadfast opinion that we shall increase our power and magnify our strength only by sticking close, quite close, shoulder to shoulder, in what I may call the march of progress. Not otherwise shall we see the risin’ sun salute the dawn—” (a momentary frown from the lame young woman had disconcerted him)—“of labour’s triumph: not otherwise shall we—shall we—”