The Volcano appears to be in advance of The Daily Blast in its ideals, and immensely so in their expression. But here again I assured Stuttfield that no one took them seriously. "I don't suppose they take themselves seriously," I assured him. "They want to sell The Volcano, that's all."
"Yes," said Stuttfield, "but they do sell it, and people read it."
"I expect the circulation's about two thousand a week," I said consolingly. But Stuttfield, as I could see, was not consoled.
I met him at intervals after that, and on each occasion he seemed to be more obsessed with the notion that the "Reds" would overwhelm us all shortly.
"Russia is Red," he whispered; he always whispers now for fear of being overheard by a Red agent, though there was not very much risk of that in St. James's Street. "And what about India and China?"
"Red, black and yellow—the Zingari colours," I said ribaldly, and Stuttfield left me in disgust.
Then I heard from a friend that he had sold his cottage at Redhill. This was a bad sign, and I went to see him. I found him much worse.
"You've taken an overdose of The Volcano," I said.
He seized my arm with trembling fingers.
"The Red Revolution is upon us," he hissed.