“At the next meeting,” said a Cannon Street man, who had never heard his own voice raised in public speech before, and seemed himself astonished by the novelty, “at the next meeting you’ll damn well do nothing of the kind.” The room roared its approval. “We don’t want a new secretary, because we ain’t a going to get rid of the old one. The position isn’t vacant. I move, Mr. Chairman, or second, or whatever you call it, that that letter what you’ve got in your hand be given back to our friend Erb, and that he be asked or invited or requested—I don’t know how you put these things—to tear it up and forget all about it; I will now conclude my few remarks by asking you to join me in a well-known song.” “F—or _he’s_ a jolly good faillow, For he’s—” The room sang the refrain with enthusiasm; the man with the broken head came, bandaged, and joined in. Spanswick, recognising that the game for the present was over, beat time. “That’s all right, then,” said Payne, when the hurrahing stopped. “Now, let’s get on to the next business. ‘Proposed starting of a new paper to be called “The Carman.”’” CHAPTER XII THE incident revealed to Erb the fact that the men’s support and confidence had something of a tidal nature. He had watched, sometimes with amusement, always with interest, the state of other leaders—from high water, when they could swim luxuriously, to low water, when they were left stranded ludicrously on the beach; it had not before occurred to him that he himself might encounter a similar experience; he determined now to make his position as secure as possible. In this effort he relied a good deal on the new journal he was preparing, the first number of which was to bear on the front page the words, “Edited by Herbert C. Barnes.” Lady Frances had written on the subject of labour— “Oh horny-handed sons of toil, Who spin and weave and dig in mines.” Erb, summoned to Eaton Square to take charge of this (the risk of loss in the post being too great to endure), had ventured to point out to the poetess, with, of course, great respect, that it would have been more appropriate to introduce something about kindness to horses and the difficulties occasioned by the stress and turmoil of traffic; Lady Frances, listening with a slight frown on her young forehead, answered that she was much obliged, that she thought she saw her way to another poem to be called “Sturm and Drang,” but she felt it would be unwise to touch the first effort; good poetry was always dashed off on the impulse of the moment. “I didn’t know that,” remarked Erb, with deference. So poem Number One was to go in, please, exactly as she had written it, and on the day the paper came out would Erb oblige her very much by coming to dinner at Eaton Square. “Dinner?” echoed Erb amazedly. Coming to dinner at Eaton Square, and bringing with him one, or perhaps more, copies. “What about an evening suit, Lady Frances?”