From the atmosphere of Lyndwood Park and its surroundings--fragrant, almost epicurean--Maraton passed to the hard squalor of the great smoke-hung city of the north.

There were no beautiful women or cultured men to bid him welcome.

The Labour Member and his companion, who hastened him out of the train at Derby and into an open motor-car, were hard-featured Lancashire men, keen on their work and practical as the day.

As they talked together in that long, ugly ride, Maraton almost smiled as he thought of those perfervid dreams of his which had always been at the back of his head; that creed of life, some part of which he had intended to unfold to the people during these few days.
"Plain-speaking is what our folk like," John Henneford assured him, as they sat side by side in the small open car driven by one of the committee; "plain, honest words; sound advice, with a bit o' grit in it." "'To hell with the masters!' is the motto they like best," Preston remarked, moving his pipe to the corner of his mouth.

"It's an old text but it's an ever popular one.