“I never thought of it like that,” said Rupert, whose crude ideas of Labor were rather derived from his public school, and occasional reading of reactionary London newspapers, than from his home. “I wonder if they are grateful?”
“Their gratitude or their ingratitude has no bearing on my duty,” said Sir Philip.
“But aren’t there strikes?”
“You might put it that since ’ninety-three we have bowdlerized strikes in Lancashire. We fight with buttons on our foils, thanks to the Brooklands agreement.”
Rupert tried to look comprehending, but he could only associate motor-racing with Brooklands. “Still,” he said, “I don’t believe they are grateful. There’s that Bradshaw beast.”
“Ah!” said Philip, “Bradshaw! Bradshaw!” The name pricked him shrewdly. “But no,” he said, “he’s not a beast.”
“He’s Labor Member for Staithley,” said Rupert. “I see their gratitude less and less.”
“Well,” said his father, “we were speaking of tradition. The Bradshaws come into the Hepplestall tradition. A wastrel gang and queerly against us in every period. A Bradshaw was hanged for the murder of Reuben’s wife. There were Chartist Bradshaws, two turbulent brothers, in my grandfather’s day. In my day, Tom Bradshaw was strike leader here in the great strike of ’ninety-two.”
“And they sent him to Parliament for it,” said Rupert hotly.
“Tom’s not a bad fellow, Rupert. I admit he’s their masterpiece. The rest of the Bradshaws are work-shys and some of them are worse than that. But they do crop up as a traditional thorn in our flesh and I daresay you’ll have your battle with a Bradshaw. Nearly every Hepplestall has had, but if he’s no worse a chap than Tom, M. P., you’ll have a clean fighter against you. But there’s a more serious tradition than the Bradshaws, a fighting tradition, too, a Hepplestall against a Hepplestall, a son against a father.”