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Authors: Carol K. Carr
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chaps are women.”
“And women,” added Carsty. “The point is that the government has allowed in so many Macaronis and Frogs and Russkis that you can’t tell friend from foe.”
“Send ’em all back,” said the earl. “Why should we allow a pack of Russians to settle down in the East End?”
Carsty cracked a walnut. “There is some concern that if they were returned to Russia, they’d be murdered. You know, because they’re Jews, or revolutionaries who want to assassinate the tsar. Sometimes”—Carsty pried the sweetmeat from the shell—“they’re both.”
“Proves my point,” said the earl. “If the Russians don’t want these troublemakers, I don’t see why we should be forced to put up with ’em.”
“Hear, hear,” said the general, waving his glass. “Ought to put ’em down like we did the blasted Indians who mutinied in ’57. Catch a few of the crafty bastards and tie ’em to the barrel of an artillery piece. Makes a hell of an example for the others, when the bugger’s fired.”
There was universal approbation among the group. The general might be edging toward senility, but he still had his wits about him when it came to crushing rebellions.
“I suppose,” said Carsty, “that we’ll all have to keep a sharp eye out for threats. These anarchists do seem fixed on the idea of destroying our finest families.”
“What have we ever done to them?” asked young Arbuthnot.
The others looked at him pityingly. A good chap, but not a first-class intellect. A deuced fine shot, though, and always useful at making up the numbers for a game of polo.
The earl deigned to enlighten him. “They’re lunatics, Arbuthnot. They seem to think that every man is fit to rule himself, and governments aren’t needed. They want to kill off the old guard and the monarchs and let the common man and the workers have a go at running things.” He paused. “Or not running things. For the life of me, I don’t know how they expect things to happen unless someone’s around to make sure they do. Do they really think a coal miner could manage British foreign policy? Confusing business.” He shook his head briskly. “Anyway, what they believe is of no importance because it’s all balderdash.”
“Balderdash for which they’re willing to commit murder,” said Carsty.
“Put ’em on the firing line,” the general urged. “We’ll see if they’re willing to die for that balderdash. Most of these rebel types are cowards at heart. Most of ’em not fit to polish your boots.”
The group concurred with this assessment, and then conversation turned to more important matters, such as whether Romeo y Julietas or Partagás gave the finer smoke, and would the impending war between the Russians and the Turks mean a disruption in the supply of caviar from the Caspian Sea?
Shortly after midnight, the earl rose and took his leave.
“Wash out for anarchists,” Arbuthnot called gaily after him. Arbuthnot was very, very drunk.
The earl looked fierce. “Just let them try me. They’ll soon find they’ve meddled with the wrong man.”
“That’s the spirit,” said the general.
A yawning cloakroom attendant bundled the earl into his coat and muffler and handed him his hat. The earl dropped a coin into the man’s hand. Word had already been delivered to the mews that the Earl of Ebbechester desired his carriage to be sent round.
The driver touched his whip to his brim as the earl came down the steps. A footman opened the door, and the earl stepped up into his carriage, subsiding gratefully into the rich leather seats. The footman draped a woolen blanket over the earl’s knees, shut the door and rapped on the carriage. The horses stepped out and the earl sighed contentedly. A fine dinner, amiable conversation, excellent port. The simple pleasures of life. And now home to bed, to crawl between freshly ironed sheets while his valet placed two hot water bottles at his feet.
The door of the carriage was
“And women,” added Carsty. “The point is that the government has allowed in so many Macaronis and Frogs and Russkis that you can’t tell friend from foe.”
“Send ’em all back,” said the earl. “Why should we allow a pack of Russians to settle down in the East End?”
Carsty cracked a walnut. “There is some concern that if they were returned to Russia, they’d be murdered. You know, because they’re Jews, or revolutionaries who want to assassinate the tsar. Sometimes”—Carsty pried the sweetmeat from the shell—“they’re both.”
“Proves my point,” said the earl. “If the Russians don’t want these troublemakers, I don’t see why we should be forced to put up with ’em.”
“Hear, hear,” said the general, waving his glass. “Ought to put ’em down like we did the blasted Indians who mutinied in ’57. Catch a few of the crafty bastards and tie ’em to the barrel of an artillery piece. Makes a hell of an example for the others, when the bugger’s fired.”
There was universal approbation among the group. The general might be edging toward senility, but he still had his wits about him when it came to crushing rebellions.
“I suppose,” said Carsty, “that we’ll all have to keep a sharp eye out for threats. These anarchists do seem fixed on the idea of destroying our finest families.”
“What have we ever done to them?” asked young Arbuthnot.
The others looked at him pityingly. A good chap, but not a first-class intellect. A deuced fine shot, though, and always useful at making up the numbers for a game of polo.
The earl deigned to enlighten him. “They’re lunatics, Arbuthnot. They seem to think that every man is fit to rule himself, and governments aren’t needed. They want to kill off the old guard and the monarchs and let the common man and the workers have a go at running things.” He paused. “Or not running things. For the life of me, I don’t know how they expect things to happen unless someone’s around to make sure they do. Do they really think a coal miner could manage British foreign policy? Confusing business.” He shook his head briskly. “Anyway, what they believe is of no importance because it’s all balderdash.”
“Balderdash for which they’re willing to commit murder,” said Carsty.
“Put ’em on the firing line,” the general urged. “We’ll see if they’re willing to die for that balderdash. Most of these rebel types are cowards at heart. Most of ’em not fit to polish your boots.”
The group concurred with this assessment, and then conversation turned to more important matters, such as whether Romeo y Julietas or Partagás gave the finer smoke, and would the impending war between the Russians and the Turks mean a disruption in the supply of caviar from the Caspian Sea?
Shortly after midnight, the earl rose and took his leave.
“Wash out for anarchists,” Arbuthnot called gaily after him. Arbuthnot was very, very drunk.
The earl looked fierce. “Just let them try me. They’ll soon find they’ve meddled with the wrong man.”
“That’s the spirit,” said the general.
A yawning cloakroom attendant bundled the earl into his coat and muffler and handed him his hat. The earl dropped a coin into the man’s hand. Word had already been delivered to the mews that the Earl of Ebbechester desired his carriage to be sent round.
The driver touched his whip to his brim as the earl came down the steps. A footman opened the door, and the earl stepped up into his carriage, subsiding gratefully into the rich leather seats. The footman draped a woolen blanket over the earl’s knees, shut the door and rapped on the carriage. The horses stepped out and the earl sighed contentedly. A fine dinner, amiable conversation, excellent port. The simple pleasures of life. And now home to bed, to crawl between freshly ironed sheets while his valet placed two hot water bottles at his feet.
The door of the carriage was
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