“Working towards a revolution in this country,” he remarked quietly.
“Sure thing,” answered the American. “And when he brings it off, I guess you won’t catch Peterson for dust. He’ll pocket the boodle, and the boobs will stew in their own juice. I guessed it in Paris; that book makes it a certainty. But it ain’t criminal. In a Court of Law he could swear it was an organisation for selling bird-seed.”
For a while Drummond smoked in silence, while the two sleepers shifted uneasily in their chairs. It all seemed so simple in spite of the immensity of the scheme. Like most normal Englishmen, politics and labour disputes had left him cold in the past; but no one who ever glanced at a newspaper could be ignorant of the volcano that had been simmering just beneath the surface for years past.
“Not one in a hundred”—the American’s voice broke into his train of thought—“of the so-called revolutionary leaders in this country are disinterested, Captain. They’re out for Number One, and when they’ve talked the boys into bloody murder, and your existing social system is down-and-out, they’ll be the leaders in the new one. That’s what they’re playing for—power; and when they’ve got it, God help the men who gave it to ’em.”
Drummond nodded, and lit another cigarette. Odd things he had read recurred to him: trade unions refusing to allow discharged soldiers to join them; the reiterated threats of direct action. And to what end?
A passage in a part of the ledger evidently devoted to extracts from the speeches of the first-class general lecturers caught his eye:
“To me, the big fact of modern life is the war between classes.... People declare that the method of direct action inside a country will produce a revolution. I agree ... it involves the creation of an army....”
And beside the cutting was a note by Peterson in red ink:
“An excellent man! Send for protracted tour.”
The note of exclamation appealed to Hugh; he could see the writer’s tongue in his cheek as he put it in.