and of cyclists into the town
that Sunday morning, away back at the beginning of the summer, the man
who had come afterwards with the van, and who had been struck down by a
stone while attempting to speak from the platform of the van, the man
who had been nearly killed by the upholders of the capitalist system.
It was the same man! The Socialist had been clean-shaven--this man
wore beard and moustache--but Barrington was certain he was the same.

When the man had concluded his speech he got down and stood in the
shade behind the platform, while someone else addressed the meeting,
and Barrington went round to where he was standing, intending to speak
to him.

All around them, pandemonium reigned supreme. They were in the
vicinity of the Slave Market, near the Fountain, on the Grand Parade,
where several roads met; there was a meeting going on at every corner,
and a number of others in different, parts of the roadway and on the
pavement of the Parade. Some of these meetings were being carried on by
two or three men, who spoke in turn from small, portable platforms they
carried with them, and placed wherever they thought there was a chance
of getting an audience.

Every now and then some of these poor wretches--they were all paid
speakers--were surrounded and savagely mauled and beaten by a hostile
crowd. If they were Tariff Reformers the Liberals mobbed them, and
vice versa. Lines of rowdies swaggered to and fro, arm in arm,
singing, 'Vote, Vote, Vote, for good ole Closeland' or 'good ole
Sweater', according as they were green or blue and yellow. Gangs of
hooligans paraded up and down, armed with sticks, singing, howling,
cursing and looking for someone to hit. Others stood in groups on the
pavement with their hands thrust in their pockets, or leaned against
walls or the shutters of the shops with expressions of ecstatic
imbecility on their faces, chanting the mournful dirge to the tune of
the church chimes,

'Good--ole--Sweat--er
Good--ole--Sweat--er
Good--ole--Sweat--er
Good--ole--Sweat--er.'

Other groups--to the same tune--sang 'Good--ole--Close--land'; and
every now and again they used to leave off singing and begin to beat
each other. Fights used to take place, often between workmen, about
the respective merits of Adam Sweater and Sir Graball D'Encloseland.

The walls were covered with huge Liberal and Tory posters, which showed
in every line the contempt of those who