Part 21

“That, of course,” said the Government Prosecutor, springing to his feet, “is equivalent to an acquittal?”

“I hardly think so,” said the Judge, coldly; “I feel obliged to sentence the prisoner to a week’s imprisonment.”

“And may the Lord have mercy on the poll,” a Junior Counsel exclaimed irreverently.

It was a scandalous sentence, but then the Judge was not on the Ministerial side in politics.

The verdict and sentence were made known to the public at twenty minutes past five in the afternoon; at half-past five a dense crowd was massed outside the Prime Minister’s residence lustily singing, to the air of “Trelawney”:

“And should our Hero rot in gaol, For e’en a single day, There’s Fifteen Hundred Voting Men Will vote the other way.”

“Fifteen hundred,” said the Prime Minister, with a shudder; “it’s too horrible to think of. Our majority last time was only a thousand and seven.”

“The poll opens at eight to-morrow morning,” said the Chief Organiser; “we must have him out by 7 a.m.”

“Seven-thirty,” amended the Prime Minister; “we must avoid any appearance of precipitancy.”

“Not later than seven-thirty, then,” said the Chief Organiser; “I have promised the agent down there that he shall be able to display posters announcing ‘Platterbaff is Out,’ before the poll opens. He said it was our only chance of getting a telegram ‘Radprop is In’ to-night.”

At half-past seven the next morning the Prime Minister and the Chief Organiser sat at breakfast, making a perfunctory meal, and awaiting the return of the Home Secretary, who had gone in person to superintend the releasing of Platterbaff. Despite the earliness of the hour a small crowd had gathered in the street outside, and the horrible menacing Trelawney refrain of the “Fifteen Hundred Voting Men” came in a steady, monotonous chant.

“They will cheer presently when they hear the news,” said the Prime Minister hopefully; “hark! They are booing some one now! That must be McKenna.”

The Home Secretary entered the room a moment later, disaster written on his face.

“He won’t go!” he exclaimed.

“Won’t go? Won’t leave gaol?”

“He won’t go unless he has a brass band. He says he never has left prison without a brass band to play him out, and he’s not going to go without one now.”

“But surely that sort of thing is provided by his supporters and admirers?” said the Prime Minister; “we can hardly be supposed to supply a released prisoner with a brass band. How on earth could we defend it on the Estimates?”

“His supporters say it is up to us to provide the music,” said the Home Secretary; “they say we put him in prison, and it’s our affair to see that he leaves it in a respectable manner. Anyway, he won’t go unless he has a band.”

The telephone squealed shrilly; it was a trunk call from Nemesis.

“Poll opens in five minutes. Is Platterbaff out yet? In Heaven’s name, why—”

The Chief Organiser rang off.

“This is not a moment for standing on dignity,” he observed bluntly; “musicians must be supplied at once. Platterbaff must have his band.”

“Where are you going to find the musicians?” asked the Home Secretary wearily; “we can’t employ a military band, in fact, I don’t think he’d have one if we offered it, and there ain’t any others. There’s a musicians’ strike on, I suppose you know.”

“Can’t you get a strike permit?” asked the Organiser.

“I’ll try,” said the Home Secretary, and went to the telephone.

Eight o’clock struck. The crowd outside chanted with an increasing volume of sound:

“Will vote the other way.”

A telegram was brought in. It was from the central committee rooms at Nemesis. “Losing twenty votes per minute,” was its brief message.