Mr. Mellor gives an answer that satisfies
Mr. Shaw. Mr. Dalziel--another sturdy Scotch Radical--is also satisfied;
and so we have all the Liberal vote, with the single exception of
Labby--who quickly--furtively--almost shamefacedly--rushes off into the
Tory lobby.
[Sidenote: Hoisting the numbers.]
And now the division takes place. There have been several
speeches--usually of a minute each--before the final hour comes; but we
are all so anxious to know what fate is in store for us, that we cannot
stand the strain any longer. The division--the division--let us know the
worst. Be it good, or be it ill--let it come at once. The Whips from the
two lobbies enter almost simultaneously--this shows plainly enough that
it has been a very near thing; then a dreadful hush as the numbers are
announced; we have won--aye, but we have by only fourteen! There is a
burst of cheers from the Irish Benches; Sir William Harcourt laughs
aloud in his triumph; the composure of the Old Man's face remains
unchanged; you see he has gone through a great many things like this;
and that great heart and sane mind are prepared for any fate. Mr.
Chamberlain says nothing; but looking into the recesses of his amendment
paper, attempts to hide the choking rage of disappointment that has come
over him at this final defeat of his brightest hopes of trampling his
former friend and his former chief in the dust.
Pages:
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371