Demosthenes Platterbaff, the eminent Unrest Inducer, stood on his
trial for a serious offence, and the eyes of the political world
were focussed on the jury. The offence, it should be stated, was
serious for the Government rather than for the prisoner. He had
blown up the Albert Hall on the eve of the great Liberal Federation
Tango Tea, the occasion on which the Chancellor of the Exchequer was
expected to propound his new theory: "Do partridges spread
infectious diseases?" Platterbaff had chosen his time well; the
Tango Tea had been hurriedly postponed, but there were other
political fixtures which could not be put off under any
circumstances. The day after the trial there was to be a by-
election at Nemesis-on-Hand, and it had been openly announced in the
division that if Platterbaff were languishing in gaol on polling day
the Government candidate would be "outed" to a certainty.
Unfortunately, there could be no doubt or misconception as to
Platterbaff's guilt. He had not only pleaded guilty, but had
expressed his intention of repeating his escapade in other
directions as soon as circumstances permitted; throughout the trial
he was busy examining a small model of the Free Trade Hall in
Manchester. The jury could not possibly find that the prisoner had
not deliberately and intentionally blown up the Albert Hall; the
question was: Could they find any extenuating circumstances which
would permit of an acquittal? Of course any sentence which the law
might feel compelled to inflict would be followed by an immediate
pardon, but it was highly desirable, from the Government's point of
view, that the necessity for such an exercise of clemency should not
arise. A headlong pardon, on the eve of a bye-election, with
threats of a heavy voting defection if it were withheld or even
delayed, would not necessarily be a surrender, but it would look
like one. Opponents would be only too ready to attribute ungenerous
motives. Hence the anxiety in the crowded Court, and in the little
groups gathered round the tape-machines in Whitehall and Downing
Street and other affected centres.
The jury returned from considering their verdict; there was a
flutter, an excited murmur, a death-like hush. The foreman
delivered his message:
"The jury find the prisoner guilty of blowing up the Albert Hall.
The jury wish to add a rider drawing attention to the fact that a
by-election is pending in the Parliamentary division of Nemesis-on-
Hand."
"That, of course," said the Government Prosecutor, springing to his
feet, "is equivalent to an acquittal?"
"I hardly think so," said the Judge, coldly; "I feel obliged to
sentence the prisoner to a week's imprisonment."
"And may the Lord have mercy on the poll," a Junior Counsel
exclaimed irreverently.
It was a scandalous sentence, but then the Judge was not on the
Ministerial side in politics.
The verdict and sentence were made known to the public at twenty
minutes past five in the afternoon; at half-past five a dense crowd
was massed outside the Prime Minister's residence lustily singing,
to the air of "Trelawney":
"And should our Hero rot in gaol,
For e'en a single day,
There's Fifteen Hundred Voting Men
Will vote the other way."
"Fifteen hundred," said the Prime Minister, with a shudder; "it's
too horrible to think of. Our majority last time was only a
thousand and seven."
"The poll opens at eight to-morrow morning," said the Chief
Organiser; "we must have him out by 7 a.m."
"Seven-thirty," amended the Prime Minister; "we must avoid any
appearance of precipitancy."
"Not later than seven-thirty, then," said the Chief Organiser; "I
have promised the agent down there that he shall be able to display
posters announcing 'Platterbaff is Out,' before the poll opens. He
said it was our only chance of getting a telegram 'Radprop is In'
to-night."
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 ain'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:
"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 things?"
"The warders have a private band of their own," said the Governor,
"but of course I couldn't allow the men themselves--"
"Lend us the instruments," said the Chief Organiser.
One of the earnest helpful friends was a skilled performer on the
cornet, the Cabinet Ministers were able to clash cymbals more or
less in tune, and the Chief Organiser has some knowledge of the
drum.
"What tune would you prefer?" he asked Platterbaff.
"The popular song of the moment," replied the Agitator after a
moment's reflection.
It was a tune they had all heard hundreds of times, so there was no
difficulty in turning out a passable imitation of it. To the
improvised strains of "I didn't want to do it" the prisoner strode
forth to freedom. The word of the song had reference, it was
understood, to the incarcerating Government and not to the destroyer
of the Albert Hall.
The seat was lost, after all, by a narrow majority. The local Trade
Unionists took offence at the fact of Cabinet Ministers having
personally acted as strike-breakers, and even the release of
Platterbaff failed to pacify them.
The seat was lost, but Ministers had scored a moral victory. They
had shown that they knew when and how to yield.
_________
-THE END-
[Hector Hugh Munro] Saki's short story: Canossa
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