“The situation—the very difficult and distressing situation is this,” said Clithering, “stated roughly it is this. The Government has proclaimed to-morrow’s meeting.”
“That,” I said, “is the pit into which—I don’t want to be offensive—I’ll say, your ox has fallen.”
“And the town is full of troops and police. Any attempt to hold the meeting can only result in bloodshed, deplorable bloodshed, the lives of men and women, innocent women sacrificed.”
“The strength of Babberly’s position,” I said, “is that he doesn’t think bloodshed deplorable.”
“But he does. He told me so in London. He repeated the same thing this morning.”
“I don’t mean Babberly personally,” I said, “I mean his party; Malcolmson, you know, and our Dean. If you’d only gone to hear the Dean preach this morning you’d know what he thinks about blood. I’ve often heard him say that the last drop of it—mind that now, Sir Samuel—the last drop ought to be shed. That’s going as far as any one very well could, isn’t it?”
“But he must,” said Clithering, “he must think bloodshed deplorable.”
“No, he doesn’t,” I said. “You mustn’t think everybody is like your Government. It’s humanitarian. We’re not. We’re business men.”
Clithering caught at the last phrase. It appealed to him. He did not know the meaning attached to it by Cahoon.