“Well, I think we’re all agreed, so far,” remarked Sweater. The others signified assent.
“And I think we all deserve a drink,” the Chief continued, producing a decanter and a box of cigars from a cupboard by the side of his desk. “Pass that water bottle from behind you, Didlum.”
“I suppose nobody won’t be comin’ in?” said the latter, anxiously. “I’m a teetotaler, you know.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Sweater, taking four glasses out of the cupboard and pouring out the whisky. “I’ve given orders that we’re not to be disturbed for anyone. Say when.”
“Well, ’ere’s success to Socialism,” cried Grinder, raising his glass, and taking a big drink.
“Amen—’ear, ’ear, I mean,” said Didlum, hastily correcting himself.
“Wot I likes about this ’ere business is that we’re not only doin’ ourselves a bit of good,” continued Grinder with a laugh, “we’re not only doin’ ourselves a bit of good, but we’re likewise doin’ the Socialists a lot of ’arm. When the ratepayers ’ave bought the Works, and they begins to kick up a row because they’re losin’ money over it—we can tell ’em that it’s Socialism! And then they’ll say that if that’s Socialism they don’t want no more of it.”
The other brigands laughed gleefully, and some of Didlum’s whisky went down the wrong way and nearly sent him into a fit.
“You might as well kill a man at once,” he protested as he wiped the tears from his eyes, “you might as well kill a man at once as choke ’im to death.”
“And now I’ve got a bit of good news for you,” said the Chief as he put his empty glass down.