"His supporters say it is up to us to provide the music," said the Home Secretary; "they say we put him in prison, and it's our affair to see that he leaves it in a respectable manner. Anyway, he won't go unless he has a band."
The telephone squealed shrilly; it was a trunk call from Nemesis.
"Poll opens in five minutes. Is Platterbaff out yet? In Heaven's name, why--"
The Chief Organiser rang off.
"This is not a moment for standing on dignity," he observed bluntly; "musicians must be supplied at once. Platterbaff must have his band."
"Where are you going to find the musicians?" asked the Home Secretary wearily; "we can't employ a military band, in fact, I don't think he'd have one if we offered it, and there ain't any others. There's a musicians' strike on, I suppose you know."
"Can't you get a strike permit?" asked the Organiser.
"I'll try," said the Home Secretary, and went to the telephone.
Eight o'clock struck. The crowd outside chanted with an increasing volume of sound:
