Part 16 (1/2)

”Still working with that circus?”

”Oh, dear no. Left that months ago. He got some money. No, I didn't give it to him. I fancy it must have been Ascher. Anyhow he's got it. He's down in Hertfords.h.i.+re now, living in a barn.”

”Why? A barn seems an odd place to live in. Draughty, I should think.”

”He wanted s.p.a.ce,” said Gorman, ”a great deal of s.p.a.ce to work at his experiments. I'm inclined to think there may be something in this new idea of his.”

”The living picture idea? Making real ghosts of the figures?”

”That's it. And, do you know, he's getting at it. He showed me some perfectly astonis.h.i.+ng results the other day. If he pulls it off----”

”You won't let Ascher get hold of it this time,” I said.

Gorman frowned.

”I wouldn't let Ascher touch it if I could help it, but what the devil can I do? We shall want capital and I suppose Ascher is no worse than the rest of them.”

By ”them” Gorman evidently meant capitalists in general and financiers in particular.

”That's the way,” he said. ”Not only do these scoundrels control politics, reducing the whole system of democracy to a farce----”

”Come now,” I said, ”don't blame the capitalists for that. Democracy would be a farce if there never was such a thing as a capitalist.”

”Not content with that,” said Gorman, ”they keep an iron grip upon industry. They fatten on the fruits of other men's brains. They hold the working man in thrall, exploiting his energy for their own selfish greed, starving his women and children----”

Gorman ought to keep that sort of thing for public meetings. It is thoroughly bad form to make speeches to an audience of one. I must say that he seldom does. I suppose that his intimate a.s.sociation with Mrs.

Ascher had spoiled his manners in this respect. She encouraged him to be oratorical. But I am not Mrs. Ascher, and I saw no reason why I should stand that kind of thing at my own dinner table.

”But the day is coming,” I said, ”when organised labour will rise in its might and claim its heritage in the fair world which lies bathed in the sunlight of a n.o.bler age.”

Gorman looked at me doubtfully for an instant, only for a single instant. Almost immediately his eyes twinkled and he smiled good-humouredly.

”You ought to go in for politics,” he said. ”You really ought. I apologise. Can't think what came over me to talk like that.”

I cannot resist Gorman when he smiles. I felt that I too owed an apology.

”After all,” I said, ”you must practise somewhere. I don't blame you in the least; though I don't profess to like it. No one can do that sort of thing extempore and if it happens to suit you to rehea.r.s.e at dinner----”

”Nonsense,” said Gorman. ”There's not the slightest necessity for practice. I could do it by the hour and work sums in my head at the same time. Any one could.”

Gorman is modest. Very few people can make speeches like his, fortunately for the world.

”All the same,” he said, reverting abruptly to the starting point of his speech, ”it's a pity we have to let Ascher into this new cinematograph racket; but we can't help it. In fact I expect he's in already.”

”Lending money to Tim for experiments?”

”He wouldn't do that,” said Gorman, ”unless he'd made sure of his share of the spoil afterwards.”

”Gorman,” I said, ”why don't you make a law to suppress Ascher. You believe in making laws, and, according to your own showing, that would be a very useful one.”