The one thus addressed growled, and murmured something about “rights.”
“Rights, is it?” demanded the corpuscle with the star, “I’d like to know what rights the likes of you has, anyhow, an idle loafer. Why don’t you get to work, like I do? Move on, now, or I’ll be after running you in for a vagrant,” and the grumbler moved slowly off, along a by-way, for the transit system was closed to such as he.
“Who are you?” asked the stranger corpuscle of the wearer of the star.
“Sure, I’m a p’lice corpuscle,” was the reply, “a gardeen of the pace, I’d have you know, an’ it’s a civil tongue you better be kapin’.”
The new comer had heard about the police corpuscles, and was about to engage this one in conversation, when his attention was arrested by a troop of white corpuscles who came along, each bearing a small burden of oxygen.
“Why!” he exclaimed, “What are these young things doing?”
“Working, to be sure; they’ve got to earn their kape, same’s the rest of us.”
“But these are the young of the race. I remember, now. I have heard that there have been slaves in this organism. I presume these are young slaves, yet remaining.”
The police corpuscle waxed indignant. “No, indeed!” he cried. “These are no slaves, but the offspring of free and independent corpuscles. We have here no slaves. These young corpuscles must help maintain themselves, and the families to which they belong. It’s not able the red corpuscles are, to hustle for all, these hard times, an’ it’s the little white ones must help.”
“But the corpuscle I just saw said there was a glut in the labor market.”