“Doing myself well!” he repeated, with fierce contempt.  “That’s the keynote of your lives, you lazy, self-satisfied swine, who call yourselves people’s men!  What do you know or care about the people? how many of you have walked by day and night in the wilderness and felt your heart die away within you?  How many of you have watched the people hour by hour—­the broken people, the vicious people, the cripples, the white slaves of crueler days than the most barbarous countries in history have ever permitted to their children?  You understand your jobs, and you do yourselves well; that’s your motto and your epitaph.  There’s only one amongst you who’s a people’s man and that’s him.”

He pointed to Maraton and sat down.  Peter Dale removed his pipe from his mouth.

“It’s just as well, David Ross, for you to remember,” he said gruffly, “that you’re here on sufferance.  Seems to me there’s a bit of the dog in the manger about your whining.  I don’t know as it matters to any one particularly what your opinion is, but if you expect to be taken in along of us, you’ll have to alter your style a bit.  It’s all very well for the platform, but it don’t go down here.  Now, lads, let’s get on with business.  What I say is this.  If Mr. Maraton is going on the platform to-night to talk anarchy, why then we’d best stop it.  We want subscriptions, we want the sympathy of the British public in this strike, and there’s nothing would make them button up their pockets quicker than for Mr. Maraton there to go and talk about bringing ruin upon the Empire for the sake of the people who ain’t born yet.  That’s what I call thinking in the clouds.  There’s nowt of good in it for us,” he added, with a momentary and vigorous return into his own vernacular.  “Get it out of thy head, lad, or pack thy bag and get thee back to America.”  There was a brief silence.  Most of those present had drawn a little sigh of relief.  It was obvious that they were entirely in agreement with Dale.  Only Ross was leaning across the table, his eyes blinking, drumming upon the tablecloth with the palm of his hand.

“That’s right,” he muttered, “that’s right.  Send him away, the only one who sees the truth.  Send him away.  It’s dangerous; you might lose your jobs!”

Then Maraton spoke quietly from his place.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I gather one thing, at least, from our brief conference.  You are not extremists.  I will bear that in mind.  But as to what I may or may not say to-night, I make no promises.”

“If you’re not going to support the strike,” Peter Dale declared sturdily, “then thou shalt never set foot upon the platform.  We’ve had our fears that this might be the result of your spending the week-end with Mr. Foley.  There’s six of us here, all accredited representatives of great industrial centres, and he’s never thought fit to ask one of us to set foot under his roof.  Never mind that.  We, perhaps,” he added, with a slow glance at Maraton, “haven’t