"It has burst up all the old conventions, and we've got to finish
the destruction before we can build. It is the same with literature
and religion, and society and politics. At them with the axe, say I.
I have no use for priests and pedants. I've no use for upper classes
and middle classes. There's only one class that matters, the plain
man, the workers, who live close to life."

"The place for you," said Dickson dryly, "is in Russia among
the Bolsheviks."

Mr. Heritage approved. "They are doing a great work in their
own fashion. We needn't imitate all their methods--they're a trifle
crude and have too many Jews among them--but they've got hold of the
right end of the stick. They seek truth and reality."

Mr. McCunn was slowly being roused.

"What brings you wandering hereaways?" he asked.

"Exercise," was the answer. "I've been kept pretty closely tied up
all winter. And I want leisure and quiet to think over things."

"Well, there's one subject you might turn your attention to.
You'll have been educated like a gentleman?"

"Nine wasted years--five at Harrow, four at Cambridge."

"See here, then. You're daft about the working-class and have no
use for any other. But what in the name of goodness do you know
about working-men?... I come out of them myself, and have lived next