Josiah gave him a look. But it was not the look he might have expected
to receive. It was less the look of a vindictive parent and employer
than the gesture a Chamberlain might have bestowed on a Jesse Collings
or a Gladstone on a John Morley.
"You're right, my lad--not a walk over."
For a few minutes these great men talked on and William Hollis by sheer
force of some innate capacity, now first brought to life in the stress
of an overwhelming affair, talked with them as an equal. These were
proud moments in which the power of vision, the understanding heart
seemed to come by their own. The world was on fire, and if the flames
were to be brought under control many estimates must be revised, many
standards must go by the board. Self-preservation, the primal instinct,
was already uppermost. Brains, foresight, mental energy were at a
premium now. Any man, no matter who or what he might be, who had it
in him to contribute to the common stock was more than welcome to do
so. The conflagration had only just begun but a new range of ideas was
already rife. Men were no longer taken on trust, institutions no longer
accepted at their face value.
But all too soon for William Hollis the proceedings came to an
end. He would have liked to sit there all night, tossing the ball
among his peers, listening politely and now and again throwing in
a word. Suddenly, however, the door of the private bar opened and
a flaming-haired, shirt-sleeved appearance in a green baize apron
abruptly thrust in its head. At the sight of the grandees it was thrust
out again even more abruptly.
"That George?"
George it was.
"Go out and step that there Bus." In the command of Josiah was all the
power of the man of privilege, the almost superhuman authority of a
city alderman. Bill Hollis, who had once worn the green apron himself,
was thrilled by the recollection that even in his day, when Josiah was
first elected to the town council, the public vehicle plying for hire
between Jubilee Park and the Market Place was always at the beck and
call of Mr. Councilor Munt. Few had a good word for him, but even in
those days in that part of the city his word was law.
Josiah rose and his friends rose with him. But as he moved to the
door he turned a dour eye upon Bill Hollis. Whole volumes were in it,
beyond tongue or pen to utter. To-night even he, in the stress of what
was happening to the world in which he had prospered so greatly, was
less than himself and also more. An eye of wary truculence pinned the
ex-barman to the wainscot while the master of the house uttered his
slow, unwilling growl. "Not a bad bloom ye sent in, my lad."
It was a very big dog to a very little dog, but somehow it told far
more than was intended. Almost in spite of himself, the man who on a
day had abused the confidence of his master by marrying his eldest
daughter was forced to realize that no matter what Josiah Munt might
be, he was ... well, he was Jannock!