Mr. Kitshaw is the man!  Now we shall have broad grins.  Mr. Kitshaw enjoys a reputation for mimicry; he takes off music-hall singers in the bar-parlour of a Saturday night.  Observe, he rises, hems, pulls down his waistcoat; there is bubbling laughter.  Mr. Kitshaw brings back the debate to its original subject; he talks of the Land.  He is a little haphazard at first, but presently hits the mark in a fancy picture of a country still in the hands of aborigines, as yet unannexed by the capitalist nations, knowing not the meaning of the verb ‘exploit.’

’Imagine such a happy land, my friends; a land, I say, which nobody hasn’t ever thought of “developing the resources” of,—­that’s the proper phrase, I believe.  There are the people, with clothing enough for comfort and—­ahem!—­good manners, but, mark you, no more.  No manufacture of luxurious skirts and hulsters and togs o’ that kind by the exploited classes.  No, for no exploited classes don’t exist!  All are equal, my friends.  Up an’ down the fields they goes, all day long, arm-in-arm, Jack and Jerry, aye, and Liza an’ Sairey Ann; for they have equality of the sexes, mind you!  Up an’ down the fields, I say, in a devil-may-care sort of way, with their sweethearts and their wives.  No factory smoke, 0 dear no!  There’s the rivers, with tropical plants a-shading the banks, 0 my!  There they goes up an’ down in their boats, devil-may-care, a-strumming on the banjo,’—­he imitated such action,—­’and a-singing their nigger minstrelsy with light ’earts.  Why?  ’Cause they ain’t got no work to get up to at ’arf-past five next morning.  Their time’s their own! That’s the condition of an unexploited country, my friends!’

Mr. Kitshaw had put everyone in vast good humour.  You might wonder that his sweetly idyllic picture did not stir bitterness by contrast; it were to credit the English workman with too much imagination.  Resonance of applause rewarded the sparkling rhetorician.  A few of the audience availed themselves of the noise to withdraw, for the clock showed that it was close upon ten, and public-houses shut their doors early on Sunday.

But Richard Mutimer was on his feet again, and this time without regard to effect; there was a word in him strongly demanding utterance.  It was to the speech of the unfortunate prophet that he desired to reply.  He began with sorrowful admissions.  No one speaking honestly could deny that—­that the working class had its faults; they came out plainly enough now and then.  Drink, for instance (Mr. Cullen gave a resounding ‘Hear, hear!’ and a stamp on the boards).  What sort of a spectacle would be exhibited by the public-houses in Hoxton and Islington at closing time to-night?  (’True!’ from Mr. Cowes, who also stamped on the boards.) Yes, but—­Richard used the device of aposiopesis; Daniel Dabbs took it for a humorous effect and began a roar, which was summarily interdicted.  ‘But,’ pursued Richard with emphasis, ’what is the