“That is so, Mr. Goldman. And they say that in America it’s even worse. In fact, wherever you look the competition is cruel.”
“Yes, Hollis, a real good war would do a power of good. We want Old Boney back again—then there might be breathing space for a bit. As it is this country is overrun with aliens.”
William assented gloomily.
“This town of ours, my boy, is crawling with Germans. They come over here and take the bread out of our mouths. They work for nothing and they live on nothing. They learn all our trades and then they go back to the Fatherland, and undersell us.”
Said Bill Hollis with the air of a prophet, “I reckon that sooner or later we’ll be having a scrap with the Germans.”
“Not likely.” The pawnbroker’s tone was a little contemptuous. “The Germans can get all they want without fighting. Peaceful penetration’s their game. They are the cleverest nation in the world. In another twenty years they’ll own it all.”
Upon this last expression of his wisdom Mr. Goldman gave a final touch to his straw hat and its cool garland, waddled down a box-bordered path and out of the gate at the bottom of his garden.