“Mr. Chairman and gentlemen.  It is to me a melancholy pleasure to have been honoured with the task of unveiling to-night this portrait of a great benefactor to Bow and a true friend to the labouring classes.  Except that he honoured me with his friendship while living, and that the aspirations of my life have, in my small and restricted way, been identical with his, there is little reason why this honourable duty should have fallen upon me.  Gentlemen, I trust that we shall all find an inspiring influence in the daily vision of the dead, who yet liveth in our hearts and in this noble work of art—­wrought, as Mr. Gladstone has told us, by the hand of one who loved him.”  The speaker paused a moment, his low vibrant tones faltering into silence.  “If we humble working men of Bow can never hope to exert individually a tithe of the beneficial influence wielded by Arthur Constant, it is yet possible for each of us to walk in the light he has kindled in our midst—­a perpetual lamp of self-sacrifice and brotherhood.”

That was all.  The room rang with cheers.  Tom Mortlake resumed his seat.  To Wimp the man’s audacity verged on the Sublime; to Denzil on the Beautiful.  Again there was a breathless hush.  Mr. Gladstone’s mobile face was working with excitement.  No such extraordinary scene had occurred in the whole of his extraordinary experience.  He seemed about to rise.  The cheering subsided to a painful stillness.  Wimp cut the situation by laying his hand again upon Tom’s shoulder.

“Come quietly with me,” he said.  The words were almost a whisper, but in the supreme silence they travelled to the ends of the hall.

“Don’t you go, Tom!” The trumpet tones were Peter’s.  The call thrilled an answering chord of defiance in every breast, and a low ominous murmur swept through the hall.

Tom rose, and there was silence again.  “Boys,” he said, “let me go.  Don’t make any noise about it.  I shall be with you again to-morrow.”

But the blood of the Break o’ Day boys was at fever heat.  A hurtling mass of men struggled confusedly from their seats.  In a moment all was chaos.  Tom did not move.  Half-a-dozen men headed by Peter scaled the platform.  Wimp was thrown to one side, and the invaders formed a ring round Tom’s chair.  The platform people scampered like mice from the centre.  Some huddled together in the corners, others slipped out at the rear.  The committee congratulated themselves on having had the self-denial to exclude ladies.  Mr. Gladstone’s satellites hurried the old man off and into his carriage, though the fight promised to become Homeric.  Grodman stood at the side of the platform secretly more amused than ever, concerning himself no more with Denzil Cantercot, who was already strengthening his nerves at the bar upstairs.  The police about the hall blew their whistles, and policemen came rushing in from outside and the neighbourhood.  An Irish M.P. on the platform was waving his gingham