"
"It's true," David Sands broke in, "every word of it. There's no
one has written for Labour like him. If he isn't Labour, then we
none of us are. I don't care whether he is the son of an earl, or
a plasterer's apprentice, as I was. He's the right stuff, he has
the gift of putting the words together, and his heart's where it
should be."
"There is no one," Penn said; his voice trembling a little, "who
has a greater admiration for Paul Fiske's writings than I have,
but I still contend that he is not Labour."
"Sit down, lad," Cross enjoined. "We'll have a vote on that. I'm
for saying that Mr. Julian Orden here, who has written them
articles under the name of `Paul Fiske', is a full member of our
Council and eligible to act as our messenger to the Prime
Minister. I ask the Bishop to put it to the meeting."
Eighteen were unanimous in agreeing with the motion. Fenn sat
down, speechless. His cheeks were pallid. His hands, which
rested upon the table, were twitching. He seemed like a man lost
in thought and only remembered to fill up his card when the Bishop
asked him for it. There was a brief silence whilst the latter,
assisted by Cross and Sands, counted the votes. Then the Bishop
rose to his feet.
"Mr. Julian Orden," he announced, "better known to you all under
the name of `Paul Fiske', has been chosen by a large majority as
your representative to take the people's message to the Prime
Minister."
"I protest!" Fenn exclaimed passionately.
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