“I expect you could get there by tram,” said Mike.
Psmith suppressed a slight shudder.
“I fear, Comrade Jackson,” he said, “that the old noblesse oblige traditions of the Psmiths would not allow me to do that. No. We will stroll gently, after a light lunch, to Trafalgar Square, and hail a taxi.”
“Beastly expensive.”
“But with what an object! Can any expenditure be called excessive which enables us to hear Comrade Waller being mordant and ironical at the other end?”
“It’s a rum business,” said Mike. “I hope the dickens he won’t mix us up in it. We should look frightful fools.”
“I may possibly say a few words,” said Psmith carelessly, “if the spirit moves me. Who am I that I should deny people a simple pleasure?”
Mike looked alarmed.
“Look here,” he said, “I say, if you are going to play the goat, for goodness’ sake don’t go lugging me into it. I’ve got heaps of troubles without that.”
Psmith waved the objection aside.
“You,” he said, “will be one of the large, and, I hope, interested audience. Nothing more. But it is quite possible that the spirit may not move me. I may not feel inspired to speak. I am not one of those who love speaking for speaking’s sake. If I have no message for the many-headed, I shall remain silent.”
“Then I hope the dickens you won’t have,” said Mike. Of all things he hated most being conspicuous before a crowd—except at cricket, which was a different thing—and he had an uneasy feeling that Psmith would rather like it than otherwise.
“We shall see,” said Psmith absently. “Of course, if in the vein, I might do something big in the way of oratory. I am a plain, blunt man, but I feel convinced that, given the opportunity, I should haul up my slacks to some effect. But—well, we shall see. We shall see.”
And with this ghastly state of doubt Mike had to be content.
It was with feelings of apprehension that he accompanied Psmith from the flat to Trafalgar Square in search of a cab which should convey them to Clapham Common.
They were to meet Mr. Waller at the edge of the Common nearest the old town of Clapham. On the journey down Psmith was inclined to be debonnaire. Mike, on the other hand, was silent and apprehensive. He knew enough of Psmith to know that, if half an opportunity were offered him, he would extract entertainment from this affair after his own fashion; and then the odds were that he himself would be dragged into it. Perhaps—his scalp bristled at the mere idea—he would even be let in for a speech.
This grisly thought had hardly come into his head, when Psmith spoke.
“I’m not half sure,” he said thoughtfully, “I shan’t call on you for a speech, Comrade Jackson.”
“Look here, Psmith—” began Mike agitatedly.
“I don’t know. I think your solid, incisive style would rather go down with the masses. However, we shall see, we shall see.”
Mike reached the Common in a state of nervous collapse.
Mr. Waller was waiting for them by the railings near the pond. The apostle of the Revolution was clad soberly in black, except for a tie of vivid crimson. His eyes shone with the light of enthusiasm, vastly different from the mild glow of amiability which they exhibited for six days in every week. The man was transformed.
“Here you are,” he said. “Here you are. Excellent. You are in good time. Comrades Wotherspoon and Prebble have already begun to speak. I shall commence now that you have come. This is the way. Over by these trees.”
They made their way towards a small clump of trees, near which a fair-sized crowd had already begun to collect. Evidently listening to the speakers was one of Clapham’s fashionable Sunday amusements. Mr. Waller talked and gesticulated incessantly as he walked. Psmith’s demeanour was perhaps a shade patronizing, but he displayed interest. Mike proceeded to the meeting with the air of an about-to-be-washed dog. He was loathing the whole business with a heartiness worthy of a better cause. Somehow, he felt he was going to be made to look a fool before the afternoon was over. But he registered a vow that nothing should drag him on to the small platform which had been erected for the benefit of the speaker.
As they drew nearer, the voices of Comrades Wotherspoon and Prebble became more audible. They had been audible all the time, very much so, but now they grew in volume. Comrade Wotherspoon was a tall, thin man with side-whiskers and a high voice. He scattered his aitches as a fountain its sprays in a strong wind. He was very earnest. Comrade Prebble was earnest, too. Perhaps even more so than Comrade Wotherspoon. He was handicapped to some extent, however, by not having a palate. This gave to his profoundest thoughts a certain weirdness, as if they had been uttered in an unknown tongue. The crowd was thickest round his platform. The grownup section plainly regarded him as a comedian, pure and simple, and roared with happy laughter when he urged them to march upon Park Lane and loot the same without mercy or scruple. The children were more doubtful. Several had broken down, and been led away in tears.
When Mr. Waller got up to speak on platform number three, his audience consisted at first only of Psmith, Mike, and a fox terrier. Gradually however, he attracted others. After wavering for a while, the crowd finally decided that he was worth hearing. He had a method of his own. Lacking the natural gifts which marked Comrade Prebble out as an entertainer, he made up for this by his activity. Where his colleagues stood comparatively still, Mr. Waller behaved with the vivacity generally supposed to belong only to peas on shovels and cats on hot bricks. He crouched to denounce the House of Lords. He bounded from side to side while dissecting the methods of the plutocrats. During an impassioned onslaught on the monarchical system he stood on one
