CHAPTER II.

PETER POPE'S SPEECH.

"TELL ye what, boys; now's the time! Now's the time if ye want to gain your freedom! If ye give in tamely now and let yourselves be driven to the shambles like a flock of silly sheep, and crushed to the earth under the iron heels of a set of despots, as 'ud grind down the very souls of ye, if they could, into scrapings of gold-dust,—why, ye'll never hold the position of men!"

Peter Pope had taken his stand at the corner of a street one evening, two or three days after the grand procession. He mounted a block of wood which lay conveniently there; and being thus raised over the heads of his compeers, was at once in a situation to exercise power over their minds. Men began to gather round him, with attentive eyes and ears, ready to believe whatever Peter Pope might assert. Englishmen do not often put faith in Roman infallibility; but give an English Pope to a particular class, and no amount of infallibility becomes impossible.

"Now's the time!" pursued the orator, flourishing his arms, "now's the time! It'll maybe never come to ye again. There's a good old saying, lads, as tells us 'Procrastination is the thief of time!' Procrastination means putting off. Procrastination is putting off the settling of a question like you're doing now. Procrastination is the thief of time. It steals time! It steals the nick of time, when the nick of time comes; and once gone, you'll never get that nick of time back."

"Now's the time I tell ye, boys! Will you cringe before the iron heel of capital? Will ye knuckle down before the bloodhounds of tyrannic power, when ye may fight and conquer, if ye will; and come out from the battle men, and not slaves?"

"For you're not men now!—Don't think it. Men!—When ye have to work like dogs for your living! Men!—When you're counted plebeians by them as 'll scarce deign to look at ye in passing. I tell ye, lads, ye're all tied hand and foot; though many a one of you scarce feels his bonds, just because he don't know what freedom is. You're degraded and miserable and enslaved, and don't scarce know what it is to wish for anything better."

"That's what I've come down to you for, my men. It's because I want you all to see what you are, and what you might be, if ye'd sense and spirit to exert yourselves. It's because I'm a friend of the Working-man. It's because the noble society, of which I am a member and a delegate—and proud to be both;—it's because that noble society is the friend of the Working-man, desirous to rescue him from the gigantic heel of a merciless power, which is crushing him in the dust—like the boa-constrictor, lads, which wraps the victim in its voluminous folds, and slays him in its slimy embrace. And the best thing a friend can give is advice. Advice, men. Wise advice; thoughtful advice; advice founded on knowledge, which 'tisn't everybody has power to attain to."

"What are we to do first? That's what you'll say; that's the question ye'll put. Don't I read it now in your manly faces, lads, all a-looking up at me this moment? And I'll tell you what you're to do first! You're to—"

"UNITE!!"

The word came out with tremendous emphasis, emitted by the whole force of Peter Pope's lungs, after a suitable pause. It made a proportionate impression.

"Ye'll say, 'What for?' To show your power, lads; to show that ye won't be cajoled, nor cheated, nor beaten down, nor taken in, nor treated like a pack of infants. And then you're to—"

"STRIKE!! That's the word for you, men. It's a mighty easy word. It's a mighty easy thing. Just strike—and the business is done."

"What business?" a voice asked.

"What business? Why, the business of getting what you want. You want shorter hours and an increase of fifteen per cent. on your wages, eh? Just so. You've made the demand in fair and reasonable terms, eh? Just so. You're freeborn Englishmen, all of you, eh? Just so—or had ought to be. What man living has a right to say you're not to have a rise which is your fair and just due? Why, if it wasn't for the tyranny of capital, you'd have had it months ago."

"Will ye submit to that tyranny? Will ye let your children grow up under that tyranny? Tell you, lads, it's time to make a change. Things have gone on long enough. It's time you should be the masters now! Show yourselves men, lads. Better to die than to yield. Give a cheer with me, now! Hurrah for the strike! Hurrah! Hurrah for the strike! Hurrah for the strike, boys!"

They went a little mad, of course, and shouted and yelled in chorus, not musically, but to Peter Pope's satisfaction. Peter Pope's enthusiasm was catching, and so was the toss of his cap. What "boys" would not have followed his example, under like circumstances?—"Boys" of any age. There is no great difference, after all, between the credulity, or to use a certain working-man's forcible word, the "gullibility," of young and old and middle-aged.

Somewhere near the outskirts of the crowd stood a man, in age verging perhaps on fifty, or even fifty-five. He was little and crooked in figure, with a wizened face, and glittering eyes under bent overhanging brows. Everybody knew Peter Stuckey; the man-servant of the Rector of the neighbouring church—gardener, groom and coachman, all in one. Years before, Mr. Hughes had taken Peter Stuckey into his service, after the severe accident which cut the man off from his old work. Peter did his utmost to repay with personal devotion this disinterested act.

Through his namesake's oration, he stood with his head on one side, and a note-book in his hand, scribbling a word occasionally. After the uproar of cheering, Stuckey turned to a sensible-looking man near, who had been as silent as himself, and dryly remarked—

"I say, we've learnt a deal this evening."

"H'm," the other answered.

"Such a lot o' facts, I've had to note 'em down for fear of forgetting. Let's see—"

"'Working-men are like sheep.' Some truth in that. I've heard say as how if one sheep jumps over a broomstick, all the rest 'll follow to save walking round it."

"The aristocracy is 'bloated.' Don't see much meanin' in the term; but, howsoever, it looks grand, so we'll let it pass."

"'Men are not men, but has to work like dogs.' Shouldn't wonder. Little enough o' work Rover gets through in the twenty-four hours—and little enough many o' them get through. But he does a deal o' barking."

"'Peter Pope yonder is a friend o' the working-man.' Werry disinterested friend!"

Stuckey paused, and gave a side-glance at his companion.

"Well, I won't go for to say whether Peter Pope or Peter Stuckey is the wiser man o' the two; but I won't go for to say I haven't a notion. Any way he's uncommon like to his namesake of Rome, layin' down the law for everybody."

"There's nothing on earth that can't be made out in the way of talk," the other said briefly.

"You're a sensible fellow, Holdfast, and no mistake. Now what's your opinion about this here notion of a strike?" asked Stuckey, putting one hand up to his mouth with a confidential air.

"I'll not move in the matter. But it'll come about without me," Holdfast replied, wearing the look of one who sees impending evil.

"Trust Pope for that; he'd be a loser if it didn't. They'd every man Jack of 'em put his head into a noose if Pope told 'em it was right. Well—an' I've got to be off," said Stuckey, as a fresh burst of shouts arose.

He lingered till it ceased, then singled out a man standing near—

"I say, Stevens; you and the rest is hearing a lot o' rayther startling assertions. If you'll take a bit o' friendly 'adwice,' you'll just ask Mr. Pope a question from me. Which is—how much that there Society pays him for the making of his grand speeches?"

Stuckey's voice was very distinct. Peter Pope had to defer the winding-up of his oration a full quarter of an hour, that he might do away with the effect of Stuckey's parting suggestion.

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