"Can't you get a strike permit?" asked the Organiser.

"I'll try," said the Home Secretary, and went to the telephone.

Eight o'clock struck. The crowd outside chanted with an increasing
volume of sound:

"Will vote the other way."

A telegram was brought in. It was from the central committee rooms at
Nemesis. "Losing twenty votes per minute," was its brief message.

Ten o'clock struck. The Prime Minister, the Home Secretary, the Chief
Organiser, and several earnest helpful friends were gathered in the inner
gateway of the prison, talking volubly to Demosthenes Platterbaff, who
stood with folded arms and squarely planted feet, silent in their midst.
Golden-tongued legislators whose eloquence had swayed the Marconi Inquiry
Committee, or at any rate the greater part of it, expended their arts of
oratory in vain on this stubborn unyielding man. Without a band he would
not go; and they had no band.

A quarter past ten, half-past. A constant stream of telegraph boys
poured in through the prison gates.

"Yamley's factory hands just voted you can guess how," ran a despairing
message, and the others were all of the same tenour. Nemesis was going
the way of Reading.

"Have you any band instruments of an easy nature to play?" demanded the
Chief Organiser of the Prison Governor; "drums, cymbals, those sort of