There was no answer—only a gasp of wonder and admiration.
Jameson Jameson (whose parents had perpetrated on him the supreme practical joke of giving him his surname for a Christian name, so that people who addressed him by his full name always seemed to be indulging in some witticism) brought down his fist upon the table with a bang.
“Then it’s somebody’s duty to make us equal. It’s only common justice, isn’t it? You admit that? Those who haven’t money must be given money, and those who have too much must have some taken off them. We want Equality. And no more Tyranny. The working-class must have Freedom. And who’s going to do it?”
He thrust his hand into his coat front in a manner reminiscent of the late Mr. Gladstone and glared at his audience from under scowling brows.
“Ah, who?” gasped the audience.
“It’s here that the Bolshevists come in!”
“Bolshevists?” said Robert, aghast.
“The Bolshevists are very much misjudged and—er—maligned,” retorted Jameson Jameson, with emotion. “Shamefully misjudged and——” he wasn’t sure whether he’d pronounced it right, so he ended feebly, “what I said before. I’m not,” he admitted frankly, “in direct communication with Lenin, but I’ve read about it in a magazine, and I know a bit about it from that. The Bolshevists want to share things out so as we’re equal, and that’s only right, isn’t it? ’Cause we’re all human beings, and as such are equal, and as such have equal rights. Well, that’s clear, isn’t it? Does anyone,” he glared round fiercely, “wish to contradict me?”
No one did. William, who was sitting in a draught, sneezed and was annihilated by a glance from Robert.
“Well,” he continued, “I propose to form a Bolshevist Society, first of all, just to start with. You see, the Bolshevists have gone to extremes, but we’ll join the Bolshevist party and—and purge it of all where it’s wrong now. Now, who’ll join the Society?”