It died out—one could hear the sigh—in sudden wrathful realisation of the dreary hours ahead, and the ship of state drifted on.
Then Pallant—and the raw House winced at the torture of his voice—rose. It was a twenty-line question, studded with legal technicalities. The gist of it was that he wished to know whether the appropriate Minister was aware that there had been a grave miscarriage of justice on such and such a date, at such and such a place, before such and such justices of the peace, in regard to a case which arose
I heard one desperate, weary 'damn!' float up from the pit of that torment. Pallant sawed on—'out of certain events which occurred at the village of Huckley.'
The House came to attention with a parting of the lips like a hiccough, and it flashed through my mind. . . . Pallant repeated, 'Huckley. The village'
'That voted the Earth was flat.' A single voice from a back Bench sang it once like a lone frog in a far pool.
'Earth was flat,' croaked another voice opposite.
'Earth was flat.' There were several. Then several more.
It was, you understand, the collective, over-strained nerve of the House, snapping, strand by strand to various notes, as the hawser parts from its moorings.
'The Village that voted the Earth was flat.' The tune was beginning to shape itself. More
