Second W. I. M. (interrupting). What taxes?
First W. I. M. (flustered). I wish you wouldn't break in just as I'm trying to make things clear. Why, the taxes on food, of course.
Second W. I. M. There aren't any taxes on food.
First W. I. M. Oh, indeed! Well, then, how do you explain Free Trade, and rent, and all that?
Second W. I. M. Now you're getting a bit nearer. It's all a question of rent. Free Trade's got absolutely nothing to do with it. What we want in this country is a Sliding-scale.
Inquirer. What's a Sliding-scale?
Second W. I. M. (taken between wind and water). A Sliding-scale? Let me see—it's very difficult to put these things shortly. A Sliding-scale is a——well, it's a sort of patent mechanical contrivance for weighing out things, so as to make it fairer than ordinary scales do. (Plunges recklessly.) You can make it slide up or down, you know, and fix it at any point you like.
Inquirer. Really! What a rum-looking thing it must be. Have you ever seen one?
Second W. I. M. Oh yes. They've got two or three in every big town.
Average Man. When did you last see it?