15. Stirring Times on the Common
'The first thing to do,' said Psmith, 'is to ascertain that such aplace as Clapham Common really exists. One has heard of it, of course,but has its existence ever been proved? I think not. Havingaccomplished that, we must then try to find out how to get to it. Ishould say at a venture that it would necessitate a sea-voyage. On theother hand, Comrade Waller, who is a native of the spot, seems to findno difficulty in rolling to the office every morning. Therefore--youfollow me, Jackson?--it must be in England. In that case, we will takea taximeter cab, and go out into the unknown, hand in hand, trusting toluck.'
'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 obligetraditions of the Psmiths would not allow me to do that. No. We willstroll gently, after a light lunch, to Trafalgar Square, and hail ataxi.'
'Beastly expensive.'
'But with what an object! Can any expenditure be called excessive whichenables us to hear Comrade Waller being mordant and ironical at theother end?'
'It's a rum business,' said Mike. 'I hope the dickens he won't mix usup in it. We should look frightful fools.'
'I may possibly say a few words,' said Psmith carelessly, 'if thespirit 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 oftroubles without that.'
Psmith waved the objection aside.
'You,' he said, 'will be one of the large, and, I hope, interestedaudience. Nothing more. But it is quite possible that the spirit maynot move me. I may not feel inspired to speak. I am not one of thosewho love speaking for speaking's sake. If I have no message for themany-headed, I shall remain silent.'
'Then I hope the dickens you won't have,' said Mike. Of all things hehated most being conspicuous before a crowd--except at cricket, whichwas a different thing--and he had an uneasy feeling that Psmith wouldrather like it than otherwise.
'We shall see,' said Psmith absently. 'Of course, if in the vein, Imight 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 myslacks 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 fromthe flat to Trafalgar Square in search of a cab which should conveythem to Clapham Common.
They were to meet Mr Waller at the edge of the Common nearest theold 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 wereoffered him, he would extract entertainment from this affair afterhis own fashion; and then the odds were that he himself would bedragged into it. Perhaps--his scalp bristled at the mere idea--hewould 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 sha'n't call on you for aspeech, Comrade Jackson.'
'Look here, Psmith--' began Mike agitatedly.
'I don't know. I think your solid, incisive style would rather go downwith 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. Theapostle of the Revolution was clad soberly in black, except for a tieof vivid crimson. His eyes shone with the light of enthusiasm, vastlydifferent from the mild glow of amiability which they exhibited for sixdays in every week. The man was transformed.
'Here you are,' he said. 'Here you are. Excellent. You are in goodtime. Comrades Wotherspoon and Prebble have already begun to speak. Ishall commence now that you have come. This is the way. Over by thesetrees.'
They made their way towards a small clump of trees, near which afair-sized crowd had already begun to collect. Evidently listeningto the speakers was one of Clapham's fashionable Sunday amusements. MrWaller talked and gesticulated incessantly as he walked. Psmith'sdemeanour 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 bettercause. Somehow, he felt he was going to be made to look a fool beforethe afternoon was over. But he registered a vow that nothing shoulddrag him on to the small platform which had been erected for thebenefit of the speaker.
As they drew nearer, the voices of Comrades Wotherspoon and Prebblebecame more audible. They had been audible all the time, very much so,but now they grew in volume. Comrade Wotherspoon was a tall, thin manwith side-whiskers and a high voice. He scattered his aitches as afountain its sprays in a strong wind. He was very earnest. ComradePrebble was earnest, too. Perhaps even more so than ComradeWotherspoon. He was handicapped to some extent, however, by not havinga palate. This gave to his profoundest thoughts a certain weirdness, asif they had been uttered in an unknown tongue. The crowd was thickestround his platform. The grown-up section plainly regarded him as acomedian, pure and simple, and roared with happy laughter when he urgedthem to march upon Park Lane and loot the same without mercy orscruple. The children were more doubtful. Several had broken down, andbeen led away in tears.
When Mr Waller got up to speak on platform number three, his audienceconsisted at first only of Psmith, Mike, and a fox-terrier. Graduallyhowever, he attracted others. After wavering for a while, the crowdfinally decided that he was worth hearing. He had a method of his own.Lacking the natural gifts which marked Comrade Prebble out as anentertainer, he made up for this by his activity. Where his colleaguesstood comparatively still, Mr Waller behaved with the vivacitygenerally supposed to belong only to peas on shovels and cats on hotbricks. He crouched to denounce the House of Lords. He bounded fromside to side while dissecting the methods of the plutocrats. During animpassioned onslaught on the monarchical system he stood on one leg andhopped. This was more the sort of thing the crowd had come to see.Comrade Wotherspoon found himself deserted, and even Comrade Prebble'sshortcomings in the way of palate were insufficient to keep his flocktogether. The entire strength of the audience gathered in front of thethird platform.
Mike, separated from Psmith by the movement of the crowd, listened witha growing depression. That feeling which attacks a sensitive personsometimes at the theatre when somebody is making himself ridiculous onthe stage--the illogical feeling that it is he and not the actor who isfloundering--had come over him in a wave. He liked Mr Waller, and itmade his gorge rise to see him exposing himself to the jeers of acrowd. The fact that Mr Waller himself did not know that they werejeers, but mistook them for applause, made it no better. Mike feltvaguely furious.
His indignation began to take a more personal shape when the speaker,branching off from the main subject of Socialism, began to touch ontemperance. There was no particular reason why Mr Waller should haveintroduced the subject of temperance, except that he happened to be anenthusiast. He linked it on to his remarks on Socialism by attributingthe lethargy of the masses to their fondness for alcohol; and thecrowd, which had been inclined rather to pat itself on the back duringthe assaults on Rank and Property, finding itself assailed in its turn,resented it. They were there to listen to speakers telling them thatthey were the finest fellows on earth, not pointing out their littlefailings to them. The feeling of the meeting became hostile. The jeersgrew more frequent and less good-tempered.
'Comrade Waller means well,' said a voice in Mike's ear, 'but if heshoots it at them like this much more there'll be a bit of animbroglio.'
'Look here, Smith,' said Mike quickly, 'can't we stop him? These chapsare getting fed up, and they look bargees enough to do anything.They'll be going for him or something soon.'
'How can we switch off the
flow? I don't see. The man is wound up. Hemeans to get it off his chest if it snows. I feel we are by way ofbeing in the soup once more, Comrade Jackson. We can only sit tight andlook on.'
The crowd was becoming more threatening every minute. A group of youngmen of the loafer class who stood near Mike were especially fertile incomment. Psmith's eyes were on the speaker; but Mike was watching thisgroup closely. Suddenly he saw one of them, a thick-set youth wearing acloth cap and no collar, stoop.
When he rose again there was a stone in his hand.
The sight acted on Mike like a spur. Vague rage against nobody inparticular had been simmering in him for half an hour. Now itconcentrated itself on the cloth-capped one.
Mr Waller paused momentarily before renewing his harangue. The man inthe cloth cap raised his hand. There was a swirl in the crowd, and thefirst thing that Psmith saw as he turned was Mike seizing the would-bemarksman round the neck and hurling him to the ground, after the mannerof a forward at football tackling an opponent during a line-out fromtouch.
There is one thing which will always distract the attention of a crowdfrom any speaker, and that is a dispute between two of its units. MrWaller's views on temperance were forgotten in an instant. The audiencesurged round Mike and his opponent.
The latter had scrambled to his feet now, and was looking round for hisassailant.
'That's 'im, Bill!' cried eager voices, indicating Mike.
''E's the bloke wot 'it yer, Bill,' said others, more precise indetail.
Bill advanced on Mike in a sidelong, crab-like manner.
''Oo're you, I should like to know?' said Bill.
Mike, rightly holding that this was merely a rhetorical question andthat Bill had no real thirst for information as to his family history,made no reply. Or, rather, the reply he made was not verbal. He waitedtill his questioner was within range, and then hit him in the eye. Areply far more satisfactory, if not to Bill himself, at any rate to theinterested onlookers, than any flow of words.
A contented sigh went up from the crowd. Their Sunday afternoon wasgoing to be spent just as they considered Sunday afternoons should bespent.
'Give us your coat,' said Psmith briskly, 'and try and get it overquick. Don't go in for any fancy sparring. Switch it on, all you know,from the start. I'll keep a thoughtful eye open to see that none of hisfriends and relations join in.'
Outwardly Psmith was unruffled, but inwardly he was not feeling socomposed. An ordinary turn-up before an impartial crowd which could berelied upon to preserve the etiquette of these matters was one thing.As regards the actual little dispute with the cloth-capped Bill, hefelt that he could rely on Mike to handle it satisfactorily. But therewas no knowing how long the crowd would be content to remain merespectators. There was no doubt which way its sympathies lay. Bill, nowstripped of his coat and sketching out in a hoarse voice a scenario ofwhat he intended to do--knocking Mike down and stamping him into themud was one of the milder feats he promised to perform for theentertainment of an indulgent audience--was plainly the popularfavourite.
Psmith, though he did not show it, was more than a little apprehensive.
Mike, having more to occupy his mind in the immediate present, was notanxious concerning the future. He had the great advantage over Psmithof having lost his temper. Psmith could look on the situation as awhole, and count the risks and possibilities. Mike could only see Billshuffling towards him with his head down and shoulders bunched.
'Gow it, Bill!' said someone.
'Pliy up, the Arsenal!' urged a voice on the outskirts of the crowd.
A chorus of encouragement from kind friends in front: 'Step up, Bill!'
And Bill stepped.
Psmith in the City Page 15
