“I’m going to spare one minute with this chap,” said Erb, turning suddenly. “Bring him forward! Stand back from him then, if he’s too shy for that, and let’s see who we’re dealing with. Oh, it’s you, is it?” “Yus,” admitted the owner of the voice resentfully, “it is me.” “You don’t look ’appy,” said Erb. “I’ve been listening to you,” explained the man. “Take your ’ands out of your pockets and let’s ’ave a look at them.” The man turned to go, but the circle declined to permit this. “Take a sight at his little hansy-pansy.” Order complied with. “What d’you make of ’em?” “Soft,” retorted the expert. “I knew he was a loafer,” said Erb. “Let him go now and prop up his favourite pubs; I want to talk to genuine working men, not to bits of touch-wood. My first question is,” here he referred to the notes on the back of an envelope which he held in his hand, “my first question is, what is it we working men most keenly desire at the present moment?” “Tankard of bitter,” said someone. “Ah!” Herbert Barnes whirled round, and pointed a forefinger at the humorist and his friends. “_There’s_ a man who speaks the truth. _There’s_ a man what says jest the thing he really thinks. _There’s_ a man who utters that which is uppermost in his mind. _There’s_ a man,” he leaned forward as though about to give one last applauding compliment, “whose ’ighest ambition, whose most elevated thought, whose one supreme anxiety is for a tankard of bitter. Friends,” with a whirl of both arms, “we talk about the tyranny and what not of capital; the enmity of the upper circles, but _there_, jest over _there_, is the class of man that is our greatest opponent, the man from whom we have most to fear. A ten-kard of bit-ter!” he repeated deliberately. “Well, but,” said the humorist in an injured tone, “I suppose a chep can open his mouth?” “You can open your mouth, and when you do, apparently, it’s generally for the purpose of em’tying down it a—” He hesitated. The crowd, glad to find personalities introduced, gave the words in a muffled chorus. “Makin’ a bloomin’ song of it,” grumbled the humorist, going off. “Some people can’t take a joke.” “’Aving finished with our friend,” said Herbert Barnes, loudly, “we will now resume our attention to our original argument. What is it that the working man—”