Listen--hear them! They're coming!" He raised a hand for silence, and a rumbling, ragged roar of voices could be heard without.
"The crowd have gone the rounds," he continued.

"They started at Barbazon's and they're winding up at Barbazon's.

They're drunk enough to-night to want to do anything, and to-morrow when they've got sore heads they'll do anything.

They'll make that funeral look like a squeezed orange; they'll show Lebanon and Master Ingolby that we're to be bosses of our own show.

The strike'll be on after the funeral, and after the strike's begun there'll be--eh, bien sur!" He paused sharply, as though he had gone too far.