My companion had come into the compartment hurriedly just as the train
started. He was a small, middle-aged, sandy-haired man with a straggling
tufted beard, the sort of beard that looks as if it owed its origin
rather to forgetfulness than to any settled design. The expression on
his face and, indeed, over his whole body was a deprecating one. He
reminded me of a dog who has transgressed and begs humbly for
forgiveness. He had no newspaper, and accepted the offer of one of mine
with a deference of gratitude that struck me as excessive. Soon after
that we slid into a conversation about the War and made most of the
usual remarks.
"It's wonderful," he said, "how the country maintains its financial
stability. Five millions a day, you know. It's a pretty big sum, and yet
nobody seems to feel it. Here we are, for instance, you and I,
travelling first-class."
"My next season-ticket is going to be third-class," I said. "All
business has been hit very hard, and we've simply got to economise."
"I daresay, I daresay," he said. "It may be so with some businesses. All
I know is my business hasn't gone off."
"Shipowner?" I said.
He gasped and shook his head emphatically. "Oh dear, no," he said.
"Nothing of that kind--wish I was. But you won't guess what I do, not if
I were to let you have a thousand guesses." His humility had vanished
and he looked almost triumphant.
"I give it up at once," I said. "What are you?"
"I," he said, "am the National Scape-Goat Association."
"The _what_?" I said.
He repeated his words. "I see you don't understand," he went on, "so
perhaps I'd better explain."
"Yes," I said, "much better."
"Well, it's this way," he said. "Have you ever written a book or been a
Candidate for a seat in the House of Commons?"