Six or seven of the twenty-three were there,
but not Fenn. Cross, a great brawny Northumbrian, was playing a
game of chess with Furley. Others were writing letters. They all
turned around at Catherine's entrance. She held out her hands to
them.
"Great news, my friends!" she exclaimed. "Light up the committee
room. I want to talk to you."
Those who were entitled to followed her into the room across the
passage. One or two secretaries and a visitor remained outside.
Six of them seated themselves at the long table--Phineas Cross,
the Northumbrian pitman, Miles Furley, David Sands, representative
of a million Yorkshire mill-hands, Thomas Evans, the South Wales
miner.
"We got a message from you, Miss Abbeway, a little time ago,"
Furley remarked. "It was countermanded, though, just as we were
ready to start."
"Yes!" she assented. "I am sorry. I telephoned from Julian
Orden's rooms. It was there we made the great discovery. Listen,
all of you! I have discovered the identity of Paul Fiske."
There was a little clamour of voices. The interest was
indescribable. Paul Fiske was their cult, their master, their
undeniable prophet. It was he who had set down in letters of fire
the truths which had been struggling for imperfect expression in
these men's minds. It was Paul Fiske who had fired them with
enthusiasm for the cause which at first had been very much like a
matter of bread and cheese to them. It was Paul Fiske who had
formed their minds, who had put the great arguments into their
brains, who had armed them from head to foot with potent
reasonings.
Pages:
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149