“That’s what they are, most of ’em—dirt.”
Grimshaw smiled derisively, beholding in Gridley the reactionary of the Labour Party, the common type that rides rough-shod over the foot-passengers, bespattering them with mud. Some of the self-styled leaders of Labour in Poplar were just like him—arrogant, insolent and ignorant, seeking their own advancement with specious canting words on their thick lips, secretly distrusted by the very class whom they tried to rule and direct. He divined that Gridley hated, in his heart, the benefactress who trusted him, that he would be the first—given the opportunity—to bite the hand that had fed him. And such men scorn decent treatment. They can be subdued by the weapon they use—the lash. Grimshaw continued, not so quietly:
“I’m on to your little games. You and that greedy idiot, the sanitary inspector, and four-fifths of the district council, play into each other’s hands, and laugh and wink over it.”
Gridley tried sarcasm:
“Ho! Downin’ one of your own sort now?”
“You allude to our local medical officer. I wonder how you’d like me to take on that job?”
“Why don’t you?” He laughed again.
“I may,” replied Grimshaw incisively, “Lady Selina Chandos has always wanted to do her best for her people, but that never suited your book. Why? Because when light comes to her you’ll be scrapped first.”
“Have it your own way, Mr. Grimshaw, and thanks for warning me.”
“I do warn you. For the moment, I shall leave her ladyship in peace. I am dealing with you. Mend your ways here and now. Does the new flooring go in at once—or not?”