they're beginning to ask what's the use of sending a Labour Member to
Parliament and having nothing come of it."

A grey-whiskered man, who had the look of a preacher, struck the table
before him with a sudden vigour.

"You remember who I am, Mr. Maraton? My name's Borden--Samuel
Borden--and I am from the Potteries. It's all very well for Weavel and
Dale there to talk, but there's no labour on God's earth so underpaid as
the china and glass worker. We may not have the money saved--that's
simply because it takes my people all they can do to keep from
starvation. I've figures here that'll prove what I say. I'll go so far
as this--there isn't a worse paid industry than mine in the United
Kingdom."

There was a moment's silence. Abraham Weavel leaned back in his chair
and yawned. Peter Dale made a grimace of dissent. Maraton turned to
one of the little company who as yet had scarcely opened his lips--a
thin, ascetic-looking, middle-aged man, who wore gold spectacles, and
who had an air of refinement which was certainly not shared by any of
the others.

"And you, Mr. Culvain," he enquired, "you represent no particular
industry, I believe? You were a journalist, were you not, before you
entered Parliament?"

"I was and am a journalist," Culvain assented. "Since you have asked my
opinion, I must confess that I am all for more peaceful methods. These
Labour troubles which inconvenience and bring loss upon the community,
do harm to our cause. I am in favour of a vigorous course of platform