But Richard Mutimer was on his feet again, and this time without regard to effect; there was a word in him strongly demanding utterance. It was to the speech of the unfortunate prophet that he desired to reply. He began with sorrowful admissions. No one speaking honestly could deny that--that the working class had its faults; they came out plainly enough now and then. Drink, for instance (Mr. Cullen gave a resounding ‘Hear, hear!’ and a stamp on the boards). What sort of a spectacle would be exhibited by the public-houses in Hoxton and Islington at closing time to-night? [‘True!’ from Mr. Cowes, who also stamped on the boards.) Yes, but--Richard used the device of aposiopesis; Daniel Dabbs took it for a humorous effect and began a roar, which was summarily interdicted. ‘But,’ pursued Richard with emphasis, ‘what is the meaning of these vices? What do they come of? Who’s to blame for them? Not the working class--never tell me! What drives a man to drink in his spare hours? What about the poisonous air of garrets and cellars? What about excessive toil and inability to procure healthy recreation? What about defects of education, due to poverty? What about diseased bodies inherited from over-slaved parents?’ Messrs. Cowes and Cullen had accompanied these queries with a climax of vociferous approval; when Richard paused, they led the tumult of hands and heels. ‘Look at that poor man who spoke to us!’ cried Mutimer. ‘He’s gone, so I shan’t hurt him by speaking plainly. He spoke well, mind you, and he spoke from his heart; but what sort of a life has his been, do you think? A wretched cripple, a miserable weakling no doubt from the day of his birth, cursed in having ever seen the daylight, and, such as he is, called upon to fight for his bread. Much of it he gets! Who would blame that man if he drank himself into unconsciousness every time he picked up a sixpence?’ Cowes and Cullen bellowed their delight. ‘Well, he doesn’t do it; so much you can be sure of. In some vile hole here in this great city of ours he drags on a life worse--aye, a thousand times worse!--than that of the horses in the West-end mews. Don’t clap your hands so much, fellow-workers. Just think about it on your way home; talk about it to your wives and your children. It’s the sight of objects like that that makes my blood boil, and that’s set me in earnest at this work of ours. I feel for that man and all like him as if they were my brothers. And I take you all to witness, all you present and all you repeat my words to, that I’ll work on as long as I have life in me, that I’ll use every opportunity that’s given me to uphold the cause of the poor and down-trodden against the rich and selfish and luxurious, that if I live another fifty years I shall still be of the people and with the people, that no man shall ever have it in his power to say that Richard Mutimer misused his chances and was only a new burden to them whose load he might have lightened!’