“You remember who I am, Mr. Maraton?  My name’s Borden—­Samuel Borden—­and I am from the Potteries.  It’s all very well for Weavel and Dale there to talk, but there’s no labour on God’s earth so underpaid as the china and glass worker.  We may not have the money saved—­that’s simply because it takes my people all they can do to keep from starvation.  I’ve figures here that’ll prove what I say.  I’ll go so far as this—­there isn’t a worse paid industry than mine in the United Kingdom.”

There was a moment’s silence.  Abraham Weavel leaned back in his chair and yawned.  Peter Dale made a grimace of dissent.  Maraton turned to one of the little company who as yet had scarcely opened his lips—­a thin, ascetic-looking, middle-aged man, who wore gold spectacles, and who had an air of refinement which was certainly not shared by any of the others.

“And you, Mr. Culvain,” he enquired, “you represent no particular industry, I believe?  You were a journalist, were you not, before you entered Parliament?”

“I was and am a journalist,” Culvain assented.  “Since you have asked my opinion, I must confess that I am all for more peaceful methods.  These Labour troubles which inconvenience and bring loss upon the community, do harm to our cause.  I am in favour of a vigorous course of platform education through all the country districts of England.  I think that the principles of Socialism are not properly understood by the working classes.”

“If one might make a comment upon all that you have said,” Maraton remarked, “I might point out to you that there is a certain selfishness in your individual suggestions.  Three of you are in favour of a gigantic strike, each in his own constituency.  Mr. Culvain, who is a writer and an orator, prefers the methods which appeal most to him.  Yet even these strikes which you propose are puny affairs.  You want to wage war for the sake of a few shillings.  We ought to fight, if at all, for a greater and more splendid principle.  It isn’t a shilling or two more a week that the people want.  It’s a share—­a share to which they are, without the shadow of a doubt, entitled—­in the direct product of their labour.”

“That’s sound enough,” Peter Dale admitted.  “How are you going to get it?”

“You ask for too much,” Weavel observed, “and you get nothing.”

“It is never wise,” Culvain suggested quietly, “to have the public against one.”

Maraton rose a little abruptly to his feet.  He had the air of one eager to dismiss the subject.

“Gentlemen,” he announced, “I’ve heard your views.  In a few days’ time you shall hear mine.  Only let me tell you this.  To me you all seem to be working and thinking on very narrow lines.  Your object seems to be the securing of small individual benefits for your individual constituents.  I think that if we get to work together in this country, there must be something more national in our aspirations.  That is all I have to say for the present.  As I think you know, I intend to make a pronouncement of my own views at Manchester.”