Part 20 (1/2)

I did not mean that. I am, indeed, pretty sure that if there were no Aschers, if Gorman succeeded in abolis.h.i.+ng the cla.s.s, neither the city clerk, nor his pretty wife, nor any one else in England would eat hothouse peaches. There would not be any. I am inclined to think that if Ascher were done away with there would not even be any tinned peaches.

Tinned peaches come from California. Somebody grows them there. That man must be kept going, fed, clothed sufficiently, housed, while the peach trees grow. He must be financed. Somebody else collects the peaches, puts them into tins, solders air-tight lids on them, pastes labels round them. He works with borrowed money. Somebody packs the tins in huge cases, puts them in trains, piles them into s.h.i.+ps, despatches them to London, getting his power to do these things in some mysterious way from Ascher.

”While she washes up the cups and saucers,” said Gorman, ”he brings round that motor cycle.”

”Paid for,” I said, ”in monthly instalments.”

”Probably,” said Gorman, ”with a deposit of 25 to start with.”

”It's Ascher,” I said, ”who makes that possible.”

”It's Ascher,” said Gorman, ”who makes that necessary. If it were not for Ascher's rake-off, the tax he levies on every industry, the machine could be bought right out for the original 25 and there would be no instalments to be paid.”

Possibly. But the tires of the machine were made of rubber. I remembered my visit to Para, the broad, steaming Amazon, the great s.h.i.+ps crawling slowly past walls of forest trees, the pallid white men, the melancholy Indians. It may be possible to devise some other means of getting the precious gum from the Brazilian forest; but at present the whole business is dependent on Ascher.

We left that motor cycle behind us at last and sped faster along a stretch of road where the traffic was less dense.

”You notice,” said Gorman, ”the way London is swallowing up the country.

That was once a rural inn.”

I had observed what Gorman pointed out to me. Here and there along the road, a mile or so apart from each other, we came on old buildings, a group of cottages, a farm house, an inn. These were solidly built after the good old fas.h.i.+on. It had seemed wasteful to pull them down. The waves of the advancing tide of London reached them, pa.s.sed them, swept beyond them, left them standing.

”Quite a few years ago,” said Gorman, ”those houses stood in the middle of fields, and the people who lived in them ate the food that grew at their doors.”

”No tinned peaches,” I said, ”no bicycles.”

”And no Ascher,” said Gorman.

”Well,” I said, ”we can't go back.”

”In Ireland,” he said, ”we needn't go on. If we can only get clear of this cursed capitalistic civilisation of England--that's what I mean by being a Home Ruler.”

”You think,” I said, ”that we should be too wise to accept the yoke of Ascher, to barter our freedom for tinned peaches.”

”We'll get the tinned peaches, too.”

”No, you won't. If you have civilisation--and that includes a lot of things besides tinned peaches, tobacco for instance, Gorman. If you want a cigar you'll have to put up with Ascher. But I daresay you'd be better without it. Only I don't think I'll live in your Ireland, Gorman.”

We pa.s.sed away from London in the end, got out beyond the last tentative reachings of the speculative builder, into country lane-ways. There were hedges covered with hawthorn, and the scent of it reached us as we rushed past. Gorman threw away a half-smoked cigar. Perhaps he wanted to enjoy the country smells. Perhaps he was preparing himself for life in the new Ireland which he hoped to bring into being.

We reached the barn in which Tim Gorman lived, at about nine o'clock.

He was waiting for us, dressed in his best clothes. I knew they were his best clothes because they were creased all over in wrong places, showing that they had been packed away tightly in some receptacle too small to hold them. It is only holiday clothes which are treated in this way.

Besides putting on this suit, Tim had paid us the compliment of was.h.i.+ng his face and hands for the first time, I imagine, for many days.

He shook hands with me shyly, and greeted his brother with obvious nervousness.

”I have everything ready,” he said, ”quite ready. But I can't promise---- You may be disappointed---- I've had endless difficulties---- If you will allow me to explain----”

”Not a bit of good explaining to us,” said Gorman. ”All we're capable of judging is the results.”

Tim sighed and led us into the barn.