Mr. Morgan’s jaw dropped.
“What?” he gasped.
“I say there’s danger,” said the boy again rather irritably, “if you go in that house you’ll never come out alive.”
“B—but it’s my house,” said Mr. Morgan, “I’ve often been in and come out alive.”
“Come here and I’ll show you,” whispered William. “Come round here.”
He led the amazed but unprotesting householder round to the lighted window of the library.
“There!” he said, “look at that.”
THERE IN MR. MORGAN’S LIBRARY, WITH HIS FEET ON THE
WRITING TABLE, SAT A BRUTAL COMMUNIST COMMANDER,
WITH A PRISONER TREMBLING BEFORE HIM IN THE
HANDS OF BRUTAL COMMUNIST SOLDIERS.
Mr. Morgan looked at it while his mouth and eyes slowly opened to an almost incredible extent and his cheeks grew paler and paler. There in his library, with feet on his writing table, sat a brutal communist commander beneath the red flag. Brutal communist soldiers lounged in all his best chairs and some poor unhappy prisoner stood trembling before the brutal communist commander.