He lounged further back in the shadows upon his packing-case; he appeared not to be feeling well at all. Varney regarded him with puzzled interest.
"A very depressing little story," he suggested, "but after all, hardly a novel one. I don't yet altogether grasp why—"
"Your Jeffries of a friend is a red-hot political theorist, isn't he?" asked the other apathetically. "Our Hunston politicians are practical men. They are after results, and seek them with small regard, I fear, to copy-book precepts. You follow me? Rusticating strangers, visiting sociological students, itinerant idealists, these would do well to speak softly and walk on the sunny side of the road."
"You appear," said Varney, his curiosity increasingly piqued, "to speak of these matters with authority—"
"Rather let us say with certitude."
"Possibly you yourself have felt the iron-toothed bite of the machine?"
"I?"
"Why not?"
The young man looked shocked; slowly his pale face took on a look of cynical amusement. "Yes, yes. Certainly. Who more so?" He appeared to hesitate a moment, and then added with a laugh which held a curious tinge of defiance: "In fact, I myself have the honor of being the owner and editor of the Gazette—Coligny Smith, at your service—"
"Coligny Smith!" echoed Varney amazed.