Anyway, he won't go unless he
has a band."
The telephone squealed shrilly; it was a trunk call from Nemesis.
"Poll opens in five minutes. Is Platterbaff out yet? In Heaven's name,
why--"
The Chief Organiser rang off.
"This is not a moment for standing on dignity," he observed bluntly;
"musicians must be supplied at once. Platterbaff must have his band."
"Where are you going to find the musicians?" asked the Home Secretary
wearily; "we can't employ a military band, in fact, I don't think he'd
have one if we offered it, and there ain't any others. There's a
musicians' strike on, I suppose you know."
"Can't you get a strike permit?" asked the Organiser.
"I'll try," said the Home Secretary, and went to the telephone.
Eight o'clock struck. The crowd outside chanted with an increasing
volume of sound:
"Will vote the other way."
A telegram was brought in. It was from the central committee rooms at
Nemesis. "Losing twenty votes per minute," was its brief message.
Ten o'clock struck. The Prime Minister, the Home Secretary, the Chief
Organiser, and several earnest helpful friends were gathered in the inner
gateway of the prison, talking volubly to Demosthenes Platterbaff, who
stood with folded arms and squarely planted feet, silent in their midst.
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