“Stop being foolish, Tom,” he said. “What Commonwealth are you talking about? This is not a Commonwealth—this is an unlimited dictatorship, and Bridget is sole dictator! Wake up; don’t you know a coup d’état when you see one? Can’t you tell a usurper by sight?”
Mr. Fenelby looked moodily at the kitchen door.
“That is what it is,” said Billy decidedly. “The dictator has smashed your republic under her iron heel; your laws are all back numbers—if she wants any laws, she will let you know. I know the signs. When a Great One rises up in the midst of a Republic and puts her hands on her hips and says ‘What are you going to do about it?’ and there isn’t anything to do about it, you have a dictator, and all that you can do is knuckle down and be good.”
There was a minute’s silence. The Commonwealth was dying hard.
“I could shake the money out of Bobberts’ bank,” said Mr. Fenelby, but even as he said it Bobberts wailed. His voice arose clear and strong in protest against that or against something else. The kitchen door swung open and the Dictator ran in and approached the Heir, and Bobberts held out his arms.
“Bless th’ darlin’,” said Bridget, cuddling him in her arms, but Mrs. Fenelby frowned.
“Give him to me,” she said sternly, and Bridget turned to her. And then, in the eyes of all the Commonwealth, Bobberts turned his back on his own mother and clung to the Dictator! Clung, and squealed, until the danger of separation was over.
“You see!” said Billy, triumphantly.
Mrs. Fenelby sighed. The Dictator had won. The tariff was dead.
“And in our house,” said Kitty, cheerfully, “we won’t have any tariff, will we, Billy?”