m
above ordinary politics. He had felt himself speaking not as their
Chairman but as a private individual--or, in other words, as a man--
uplifted into a higher plane, and he would now call upon their
respected candidate, Mr. Farrell, to address the meeting.

Mr. Farrell stepped forward. I must try to tell you what Mr. Farrell
looked like, because it belongs to the story. . . . You'll find that
it becomes pretty important.

He was of medium height and carried a belly. Later on, when I came
to know him, I heard him refer to it as his "figure" and say that
exercise was good for it. I don't know about that: but he certainly
was given exercise to reduce it, later on. . . . He could not have
been ashamed of it either, just yet: for it was clothed in front with
sealskin and festooned with two loops of gold chain.

Two or three locks of hair, cultivated to a great length and
plastered by means of pomade across his cranium, concealed a certain
poverty of undergrowth thereabouts; while a pair of whiskers, sandy
in colour and stiff in texture, and a clean-shaven upper lip and
chin, threw out a challenge that Mr. Peter Farrell could grow hair if
and where he chose. His eyes bulged like gooseberries. They were
colourless, and lustreless in comparison with the diamond pin in his
neckcloth. His frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers were of
superfine material and flashy cut. They fitted him like a skin in
all the wrong places. Get it into your heads--Here was a prosperous
reach-me-down person of the sort you will find on any political
platform, standing for Parliament or seconding a vote of thanks.

He was not in the least bumptious. He began very nervously with a
carefully prepared Shakespearean quotation--"'I am no orator as
Brutus is,'" in compliment to Jenkinson. Then he gave _me_ a lift.
He said that my presence there was a proof, if proof were needed, of
the solidarity--he would repeat the word--of the solidarity existing
in the Progressive ranks. He was sure--he might even say,
confident--that this graceful act on the part of the right honourable
baronet (as he chose to call me) would give the lie to certain
reports--hints, rather--emanating from certain quarters which called
themselves newspapers. He would not soil his mouth by giving them
their true name, which was Rags. "We are all solid here," announced
Mr. Farrell, and was answered with applause.

After this spirited opening he consulted a sheaf of no