Erb allowed his rival to make conversation whilst he himself considered the importance of these moments that were passing. He looked hard at a picture on the walls of the landing, a picture representing a cheerful Swiss valley and advertising Somebody’s Ginger Beer; the villagers held goblets containing (presumably) this beverage, and toasted the snow-topped mountains at the back. He forced himself to recognise that his chances were small; unless he had made a particularly good impression by his speech he had no chance at all; he would have to commence to-morrow morning a round of calls on master carmen and on contracting firms with the obsequious inquiry, “You don’t ’appen to want a hand, I s’pose?” and receiving the negative reply. He had obtained a clean character from the Railway Company, and the Chief had wished him good-luck, but the information that he was a stirabout would fly round in advance of him, and all the best places would be on the defensive. It might come to driving a cheap coal van, otherwise known as working in the slate business. There was an alternative even less agreeable to think of. He knew one or two men who had just missed being leaders of labour, who sometimes opened debates at Clubs, and were paid fairly liberal expenses, who were sometimes approached by the capitalists to stump through London in an endeavour to lash working men into a state of indignation in regard to Foreign Competition, Sugar Bounties, or the tyranny of Trades Unions, or some other subject for which the capitalists had affection: these men at times coalesced and, urged by a common jealousy, denounced some prominent men of their own party, and found their names mentioned in the opposition journals, the reporters of which bribed them in order to obtain exclusive information of semi-public meetings. Erb told the Swiss valley that it would be long ere he came down to that. “You take a spade,” exclaimed his companion, “an ornery spade will do, and you dig it in the garden like so, and what do you find? Why you find—” Young Louisa would be disappointed too. Louisa had been less successful since the servants’ dance at Eaton Square in cloaking her admiration for her brother, and the last young man had been dismissed with ignominy because he showed hesitation in sacrificing his own views on political subjects and accepting those held by Erb. If he had not already passed from the memory of Lady Frances, she might perhaps inquire of Alice the result of the meeting, and, hearing it, would smile agreeably and push him away from her thoughts. To be shown through Bermondsey by an official in the labour world would be one thing; to be conducted by a grimy-faced carman was another. And there was Rosalind—Rosalind—what was her other name? “Now, in regard to meenure,” said Spanswick dogmatically, “the long and short of the matter is simply this.”