“Maybe we did, but I still don’t like people who bite the hand that feeds them.”
“Surely, it must have taken quite a bit of courage for some of these people to act on their convictions to the extent of helping you.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Arthur sourly. “If you ask me, these political convictions that make it O.K. to play someone else a dirty trick behind their backs have something pretty phony about them.”
“You’re quite a moralist, Arthur. What about the trick you were playing?”
“I’m not pretending to be better than I am. It’s these phonies I can’t stand. You should talk to some of them. Clever. Know all the answers. Prove anything you like. The sort you don’t want with you if you’re going out on a patrol, because, if things get sticky, they’re the ones who’ll start looking round for a reason for everybody to chuck in their hands and go home.”
“Does the Sergeant feel the same way about these things?”
“Him?” Arthur laughed. “No. He doesn’t bother. You see, I think there are all kinds of people. He doesn’t. He thinks there are only two kinds-those you’d want with you when things are bad, and those you wouldn’t have at any price.” He smiled slyly and added: “And he makes up his mind real quick.”
George lit his last cigarette and stared thoughtfully at Arthur for a moment. The suspicion suddenly became a certainty. He screwed up the empty pack and tossed it on the table.
“Where are they, Arthur?” he said.
“Where are who?” Arthur’s face was all innocence.