The ‘Irish Dairy Company’ flourished.  Rodman rubbed his hands with a sinister satisfaction when he inscribed among the shareholders the name of Richard Mutimer, who invested all the money he had collected from the East-Enders, and three hundred pounds of his own—­not five hundred, as he had at first thought of doing.  Mutimer had the consent of his committee, whom he persuaded without much difficulty—­the money was not theirs—­that by this means he would increase his capital beyond all expectation.  He told Adela what he had done.

’There’s not the least risk.  They’ve got the names of several lords!  And it isn’t a mere commercial undertaking:  the first object is to benefit the Irish; so that there can be nothing against my principles in it.  They promise a dividend of thirty per cent.  What a glorious day it will be when I tell the people what I have made of their money!  Now confess that it isn’t everyone could have hit on this idea.’

Of course he made no public announcement of his speculation:  that would have been to spoil the surprise.  But he could not refrain from talking a good deal about the Company to his friends.  He explained with zeal the merit of the scheme; it was dealing directly with the producers, the poor small-farmers who could never get fair treatment.  He saw a great deal of Mr. Hilary, who was vastly interested in his East-End work.  A severe winter had begun.  Threepenny bits came in now but slowly, and Mutimer exerted himself earnestly to relieve the growing want in what he called his ‘parishes.’  He began in truth to do some really good work, moving heaven and earth to find employment for those long out of it, and even bestowing money of his own.  At night he would return to Holloway worn out, and distress Adela with descriptions of the misery he had witnessed.

‘I’m not sorry for it,’ he once exclaimed.  ’I cannot be sorry.  Let things get worse and worse the mending’ll be all the nearer.  Why don’t they march in a body to the West End?  I don’t mean march in a violent sense, though that’ll have to come, I expect.  But why don’t they make a huge procession and go about the streets in an orderly way—­just to let it be seen what their numbers are—­just to give the West End a hint?  I’ll propose that one of these days.  It’ll be a risky business, but we can’t think of that when thousands are half starving.  I could lead them, I feel sure I could!  It wants someone with authority over them, and I think I’ve got that.  There’s no telling what I may do yet.  I say, Adela, bow would it sound—­ “Richard Mutimer, First President of the English Republic"?’