They all laughed, and Stella pulled down her lengthening petticoats with an air of great offence, but John Murchison shook his head.
“If they manage it, they will be clever,” he said.
“Talking of Lancashire,” said Williams, “there are some funny fellows over there writing in the Press against a tax on foreign cotton because it’s going to ruin Lancashire. And at this very minute thousands of looms are shut down in Lancashire because of the high price of cotton produced by an American combine—and worse coming, sevenpence a pound I hear they’re going to have it, against the fourpence ha’penny they’ve got it up to already. That’s the sort of thing they’re afraid to discourage by a duty.”
“Would a duty discourage it?” asked John Murchison.
“Why not—if they let British-grown cotton in free? They won’t discourage the combine much—that form of enterprise has got to be tackled where it grows; but the Yankee isn’t the only person in the world that can get to understand it. What’s to prevent preferential conditions creating British combines, to compete with the American article, and what’s to prevent Lancashire getting cheaper cotton in consequence? Two combines are better than one monopoly any day.”
“May be so. It would want looking into. We won’t see a duty on cotton though, or wool either for that matter. The manufacturers would be pleased enough to get it on the stuff they make, but there would be a fine outcry against taxing the stuff they use.”
“Did you see much of the aristocracy, Mr Murchison?” asked Mrs Williams.
“No,” replied Lorne, “but I saw Wallingham.”
“You saw the whole House of Lords,” interposed Stella, “and you were introduced to three.”
“Well, yes, that’s so. Fine-looking set of old chaps they are, too. We’re a little too funny over here about the Lords—we haven’t had to make any.”