As human beings with equal rights they were all anxious to join. They were all fired to the soul by Jameson Jameson’s eloquence. Even William pressed onward to give in his name, but was sternly ordered away by Robert.
“But I believe all you do,” he pleaded wistfully, “’bout want’n other people’s money an’ thinking we oughtn’t to work.”
“You’ve misunderstood me, my young friend,” said Jameson Jameson, with a sigh, “but we want numbers. There’s no reason why——”
“If that kid belongs, I’m not going to,” said Robert firmly.
“We might have a Junior Branch——” suggested one of them.
So thus it was finally settled. William became the Junior Branch of the Society of Reformed Bolshevists. Alone he was President and Secretary and Committee and Members. He resented any suggestion of enlarging the Junior Branch. He preferred to form the Branch himself. He held meetings of his Branch under the laurel bushes in the garden, and made eloquent speeches to an audience consisting of a few depressed daffodil roots, and sometimes the cat from next door.
“All gotter be equal,” he pronounced fiercely, “all gotter have lots of money. All ’uman beings. That’s sense, isn’t it? Is it sense or isn’t it?”
The cat from next door scratched its ear and slowly winked.
“Well, then,” said William, “someone ought to do somethin’.”
The Society of Advanced Bolshevists met next month in Robert’s room. William had left nothing to chance. He had heard Robert saying that he’d see no kids got in to this one, so he installed himself under Robert’s bed before anyone arrived. Robert looked round the room with a keen and threatening gaze before he ushered Jameson Jameson into the chair, or, to be more accurate, on to the bed. The meeting began.