that happened afterwards seemed, in a way, commonplace. When
at last they succeeded in leaving the platform, they had to wait for a
long time in an anteroom while some portion of the immense crowd
dispersed. Peter Dale, as soon as he had lit his pipe, came up to
Maraton and patted him on the shoulder.

"There's no doubt about thy gift, lad," he said condescendingly. "A man
who can talk as you do has no need to look elsewhere for a living."

"Gave it to 'em straight," Mr. Weavel assented, "and what I propose is
a meeting at Sheffield--say this day month--and an appeal to the
ironfounders. It's all very well, Borden," he went on, a little
angrily, "but my people are looking for something from me, in return for
their cash. What with these strikes here and strikes there, and a bit
out of it for everybody, why, it's time Sheffield spoke."

"There's a question I should like to ask," Graveling intervened,
plunging into the discussion, "and that is, why are you so cocksure, Mr.
Maraton, of Government support in favour of the men? You said in your
speech to-night, so far as I remember, that if the masters wouldn't give
in without, Government must force them to see the rights of the matter.
And not only that, but Government should compel them to recognise the
Union and to deal with it. Now you've only been in this country a few
days, and it seemed to me you were talking on a pretty tall order."

"Not at all," Maraton replied. "I have a scheme of my own, scarcely
developed as yet, a scheme which I wasn't sure, when I came here, that I
should ever make use of, which justified me in saying what I did."

They looked at him jealously.

"Is it an arrangement with Mr. Foley that you're speaking of?" Peter
Dale enquired.

"Perhaps so," Maraton assented.

There was a dead silence. Maraton was leaning slightly against a
table. Julia was talking to the wife of one of the delegates, a little
way off. The others were all spread around, smoking and helping
themselves to drinks which had just been brought in. Graveling's face
was dark and angry.

"Are we to gather," he demanded, "that there's some sort of an
understanding between you and Mr. Foley?"

"If there is," Maraton asked easily, "to whom am I responsible?"

There was a silence, brief but intense. Julia had turned
her head; the others, too, were listening. Peter Dale was blowing
tobacco smoke from his mouth, Borden was breathing heavily. Graveling's
small eyes were bright wi