Marese Baskette issued his pronunciamento, and at once opened the campaign. Everybody read it, from the clubhouse to the grimy bar of the lowest public-house. The clubhouse smiled, and said, “Clever;” the pothouse cheered, and cried, “He’s our man.” He was their man. Even yet, at this distance of time, there lingered in the minds of the populace a distinct recollection of the great saturnalia which had been held in the days of old Sternhold Baskette, when their candidate was born.
History magnifies itself as time rolls on; the memory of that brief hour of unlimited riot had grown till it remained the one green spot in the life of the Stirmingham populace. This was the very man—this was the very infant whose advent, almost a generation ago, had been celebrated with rejoicings such as no king or queen in these degenerate days ever offered to the people.
When old Sternhold Baskette in the joy of his heart poured out wine in gallons, spirits in casks, and beer in rivers, he baptised his son Marese, the Child of the People. And it bore fruit at this great distance of time.
John Marese Baskette was, as we know, a clever man; he had a still more subtle man at his elbow. Between them they composed his address and his first oration. Be sure they did not forget the memory so dear to the people. Not one single thing was omitted which could tend to identify Marese Baskette with the populace. The combination of capital against them, the hard winter and price of provisions, all were skilfully turned to advantage; and, above all, the beer. When the publicans had read his address they one and all said, “He’s our man.” Licensed victuallers, beer-house keepers, “off the premises” men, gin-palace, eating-house, restaurant, hotel—all joined hands and marched in chorus, praising the man who promised to turn on the beer.
For he’s a jolly good fellow,
And so say all of us!
But Marese Baskette did not wholly rely upon the poorer classes: he gained the goodwill, or at least the neutrality, of two-thirds of the middle classes, by openly declaring that when he came into his property, as he grandly designated half the city, he should devote one-third of it to the relief of local taxation, to form a kind of common fund for sewers, gas, water, poor-rates, paving, etc. He went further—this he did not promulgate openly, but he caused it to be spread industriously abroad from house to house—and said that, when he inherited his rights, the house rents should be reduced from their present exorbitant figure.
Now it was notorious that the companies only waited to see whether they could tide over the year of expiration of their leases before they raised the rents. The arrow therefore went home. Baskette had hit the nail upon the head. The other party began to threaten petitions for bribery—contending that these promises were nothing short of it.
The Daily Post published a leader on “Glaring Corruption and Wholesale Venality.” Baskette and Theodore smiled. What would be the use of unseating him if, as they clearly saw, the opposite party was gone to utter destruction?
Baskette met with a triumphant reception at his first meeting. Whenever he appeared in the streets he was cheered to the echo.
The building societies and the Corporation were desperately alarmed. Though so bitterly opposed to each other at ordinary times, a common fear gave them unity. They held a secret meeting—at least they thought it was secret, but such things are impossible in our time. The pen is everywhere—its sharp point penetrates through the thickest wall. They united, formed themselves into an association, voted funds—secret also—hired speakers and hired roughs.
It all leaked out. The Stirmingham Daily News—Baskette’s paper—came out with a report and a leader, and held up the poor heir to the commiseration of the people. See what a combination against him!—anything to keep him out of his rights. Hired speakers to talk him down—hired roughs to knock him on the head. Vested interests arrayed against him—poor heir! How deeply to be pitied! How greatly to be sympathised with! The paper used stronger language than this, and hinted at “gangs of foul conspirators,” but that was not gentlemanly.
The exposure was worth a thousand votes to Baskette. But though exposed, the Corporation and the companies never ceased their efforts. Between them they comprised almost all of the rich employers of labour. They had one terrible engine—a fearful instrument of oppression and torture—invented in our modern days, in order that we may not get free and “become as gods.” They put on the screw.
There is not a working man in England, from the hedger and ditcher, and the wretch who breaks the flints by the roadside, up to the best paid clerk or manager of a bank—not one single man who receives wages from another—who does not know the meaning of that word.
Let no one imagine that the “screw” is confined in its operation to the needy artisan or the labourer. It extends into all ranks of society, poisons every family circle, tortures every tenant and householder—all who in any way depend for comfort, luxury, or peace upon another person. There is but one rank who are free—the few who, whether for wages or as tenants, never have to look to others.
Society is divided into two sections—the first, infinitely numerous, and the second, infinitely few—i.e., the Screwed-down, and the Screwdrivers. Now, the Corporation and the companies were the screwdrivers, and they twisted the horrible engine up tight.
Perhaps they gave it one turn too many; at all events the mob set up a yell. They formed processions and marched about the streets with bundles of screws, strung like bunches of keys, at the end of poles. Squibs flew in all directions—too personal to be
