“It involves the creation of an army....” The words of the intimidated rabbit came back to his mind. “The man of stupendous organising power, who has brought together and welded into one the hundreds of societies similar to mine, who before this have each, on their own, been feebly struggling towards the light. Now we are combined, and our strength is due to him.”
In other words, the army was on the road to completion, an army where ninety per cent. of the fighters—duped by the remaining ten—would struggle blindly towards a dim, half-understood goal, only to find out too late that the whip of Solomon had been exchanged for the scorpion of his son....
“Why can’t they be made to understand, Mr. Green?” he cried bitterly. “The working-man—the decent fellow——”
The American thoughtfully picked his teeth.
“Has anyone tried to make ’em understand, Captain? I guess I’m no intellectual guy, but there was a French writer fellow—Victor Hugo—who wrote something that sure hit the nail on the head. I copied it out, for it seemed good to me.” From his pocket-book he produced a slip of paper. “‘The faults of women, children, servants, the weak, the indigent, and the ignorant are the fault of husbands, fathers, masters, the strong, the rich, and the learned.’ Wal!” he leaned back in his chair, “there you are. Their proper leaders have sure failed them, so they’re running after that bunch of cross-eyed skaters. And sitting here, watching ’em run, and laughing fit to beat the band, is your pal Peterson!”
It was at that moment that the telephone bell rang, and after a slight hesitation Hugh picked up the receiver.
“Very well,” he grunted, after listening for a while, “I will tell him.”
He replaced the receiver and turned to the American.
“Mr. Ditchling will be here for the meeting at two, and Peterson will be late,” he announced slowly.
“What’s Ditchling when he’s at home?” asked the other.