“Only this,” said Mr. Bingley-Spyker firmly, “that I am not guilty.”

“Not guilty?” shouted the President.  “Why, you’ve got the blooming thing on now!”

“Yes,” said the prisoner mildly.  “But observe.”

Somewhat diffidently he removed his collar and held it up to view.  “You call this a clean, white, shiny collar?  Well, it’s not.  Fawn-colour, if you like; speckled—­yes; but white—­clean?  No!  Believe me,” continued Mr. Bingley-Spyker, warming to his subject, “it’s years since I’ve had a genuinely clean collar from my laundry.  Mostly they are speckled.  And the specks are usually in a conspicuous position; one on each wing is a favourite combination.  I grant you these can be removed by a penknife, but imperfectly and with damage to the fabric.  When what I may call the main portion of the collar is affected, the speckled area may occasionally be concealed by a careful disposition of one’s tie.  But not often.  The laundress, with diabolical cunning, takes care to place her trade-mark as near the top rim as possible.  I have not by any means exhausted the subject,” he concluded, “but I think I have said enough to clear myself of this particular charge.”

It seemed then to Mr. Bingley-Spyker that all the members of the Tribunal were shouting together.  On the whole he gathered that he had not improved his position.  He had been “attacking the proletariat.”

“‘Ard-working gyurls,” panted a woman-member excitedly, “toilin’ and moilin’ at wash-tubs and mangles for the likes of ’im!  It’s a rope collar he wants, Mr. President.  Make it a ’anging matter, I should.”

“Silence, comrades!” commanded the President.  “Let me deal with ’im.  Prisoner, the Tribunal finds you guilty of wearing a collar, contrary to the regulations.  Collars are the ’all-marks of a slave civilization; they ’ave no place in a free state.  The sentence of the Court is that you be committed to a State laundry for ten years, with ’ard labour, principally at mangles.  Remove the prisoner.”

So they removed Mr. Bingley-Spyker....

He was glad when he woke up to find himself in his own room in his own Government office at Whitehall, with the afternoon sun streaming deliciously through the windows.  Involuntarily he felt for his collar.

* * * * *

THE HANWELLIAD.

  When I come into my kingdom, which will happen very soon,
  I shall ride a milk-white palfrey from the Mountains of the Moon;
  He’s caparisoned and costly, but he did his bit of work
  In a bridle set with brilliants, which he used to beat the Turk.

  Then they called their Uncle Edward and they blew without a check,
  Keeping time with much precision, down the back of Uncle’s neck,
  Till he fled to get an iceberg, which he providently found
  Half on land and half in water, so he couldn’t well be drowned.

  Oh, his gait was very silent, very sinuous and slow—­
  He had learnt it from a waiter whom he met about Soho;
  He was much the best tactician of the migratory band
  And he earned a decent living as a parcel packed by hand.