“I suppose it’s like Ireland, they don’t want to agree.”
“That’s about it. The Labour people want this revolution of theirs. What?”—and he looked at Somers with a long, smiling, sardonic leer, like a wink. “There’s a certain fact,” he continued, “as far as any electioneering success goes, they’re out of the running for a spell. What do you think of Trades Unions, one way and another?”
“I dislike them on the whole rather intensely. They’re just the nastiest profiteering side of the working man—they make a fool of him too, in my opinion.”
“Just my opinion. They make a fool of him. Wouldn’t it be nice to have them for bosses of the whole country? They very nearly are. But I doubt very much if they’ll ever cover the last lap—what?”
“Not if Kangaroo can help it,” said Somers.
“No!” William James flashed a quick look at him from his queer grey eyes. “What did you make of him then? Could you make him out?”
“Not quite. I never met anyone like him. The wonder to me is, he seems to have as much spare time for entertaining and amusing his guests, as if he had no work at all on hand.”
“Oh, that was just a special occasion. But he’s a funny sort of Saviour, isn’t he? Not much crown of thorns about him. Why, he’d look funny on a cross, what?”
“He’s no intention of being put on one, I think,” said Somers stiffly.
“Oh, I don’t know. If the wrong party got hold of him. There’s many mites in a pound of cheese, they say.”