“Very pretty!” Again Sir Munt paid involuntary tribute. “Very nice,
indeed!” He handed the leaflet to his friend. “What do you think on it,
Murrell?”
The Alderman adjusted a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses, a replica of
the Mayor’s, and read the document with care.
“Charwomen don’t cut much ice, anyway,” was the comment of Alderman
Murrell.
The further-seeing man of affairs took him up sharply. “Don’t make any
mistake, my boy. Charwomen have all got a vote these days, the same as
you and me. That’s where the fun comes in. Aunt Mittie’s _Own Journal_
sells its millions of copies a week. And if you subscribe to it, you
get reductions on everything from a nightgown edged with Honiton lace
to a bottle of lime juice cordial. You can also ballot for free tickets
to the movies, the Christmas Goose Club and the U. P. Burial Society.
I tell you, my boy, you get your money’s worth with Aunt Mittie’s _Own
Journal_.”
“How they do it for twopence a week--that’s what gets me!” The mind of
the linendraper Imperialist moved in a rather narrow orbit.
“They don’t do it--not on the paper. But what they lose on the swings,
they get back on the roundabouts. And don’t forget this, Murrell, if
it comes to a showdown the U. P. can afford to lose on the swings _and_
on the roundabouts, because the cocoanuts, my boy, will get them home
every time. And why, Murrell?” A touch of forensic passion had begun to
work in the veins of Blackhampton’s first citizen. “Because Mugs like
you and me are the cocoanuts. We are being milked dry, my boy--we, the
Middle Classes, the folk who have a bit to lose and haven’t learnt to
defend it. The Charwomen’s Conference is up-to-date Communism, my boy,
with a certain newspaper Boss behind it all. He and his Ring, who have
corralled the country’s power, are keeping the workers quiet by showing
them how to dip their hands in the pockets of you and me.”