Mr. Goldman asked why he didn’t.
“A dodge to sell the paper.”
“I expect you’re right,” said the pawnbroker judicially. “They’ve always got some flam or other.”
“Civil war in Ireland,” announced Bill Hollis.
“I daresay. And next week we shall have the sea serpent and the giant gooseberry. And all for a halfpenny, mark you. We’re living in great days, Hollis.”
The little greengrocer was silent a moment and then he said thoughtfully, “I sometimes think, Mr. Goldman, what this country wants is a really good war.”
Mr. Goldman smiled in a superior way. “Well, I don’t mind telling you,” he said, “that I’ve thought that for the last twenty years. Not this country only, but Europe, the whole world.”
“You’re right, Mr. Goldman.” There was a grandeur in the conception that in spite of the weather almost moved his neighbor to enthusiasm.
“Stands to reason, my boy, and I’ll tell you why. The world is overpoppylated. Look at this town of ours.” With the finger of an Olympian the pawnbroker pointed down the hillside to the smoking cauldron below. “Poppylation two hundred and sixty odd thousand at the last census. And when I first set up in business, the year before the Franco-Prussian War, it was seventy-two thousand. And it’s not only here, it’s all over the world alike.”