The first sitting of the Birmingham Labour Congress was just over, and the streets about the hall in which it had been held were beginning to fill with the issuing delegates.

Rain was pouring down and umbrellas were plentiful.
Harry Wharton, accompanied by a group of men, left the main entrance of the hall,--releasing himself with difficulty from the friendly crowd about the doors--and crossed the street to his hotel.
"Well, I'm glad you think I did decently," he said, as they mounted the hotel stairs.

"What a beastly day, and how stuffy that hall was! Come in and have something to drink." He threw open the door of his sitting-room as he spoke.

The four men with him followed him in.
"I must go back to the hall to see two or three men before everybody disperses," said the one in front.

"No refreshment for me, thank you, Mr.Wharton.But I want to ask a question--what arrangements have you made for the reporting of your speech ?" The man who spoke was thin and dark, with a modest kindly eye.