“I hope he’ll succeed, Mr. Slide.”
“He’ll earn his wages. He’s a man who will always earn his wages, but nothing more. Well, now, Mr. Finn, I will just offer you one word of apology for our little severities.”
“Pray do nothing of the kind.”
“Indeed I shall. Dooty is dooty. There was some things printed which were a little rough, but if one isn’t a little rough there ain’t no flavour. Of course I wrote ’em. You know my ’and, I dare say.”
“I only remember that there was some throwing of mud.”
“Just so. But mud don’t break any bones; does it? When you turned against us I had to be down on you, and I was down upon you;—that’s just about all of it. Now you’re coming among us again, and so I come to you with a calumet of peace.”
“But I am not coming among you.”
“Yes you are, Finn, and bringing Monk with you.” It was now becoming very disagreeable, and Phineas was beginning to perceive that it would soon be his turn to say something rough. “Now I’ll tell you what my proposition is. If you’ll do us two leaders a week through the session, you shall have a cheque for £16 on the last day of every month. If that’s not honester money than what you got in Downing Street, my name is not Quintus Slide.”
“Mr. Slide,” said Phineas—and then he paused.
“If we are to come to business, drop the Mister. It makes things go so much easier.”
“We are not to come to business, and I do not want things to go easy. I believe you said some things of me in your newspaper that were very scurrilous.”
“What of that? If you mind that sort of thing—”
“I did not regard it in the least. You are quite welcome to continue it. I don’t doubt but you will continue it. But you are not welcome to come here afterwards.”
“Do you mean to turn me out?”
“Just that. You printed a heap of lies—”
“Lies, Mr. Finn! Did you say lies, sir?”
“I said lies;—lies;—lies!” And Phineas walked over at him as though he were going to pitch him instantly out of the window. “You may go and write as many more as you like. It is your trade, and you must do it or starve. But do not come to me again.” Then he opened the door and stood with it in his hand.
“Very well, sir. I shall know how to punish this.”
“Exactly. But if you please you’ll go and do your punishment at the office of the Banner—unless you like to try it here. You want to kick me and spit at me, but you will prefer to do it in print.”
“Yes, sir,” said Quintus Slide. “I shall prefer to do it in print—though I must own that the temptation to adopt the manual violence of a ruffian is great, very great, very great indeed.” But he resisted the temptation and walked down the stairs, concocting his article as he went.
Mr. Quintus Slide did not so much impede the business of his day but what Phineas was with Mr. Monk by two, and in his place in the House when prayers were read at four. As he sat in his place, conscious of the work that was before him, listening to the presentation of petitions, and to the formal reading of certain notices of motions, which with the asking of sundry questions occupied over half an hour, he looked back and remembered accurately his own feelings on a certain night on which he had intended to get up and address the House. The ordeal before him had then been so terrible, that it had almost obliterated for the moment his senses of hearing and of sight. He had hardly been able to perceive what had been going on around him, and had vainly endeavoured to occupy himself in recalling to his memory the words which he wished to pronounce. When the time for pronouncing them had come, he had found himself unable to stand upon his legs. He smiled as he recalled all this in his memory, waiting impatiently for the moment in which he might rise. His audience was assured to him now, and he did not fear it. His opportunity for utterance was his own, and even the Speaker could not deprive him of it. During these minutes he thought not at all of the words that he was to say. He had prepared his matter but had prepared no words. He knew that words would come readily enough to him, and that he had learned the task of turning his thoughts quickly into language while standing with a crowd of listeners around him—as a practised writer does when seated in his chair. There was no violent beating at his heart now, no dimness of the eyes, no feeling that the ground was turning round under his feet. If only those weary vain questions would get themselves all asked, so that he might rise and begin the work of the night. Then there came the last thought as the House was hushed for his rising. What was the good of it all, when he would never have an opportunity of speaking there again?
But not on that account would he be slack in his endeavour now. He would be listened to once at least, not as a subaltern of the Government but as the owner of a voice prominent in opposition to the Government. He had been taught by Mr. Monk that that was the one place in the House in which a man with a power of speaking could really enjoy pleasure without alloy. He would make the trial—once, if never
