Jerry Sant became observed. He had the haggard florid aspect, the red-lidded prominent eyes, the pendulous lip of a sorry sort of man. He stood up and began to speak, sometimes dragging a sandy rag of moustache or fingering shiny conical temples, but generally holding on by the lapels of a short-skirted broadcloth frock-coat, protruding black-nailed thumbs through the buttonholes in a manner acquired during a week in Paris. His style was geological, so to speak, consisting of various strata deposited at various periods. The surface stratum, representing the Kainozoic Time, consisted of the platitudinous bombast characteristic of the common or oratorical demagogue. Below that, corresponding to the Mesozoic Time, came the ridiculous obsequious slang of the bagman of commerce. Below that again, corresponding to the Paleozoic Time, appeared the gelded English which muscleless feckless unfit-for-handicraft little sciolists acquire in school-board spawning-beds. And these rested on stratum of the Azoic Time, to wit the native Pictish Presbyterian jargon of Mr. Sant’s sententious pettifogging spiteful self. These different strata occurred as irregularly as natural strata. They ran one into the other like veins in a fissure, causing displacements resembling those which technically are called Faults; and the tracing and stripping of the same is a task for the ingenious geophilologist.
“It’s a gospel-truth, comrades. I had used to fhat ye might call know the Pope a few years ago fhen he was just George Arthur Rose and not a pound-note in his purse. I was running the Social Standard oot o’ my own pocket, and many’s the bit o’ work I’ve let him have. He was trying his hand at journalism then, and gey glad to get it. I may take this opportunity of saying that he owes his footing to me; and most ungrateful he has treated me, comrades, as is the nature of him, proud aristocrat as he is. Not that I look for gratitude in such: but I’ve often thought when I’ve heard of him getting on—I mean before as he was fhat he is now—as perhaps he might like to remember him as gave him his first leg up. But no, not a bit of it though. I advised him of as much, once; and he rounds on me and cheeks me cruel. And I’m not the only one neither: I can tell you something else about him. There’s a lady-friend of mine—”
“Here stop a bit,” the chairman interrupted. “You’re getting on a bit too fast. What did you let him write for the Social Standard for? Was he a comrade, I.L.P., or S.D.F., or Fabian p’raps? He seems to be rather a high sort from what you say.”
“A comrade! Tits, man! ma pairsonal opeenion is that he was nothing bit a … Tory spy. I always thought he was a Jesuit in disguise and now of course I know it. Fhen I knew him first he was pals with the traitor Dymoke—”
“Dymoke!!!” Teeth gritted; and the social equivalent for the Roman “Anathema sit” was snarled.
“Comrades, it wasn’t me that was to blame there you know. Wait a minute before we meaninglessly divide oursels. I have some most important developments to lay before the meeting as you’ll all cordially endorse. Don’t someone remember I was the one that stopped the traitor’s letters and give information of his treachery? If it hadna have been for me he would have bought the bally show with his Tory gold. It was me as put my spoke in his wheel and got him expelled in time. Well, as I was remarking, fhen I knew Rose he was gey thick with Dymoke. Fhat for did I let him write for us? Wy, because he could write the verra blusterous epithets which’ld make the enemy wince. Of course I went over all that he wrote though, just to see that he was economically correct. If I hadna have done that I might just as well have shut up shop. But I was going to say, comrades, there’s a lady-friend of mine he’s treated shameful—made love to her while her man was alive, borrowed twenty-pound notes of her, had to be forbid the hoose, and then fhen she was left a widdy-wumman with a family he cuts her dead at a picture-gallery. That’s fhat I mean by ungrateful, the swine, fit to make a man retch with his mumping cant. What I was about to observe—no, she’s not a Fellowshipper yet. I met her in the way of business if you know what I mean: but I expect she’ll join before long. I know she will if I can only bring off fhat I’m talking about. She’s got a pension, and she takes paying guests, quite high-toned and all. That’s how I got to know her. I’ve put up there fhen I’ve come down to London these five year. Well, the moment I first come ben her best parlour I spots his photo on the cheffonier. ‘Hech,’ says I, ‘I know that chap.’ ‘Then you know a very mauvy soojy,’ says she, for she knows the French fine, and a’ thing as genteel as you can think. So we had a bit crack; and fhat with fhat she told me and fhat I knew aboot him before, I may inform you that if we want to get anything out of him now I’m the man that can secure his entire acquiescence to any proposal we like to submit to him. Here’s my plan, comrades, and if anyone’s got a better let him out with it or else forever after hold his peace and stand out of the way of them that has. Comrades, the hour has struck when tyranny will be no more for I’ve got the tyrant between ma legs and A’m going to squeeze him off my own bat, supposing as I’m properly supported. Cautious though, very cautious we must be: for Rose fhen I knew him was fine and slippery. Artful? E‑e‑e‑e‑e‑eh! Dinna
