her
a good sort; one a liar, and one an honest man; one has brains, and the
other hasn't. Now, I've lived where, as they say, one man is as good
as another. But he isn't, there or here. A weak man can't run with a
strong. We have heard to-night a lot of talk for something and against
something. It is over. Are you sure you have got what was meant clear in
your mind? [Laughter, and 'Blowed if we'ave!'] Very well; do not worry
about that. We have been playing a game of 'Allow me to speak, me noble
lord!' And who is going to help you to get the most out of your country
and your life isn't easy to know. But we can get hold of a few clear
ideas, and measure things against them. I know and have talked with a
good many of you here ['That's so! That's so!'], and you know my ideas
pretty well--that they are honest at least, and that I have seen the
countries where freedom is 'on the job,' as they say. Now, don't put
your faith in men and in a party that cry, 'We will make all things
new,' to the tune of, 'We are a band of brothers.' Trust in one that
says, 'You cannot undo the centuries. Take off the roof, remove a wall,
let in the air, throw out a wing, but leave the old foundations.' And
that is the real difference between the other party and mine; and these
political games of ours come to that chiefly."

Presently he called for the hands of the meeting. They were given for
Mr. Babbs.

Suddenly a man's strong, arid voice came from the crowd:

"'Allow me to speak, me noble lord!' [Great laughter. Then a pause.]
Where's my old chum, Jock Lawson?"

The audience stilled. Gaston's face went grave. He replied, in a firm,
clear voice.

"In Heaven, my man. You'll never see him more." There was silence for a
moment, a murmur, then a faint burst of applause. Presently John Cawley,
the landlord of "The Whisk o' Barley," made towards Gaston. Gaston
greeted him, and inquired after his wife. He was told that she was very
ill, and had sent her husband to beg Gaston to come. Gaston had dreaded
this hour, though he knew it would come one day. A woman on a death-bed
has a right to ask for and get the truth. He had forborne telling her of
her son; and she, whenever she had seen him, had contented herself with
asking general questions, dreading in her heart that Jock had died a
dreadful or shameful death, or else this gentleman would, voluntarily,
say more. But, herself on her way out of the world, as she feared,
wished the truth, whatever