After Champion had sat down--nominally his speech was a vote of confidence in my unworthy self--Robin rose to second the motion. I did not envy him his task. It is an ungrateful business at the best, firing off squibs directly after a shower of meteors. Even a second shower of meteors would be rather a failure under the circumstances. Robin realised this. He put something into his pocket and told his audience a couple of stories--dry, pawky, Scottish yarns--which he admitted were not new, not true, and not particularly relevant. The first was a scurrilous anecdote concerning a man from Paisley,--which illustrious township, by the way, appears to be the target of practically all Scottish humour,--and the other treated of a Highland minister who was delivering to a long-suffering congregation a discourse upon the Minor Prophets. Robin told us how the preacher worked through Obadiah, Ezekiel, Nahum, Malachi, "and many others whose names are doubtless equally familiar to you, gentlemen," he added amid chuckles, "placing them in a kind of ecclesiastical order of merit as he proceeded; and finally he came to Habakkuk. "'What place, my friends, what place will we assign to Habakkuk?' he roared. "That, gentlemen," said Robin, "proved to be the last straw. A man rose up under the gallery. "'Ye can pit him doon here in my seat,' he roared. 'I'm awa' hame!' "Gentlemen," added Robin, as the shout of laughter subsided, "I fear that one of you will be for offering _his_ seat to Habakkuk if I go on any longer, so I will just second the motion and sit down." After that I rose to my weary feet and offered my contribution. I have no intention of giving a _precis_ of my speech here. It was exactly the same as all the speeches ever delivered on such occasions. Thucydides could have written it down word for word without ever having heard me deliver it. It was not in the least a good speech, but it was the sort of speech they expected, and, better still, it was the sort of speech they wanted. Everybody was too excited to be critical, and I sat down, perspiring and thankful, amid enthusiasm. Then came the most trying ordeal of all--questions. I am no hand at repartee; but practice had sharpened my faculties in this direction, and I had, moreover, become fairly conversant with the type of query to which the seeker after knowledge on these occasions usually confines himself. The great secret is to bear in mind the fact that what people want in one's reply is not accurate information--unless, of course, you are standing for a Scottish constituency, and then Heaven help you!--but something smart. If you can answer the question, do so; but in any case answer it in such a way as to make the questioner feel small. Then you will have your audience with you.