At half-past seven the next morning the Prime Minister and the Chief Organiser sat at breakfast, making a perfunctory meal, and awaiting the return of the Home Secretary, who had gone in person to superintend the releasing of Platterbaff. Despite the earliness of the hour, a small crowd had gathered in the street outside, and the horrible menacing Trelawney refrain of the ‘Fifteen Hundred Voting Men’ came in a steady, monotonous chant.

‘They will cheer presently when they hear the news,’ said the Prime Minister hopefully. ‘Hark! They are booing some one now! That must be McKenna.’

The Home Secretary entered the room a moment later, disaster written on his face.

‘He won’t go!’ he exclaimed.

‘Won’t go? Won’t leave gaol?’

‘He won’t go unless he has a brass band. He says he never has left prison without a brass band to play him out, and he’s not going to go without one now.’

‘But surely that sort of thing is provided by his supporters and admirers?’ said the Prime Minister; ‘we can hardly be supposed to supply a released prisoner with a brass band. How on earth could we defend it on the Estimates?’

‘His supporters say it is up to us to provide the music, said the Home Secretary; ‘they say we put him in prison, and it’s our affair to see that he leaves it in a respectable manner. Anyway, he won’t go unless he has a band.’

The telephone squealed shrilly; it was a trunk call from Nemesis.

‘Poll opens in five minutes. Is Platterbaff out yet? In Heaven’s name, why—’

The Chief Organiser rang off.

‘This is not a moment for standing on dignity,’ he observed bluntly; ‘musicians must be supplied at once. Platterbaff must have his band.’

‘Where are you going to find the musicians?’ asked the Home Secretary wearily; ‘we can’t employ a military band; in fact, I don’t think he’d have one if we offered it, and there aren’t any others. There’s a musicians’ strike on, I suppose you know.’

‘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:

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.