upon Hogarth, shrieking to the police: but too late--Hogarth had
brushed past Loveday's knees--was dashing for the crowded platform-
steps--was picking his way, stumbling, darting up them.

Crumpled in his hand was a _Pearson's Weekly_.

Now he is to the front--near Frankl.

"Friends! I have ventured to take the place of our friend, Moses,
here--no ill-will to him--for with respect to the question before
us, whether we elect Beaumont or Max, I care, I confess, little. I'm
rather an Anti-Jew myself (hissing and cheers), but it strikes me
that the Jews are the least of our trouble. To a man who said to me
that the cause of all our evil days is the inability of England to
feed these few million Jews I'd answer: "I don't know how you can be
so silly!" Why, the whole human race, friends, can find room on the
Isle of Wight--the earth laughs at the insignificant drawings upon
her made by the small infantry called Man. Then, why do we suffer,
friends? We _do_ suffer, I suppose? I was once at Paris, and at a
place called 'the Morgue' I saw exposed young men with wounded
temples, and girls with dead mouths twisted, and innocent old women
drowned; and there must be a biggish cry, you know, rising each
night from the universal earth, accusing some hoary fault in the way
men live together! What is the fault? If you ask _me_, I answer that
I am only a common smith: _I_ don't know: but I know this about the
fault, that it is something simple, commonplace, yet deep-seated, or
we should all see it; but it is hidden from us by its very
ordinariness, like the sun which men seldom look at. It _must_ be
so. And shall we never find the time to think of it? Or will never
some grand man, mighty as a garrison, owning eyes that know the