Bill Hollis produced a halfpenny. A minute later he produced a note of disgust. “County’s beat. Yorkshire won by an innings an’ four runs. Funny thing, our chaps can’t never play against Yorkshire—not for sour apples.”
Mr. Goldman gave a slow deep grunt and then artistically readjusted his garland.
“Hirst six for twenty-two. Them Tykes can bahl a bit. Rhodes four for nineteen.”
Mr. Goldman grunted again. And it was now clear by the look in his small eyes that disapproval was intended. The Inferno of Dant with Lustrations by Door was still in his mind. That was the key to his neighbor’s financial failure, but this squandering of money, time and brain power on things of no value was just as significant.
“Cricket.” The tone was very scornful. “One o’ these days cricket is going to be the ruin of the country.”
William Hollis stoutly dissented. “It’s cricket that makes us what we are.”
“It’s business, Hollis, that makes a country.” There was an accession of moral superiority in the pawnbroker’s tone. ”That’s the thing that counts. All this sport is ruination—ruination, Hollis—the road to nowhere.”
William Hollis was unconvinced, but a man so successful had him at a hopeless disadvantage. In theory he was sure that he was right, but the pawnbroker knew that he had just made a composition with his creditors, so that it didn’t matter how sound the argument or how honest the cause, he was out of court. Truth doesn’t matter. It is public opinion that matters. And public opinion is conditioned by many subtleties, among which a banking account is foremost.
Bill Hollis covered his retreat from a position that should have been impregnable, by turning to another part of the paper which was the Blackhampton Evening Star.
“Ultimatum to Serbia. Ugly situation. I don’t think.”