Mr Brooke himself was not in a position to be quickly conscious of anything except a general slipping away of ideas within himself: he had even a little singing in the ears, and he was the only person who had not yet taken distinct account of the echo or discerned the image of himself. Few things hold the perceptions more thoroughly captive than anxiety about what we have got to say. Mr. Brooke heard the laughter; but he had expected some Tory efforts at disturbance, and he was at this moment additionally excited by the tickling, stinging sense that his lost exordium was coming back to fetch him from the Baltic.
“That reminds me,” he went on, thrusting a hand into his side-pocket, with an easy air, “if I wanted a precedent, you know—but we never want a precedent for the right thing—but there is Chatham, now; I can’t say I should have supported Chatham, or Pitt, the younger Pitt—he was not a man of ideas, and we want ideas, you know.”
“Blast your ideas! we want the Bill,” said a loud rough voice from the crowd below.
Immediately the invisible Punch, who had hitherto followed Mr. Brooke, repeated, “Blast your ideas! we want the Bill.” The laugh was louder than ever, and for the first time Mr. Brooke being himself silent, heard distinctly the mocking echo. But it seemed to ridicule his interrupter, and in that light was encouraging; so he replied with amenity—
“There is something in what you say, my good friend, and what do we meet for but to speak our minds—freedom of opinion, freedom of the press, liberty—that kind of thing? The Bill, now—you shall have the Bill”—here Mr. Brooke paused a moment to fix on his eye-glass and take the paper from his breast- pocket, with a sense of being practical and coming to particulars. The invisible Punch followed:—
“You shall have the Bill, Mr. Brooke, per electioneering contest, and a seat outside Parliament as delivered, five thousand pounds, seven shillings, and fourpence.”
Mr Brooke, amid the roars of laughter, turned red, let his eye-glass fall, and looking about him confusedly, saw the image of himself, which had come nearer. The next moment he saw it dolorously bespattered with eggs. His spirit rose a little, and his voice too.
“Buffoonery, tricks, ridicule the test of truth—all that is very well”—here an unpleasant egg broke on Mr. Brooke’s shoulder, as the echo said, “All that is very well;” then came a hail of eggs, chiefly aimed at the image, but occasionally hitting the original, as if by chance. There was a stream of new men pushing among the crowd; whistles, yells, bellowings, and fifes made all the greater hubbub because there was shouting and struggling to put them down. No voice would have had wing enough to rise above the uproar, and Mr. Brooke, disagreeably anointed, stood his ground no longer. The frustration would have been less exasperating if it had been less gamesome and boyish: a serious assault of which the newspaper reporter “can aver that it endangered the learned gentleman’s ribs,” or can respectfully bear witness to “the soles of that gentleman’s boots having been visible above the railing,” has perhaps more consolations attached to it.
Mr Brooke re-entered the committee-room, saying, as carelessly as he could, “This is a little too bad, you know. I should have got the ear of the people by-and-by—but they didn’t give me time. I should have gone into the Bill by-and-by, you know,” he added, glancing at Ladislaw. “However, things will come all right at the nomination.”
But it was not resolved unanimously that things would come right; on the contrary, the committee looked rather grim, and the political personage from Brassing was writing busily, as if he were brewing new devices.
“It was Bowyer who did it,” said Mr. Standish, evasively. “I know it as well as if he had been advertised. He’s uncommonly good at ventriloquism, and he did it uncommonly well, by God! Hawley has been having him to dinner lately: there’s a fund of talent in Bowyer.”