“It may mean something like social revolution in little old England. No trains, no supplies, no industry anywhere. General paralysis until something smashes.”
“Abominable!” said the old gentleman with white whiskers. “We must smash the Trade Unions. They’re the curse of the country. I’d flog every man who comes out on strike.”
“Five million, maybe,” said Arthur Izzard, and he winked at Bertram, as though with secret understanding. He said something else, under his breath.
“The Comrades of the Great War.”
“I’d turn the machine-guns on to them,” said Miss Heathcote. It was the opinion of Lord Ottery’s groom.
Arthur Izzard smiled at her as he sat on the counter and swung his legs.
“I wonder if that would be wise—or kind—or safe?”
He waved his hand, as Bertram left the shop.
“Come in again, old man! I’ve excellent tobacco, new-laid eggs, home-made jam, young ferrets, old instruments, any old thing! And a private room for pals!”
“I certainly will!” said Bertram.