Golden-tongued legislators whose eloquence had swayed the Marconi Inquiry
Committee, or at any rate the greater part of it, expended their arts of
oratory in vain on this stubborn unyielding man. Without a band he would
not go; and they had no band.
A quarter past ten, half-past. A constant stream of telegraph boys
poured in through the prison gates.
"Yamley's factory hands just voted you can guess how," ran a despairing
message, and the others were all of the same tenour. Nemesis was going
the way of Reading.
"Have you any band instruments of an easy nature to play?" demanded the
Chief Organiser of the Prison Governor; "drums, cymbals, those sort of
things?"
"The warders have a private band of their own," said the Governor, "but
of course I couldn't allow the men themselves--"
"Lend us the instruments," said the Chief Organiser.
One of the earnest helpful friends was a skilled performer on the cornet,
the Cabinet Ministers were able to clash cymbals more or less in tune,
and the Chief Organiser has some knowledge of the drum.
"What tune would you prefer?" he asked Platterbaff.
"The popular song of the moment," replied the Agitator after a moment's
reflection.
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