My uncle ranged over the gilt labels of his bottles and drawers for a
while, dreaming of corners in this and that. But at last he reverted to
Wimblehurst again.

"You got to be in London when these things are in hand. Down here--!

"Jee-rusalem!" he cried. "Why did I plant myself here? Everything's
done. The game's over. Here's Lord Eastry, and he's got everything,
except what his lawyers get, and before you get any more change this way
you'll have to dynamite him--and them. HE doesn't want anything more
to happen. Why should he? Any chance 'ud be a loss to him. He wants
everything to burble along and burble along and go on as it's going
for the next ten thousand years, Eastry after Eastry, one parson down
another come, one grocer dead, get another! Any one with any ideas
better go away. They HAVE gone away! Look at all these blessed people
in this place! Look at 'em! All fast asleep, doing their business out
of habit--in a sort of dream, Stuffed men would do just as well--just.
They've all shook down into their places. THEY don't want anything to
happen either. They're all broken in. There you are! Only what are they
all alive for?...

"Why can't they get a clockwork chemist?"

He concluded as he often concluded these talks. "I must invent
something,--that's about what I must do. Zzzz. Some convenience.
Something people want.... Strike out.... You can't think, George, of
anything everybody wants and hasn't got? I mean something you could turn
out retail under a shilling, say? Well, YOU think, whenever you haven't
got anything better to do. See?"