7

When at last he heard footsteps coming he doubted whether he wanted anyone to come. He forgot what he had meant to say. He wanted time to think that out again.

What was he going to say? "This finishes politics for me. I know when I'm beaten?"

No good to begin like that.

The steps came nearer. A faint light flickered through the inspection wicket and flickered away again. It was like the flicker of an electric torch. His heart was now beating very fast. Someone rattled the door. A voice outside asked: "Anyone here?"

Very like Irwell's voice, but you couldn't be sure. Better keep still. Pretend to be asleep?

Then came another quite familiar voice. "Rud!"

Rud leapt to his feet: "Chiffan! Chiffan! Is that you?" Chiffan's voice, high–pitched and cheerful: "Here he is! Where the hell are those keys?"

And then instantly the light went on again…Somebody was saying something about a fuse.

A key turned in the lock, the door opened and Chiffan stood with a pallid, triumphant face, regarding his leader. "What is it? Is it still Thursday?"

Still Thursday, Rud! How long do you think you have been here?"

"Eternity."

"You can't have been in this place much more than three–quarters of an hour."

"I was knocked out. I've been insensible. I've been dreaming. What I want first of all is a drink of water. I've got a fever on me. Then a wash."

"What you want is a whisky and soda. Then someone ought to bandage you up."

"But tell me what has happened?"

"Here's Rogers. Rogers, here he is!"

"Are you hurt?" asked Rogers.

"Nothing. Tell me."

"It's gone like clockwork. What a scrap! A lovely scrap! And right in the heart of the West End. Nothing like it for years. Poor old Horry!"

"What's happened to him?"

"He got a kick in the groin. You should have heard him howl. What a voice he has for the Wilderness! But he's hurt—decidedly hurt…I'm sorry about that. I don't like things happening like that. There's a limit to things. I hope it was accidental. But the rest of the fight was fair and square. I suppose you didn't see one of my Whitechapel kids tackle that all–in man, you know, the Terrible Slew? Dodged his kick and caught his heel and over he went. Just before the platform upset. I thought he'd broken his neck. 'Subsequent proceedings interested him no more.'…

"Or maybe he thought he'd earned his pay. A lot of those roughs seemed to get heart failure when they saw what they had to deal with. They thought they were just there to beat up a meeting and get hold of you. There was some dirty work with razor–blades, but that was Horry's old lot. Not our chaps, I hope. None of my boys certainly. But—this scrap's going to be historical. In the heart of Tyburnia. The police were pretty late. They seemed a bit surprised to find us in charge and their old friend Horry doubled up and yelping like a puppy that's been run over.

"Where Horry got all those roughs of his I don't know. He must have a criminal connection somewhere. One or two the Inspector told me were certainly old lags. He got quite friendly with us. Didn't seem to fancy Horry…Half of them didn't know each other, often they were just slogging blind, but my boys knew each other down to the ground. Anyhow, it was the greatest scrap you ever!…It was a great scrap."

Rud was still sitting on the plank bed, but his leadership was reconstituting itself very rapidly in his mind. When he spoke again, he spoke as the Chief and everyone listened.

"Here we are," he said. "Except for my temporary obliteration, the whole thing's evidently gone like clockwork. Eh? As we planned it. We've put it over—thanks to Bodisham and Steenhold—and now the thing is to—what's the military phrase?—consolidate the position. What's the right time? My watch is smashed. We must get on to all the press resources available and explain quite clearly what it was all about. 'Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just, But he wins out who gets his tale in fust!' We must have photographers. I'll talk to every interviewer that reads and writes."

"But upstairs!" said Irwell. "We've found things. Pictures and things."

"Publish everything."

"But you know—he was a bit of a stinker!"

"Release his stink," said Rud.

Within half an hour Rud was in Bohun's coveted chair, heroically bandaged and heroically talking. The newspaper men stood or walked about. ("If we have chairs up here they'll park themselves," said Rud, taking an entirely new view of the seating question.) Sustained by whisky and soda and an injection of strychnine, he expounded himself lucidly, carefully, and over and over again. It was urgently necessary for the public to understand what had happened. For a long time the Party had been baffled and nonplussed by the increasingly eccentric behaviour of its leader. He had arrested what was essentially a great common–sense movement of the Anglo–American people—the common people—

"Eh? What was that?" said one of the reporters. "Anglo–American?"

Rud repeated his words very seriously. "Anglo–American common people."

They had tried to reason with Bohun; they had meant to have an entirely private discussion; but his Lordship had thought better of it. Or worse of it…

"You can take your cameras all over the Purple House now, and I think you will realise what we were up against. You'll find some queer things. It's yielding up its secrets. But see for yourselves…"

"It's a great story," said one of the news–hawks. "You don't know the half of it yet," said Chiffan.

"And now," said Rud, "the really significant news. The Popular Socialist Party will go ahead. It has rescued itself. It is free. It is rejuvenescent. And it is a natural and necessary Party. It has the vitality of reality. The main points. Listen! What does it stand for? Let me give you our main points exactly over again. How else could it have survived Bohun? No. I'm not a bit fagged. These bandages make talking a bit painful, but that's all. They'll be stiffer to–morrow. I told you how I got this slog on the jaw. Otherwise I should have carried on. But Rogers did that marvellously. Let me talk about the Party and its Future. That's what I want to talk about. The scrap won't make half as good a story unless you put it against its proper background. I'd better get it over now. Not a bit fatigued. Go on writing. I'll take on all you newspaper men, one down, another come up. It is the Party of the common man; It's common sense insisting on itself, through me…

"Don't think I am a leader. Don't think I'm setting up to be another Lord Horry. I'm no leader. I'm just the megaphone of common sense. Get that—the megaphone of common sense. But listen to common sense. What are we going to do next? I'll tell you."

And so forth and so on.