All the week there had dwelt in Billy’s mind that, to him, new and terrible story of the murdered King of the Jews. On Sunday--a bleak, dull day, when the charred trees in the Park stood out grim and black against the heavy sky, he hopped across to the Cranks’ Corner, hoping to hear more; but this time there were other voices and other subjects for the crowd. He saw two faces above the clustering people. One speaker was a man whom he had heard before, but failed to understand; the other was Father Francis. The man unknown to the boy by name was Raggett, the rabid social democrat. Even without the torrent of his venomous invective, attention would have been arrested by his appearance. Stiff black hair stood up on his oddly-shaped head; and the face, behind a bristly grey moustache, reminded Billy of a savage half-Persian cat that haunted Hill Street mews. The man was fluent, and his high-pitched voice almost rose into a scream as he declaimed his speech to a band of Leaguers mixed with a miscellaneous mob. “Yes, that’s what the parsons tell you!” he yelled, derisively. “You’ve to bless the squire and his relations, and always keep your proper stations. That’s Christianity in the country, and it’s pretty much the same up here in London. They’ll tell you a lot about the many mansions up in heaven. Well, we don’t know about that. We haven’t seen ’em; but we know right enough about the mansions here below. The only mansions they provide for you and me are the workhouse, the prison, or the asylum. The rich men keep the others for themselves. There are some pretty good mansions over yonder beyond the Marble Arch, and there are plenty more, and fine ones too, along Park Lane. We don’t get invitations to dinner, do we? But there is plenty of food there, and good wine, and spirits and beer for their cursed stuck-up servants; and rich furniture, and soft beds to sleep on, too; and jewels and precious things of all sorts. Oh! they do themselves pretty well, depend on it. But why don’t they share out a bit? Not they! Hold fast!--that’s their motto. And it is the same with the land. Don’t believe ’em when they say there isn’t room in England. There is room, but they won’t let you have it. They want the land for their parks and gardens; they want the woods for their pheasants and their sport. The working-man may slave in their fields all day, and sleep in a hovel at night; and if he gets tired of it and comes to London, it’s the slum or the doss-house that’s his portion. That’s good enough for him. Oh yes, Holdfast is a good dog; but I’ll tell you something--Grab’s a good dog too!”