Mr. Bingley-Spyker pleaded surprise. He pointed out that he had
been in bed for a fortnight, "laid aside," as he said, "through the
prevailing epidemic." In the meantime the revolution had taken place,
and he had heard nothing about it.
"Well," said the President gruffly, "we carn't 'elp that, can we,
comrades? While this 'ere citizen 'as been restin' in the lap o'
luxury, so to speak, we workers 'ave been revolutin'. An' that's all
there is to it."
"But fair play," persisted Mr. Bingley-Spyker gently, "is a jewel. At
least so I have always understood."
"Not so much of it, me lad," interrupted the President sharply. "Now
then, comrade, wot's the charge?"
An unkempt person stepped up to the front and, clearing his throat
with some emphasis, began:--
"About ten-thirty this morning I see this gentleman--"
"_What? _" The interruption came simultaneously from several members
of the tribunal.
"--this party walkin' down Whitehall casual-like, as if the place
belonged to 'im instead of to us. 'What ho!' I says to myself, 'this
'ere chap looks like a counter-revolution'ry;' and with that I comes
closer to 'im. Sure enough he was wearin' a 'igh collar, about three
inches 'igh, I should say, all white an' shiny, straight from the
lorndry. I could 'ardly believe my eyes."
"Never mind your eyes, comrade," the President said; "tell us what you
did."
"I accosted 'im and said, 'Ere, citizen, wot do you mean by wearin' a
collar like that?'"
"An' what was the reply?"
"He looked at me 'aughty-like, an' says, 'Get away, my man, or I shall
call the police.' An' thereupon I said, 'P'r'aps you don't know it,
citizen, but I _am_ the p'lice, an', wot's more, I arrest you for
wearin' a white collar, contrairy to the regulations in that case made
an' perwided.'"
"Very good, comrade," murmured the President, "very good indeed. Did
he seem surprised?"
"Knocked all of a 'eap. So I took him into custody and brought him
along."
"You did well, comrade. The Tribunal thanks you. Step down now, me
lad, and don't make too much noise. Now then, prisoner, you've 'eard
the charge; what have you got to say about it?"
"Only this," said Mr. Bingley-Spyker firmly, "that I am not guilty."
"Not guilty?" shouted the President. "Why, you've got the blooming
thing on now!"
"Yes," said the prisoner mildly. "But observe."
Somewhat diffidently he removed his collar and held it up to view.
"You call this a clean, white, shiny collar? Well, it's not.
Fawn-colour, if you like; speckled--yes; but white--clean? No! Believe
me," continued Mr. Bingley-Spyker, warming to his subject, "it's years
since I've had a genuinely clean collar from my laundry. Mostly they
are speckled. And the specks are usually in a conspicuous position;
one on each wing is a favourite combination. I grant you these can be
removed by a penknife, but imperfectly and with damage to the fabric.
When what I may call the main portion of the collar is affected, the
speckled area may occasionally be concealed by a careful disposition
of one's tie. But not often. The laundress, with diabolical cunning,
takes care to place her trade-mark as near the top rim as possible.
I have not by any means exhausted the subject," he concluded, "but I
think I have said enough to clear myself of this particular charge."
It seemed then to Mr. Bingley-Spyker that all the members of the
Tribunal were shouting together. On the whole he gathered that he had
not improved his position. He had been "attacking the proletariat."
"'Ard-working gyurls," panted a woman-member excitedly, "toilin' and
moilin' at wash-tubs and mangles for the likes of 'im! It's a rope
collar he wants, Mr. President. Make it a 'anging matter, I should."
"Silence, comrades!" commanded the President. "Let me deal with 'im.
Prisoner, the Tribunal finds you guilty of wearing a collar,
contrary to the regulations. Collars are the 'all-marks of a slave
civilization; they 'ave no place in a free state. The sentence of the
Court is that you be committed to a State laundry for ten years, with
'ard labour, principally at mangles. Remove the prisoner."
So they removed Mr. Bingley-Spyker....
He was glad when he woke up to find himself in his own room in his
own Government office at Whitehall, with the afternoon sun streaming
deliciously through the windows. Involuntarily he felt for his collar.
* * * * *