_Returned Anglo-Indian Colonel_ (_to friend of his boyhood_). Either
your climate is colder than it used to be, or your coals throw out
less heat. Which is it?
_His Friend._ Oh, it's the coals. Rubbishy things, rather. Come from
Tomsk in Siberia.
_R. A.-I. C._ Siberia! They ought to be sent there! But aren't English
coals good enough?
_His Friend._ Oh, yes, they're _good_ enough. But then, you see,
they're dear. That's the result of the last coal strike.
_R. A.-I. C._ Oh, I heard about that at Bangalore. Then how about your
razors? I bought one yesterday in the Strand. If you believe me, I've
only used it once and it's blunt already.
_His Friend._ "Made in Germany," no doubt. The trade's gone over
there, they say.
_R. A.-I. C._ And boots, now. Why has the pair I got in the City a
month ago split open in two places?
_His Friend._ _That's_ the late boot strike. Cheap American goods have
ousted the genuine British article.
_R. A.-I. C._ (_meditatively_). Ah--heard of the boot strike too at
Bangalore. But I didn't find my bootmaker charged me any less than in
the old days for 'em. Tell you what, there's only one thing that will
save England.
_His Friend._ What's that?
_R. A.-I. C._ Why, a new kind of strike altogether. Why shouldn't the
strikers _strike striking?_ Eh?
_His Friend._ That never struck me.
[_They part pensively._
* * * * *