“Gain,” prompted the young man next to him, sulkily.
“Gain—thank you—gain the respect of future ages and the admiration of posterity; not otherwise shall we lead others on in that battle which, to use the language of metaphor—”
“I say, old man,” whispered his neighbour, “really! Play the game.”
“I will not pursue the train of thought,” said Erb, “on which I had, in a manner of speakin’, embarked. One an’ all, friends—thank you—kind ’tention—I now give way!”
“Feriends!” shouted the next man, stepping quickly on the chair, “our comrade from Berminsey has been so far carried away by his own eloquence as to overstep his time. In these circs, I will abstain from all preliminary remarks and come to the point at once. First of all, ’owever—”
The bowler-hatted men, who had spoken, seemed bored now with the proceedings, and tried to make out the exact time by the clock on the great biscuit factory; unable to do this, they appealed to Erb, who, heated with his oratorical efforts, and gratified to notice that the tall young woman had limped away directly that he had finished, produced a smart silver watch and gave the required information. They spoke in an undertone of the evening’s engagements: one proud man was to turn on the gas, as he cheerfully expressed it, at Victoria Park in the afternoon, another had had a long talk with a member of Parliament, and the member had shaken hands with him, “Quite ’omely and affable”; they all presented to the crowd a very serious and thoughtful and statesmanlike appearance as they whispered to each other. Flakes of the crowd began to fall away. The last speaker finished, hoarse and panting.
“Whose turn is it to carry the chair?”
“Erb’s!” said the others, quickly.
“But I thought—” he began.
“You thought wrong,” said the others. “Besides you’re going straight ’ome.”