Stuttfield was nothing of a NERO. He would never have fiddled while
Rome burned. He would have been more likely to imagine that Rome was
burning when there was really nothing more going on than a bonfire.
He is one more example of the pernicious influence of sensational
literature upon a nervous temperament.
It all began through Stuttfield finding a copy of _The Daily Blast_ in
a railway carriage last June. This journal is printed on white paper,
but the tendency of its contents is ruddy--that is to say, it has
"Red" leanings. It was a revelation to Stuttfield.
"Are people _allowed_ to say such things?" he asked me in horror.
"My dear fellow, no one takes it seriously," I said. "Don't you
worry."
But Stuttfield did worry. _The Daily Blast_ had the same effect upon
him as a snake has upon a rabbit; it terrified him, yet he could not
run away from it. In fact he became a regular subscriber and continued
so despite some rumours that it was supported financially by the
Rougetanians--rumours which required, and received, a great deal of
explanation.
Then, through the offices of his man-servant, he obtained a copy of
_The Volcano_.
_The Volcano_ appears to be in advance of _The Daily Blast_ in its
ideals, and immensely so in their expression. But here again I assured
Stuttfield that no one took them seriously. "I don't suppose they
take themselves seriously," I assured him. "They want to sell _The
Volcano_, that's all."
"Yes," said Stuttfield, "but they do sell it, and people read it."
"I expect the circulation's about two thousand a week," I said
consolingly. But Stuttfield, as I could see, was not consoled.
I met him at intervals after that, and on each occasion he seemed to
be more obsessed with the notion that the "Reds" would overwhelm us
all shortly.
"Russia is Red," he whispered; he always whispers now for fear of
being overheard by a Red agent, though there was not very much risk of
that in St. James's Street. "And what about India and China?"
"Red, black and yellow--the Zingari colours," I said ribaldly, and
Stuttfield left me in disgust.
Then I heard from a friend that he had sold his cottage at Redhill.
This was a bad sign, and I went to see him. I found him much worse.
"You've taken an overdose of _The Volcano_," I said.
He seized my arm with trembling fingers.
"The Red Revolution is upon us," he hissed.
I laughed. "Don't you worry about the Red Revolution. You come out to
lunch."
He would hardly be persuaded. Clubs and restaurants would be attacked
first, he thought. If we lunched together it had better be in
an eating-house in Bermondsey. "I have a disguise," he said, and
disclosed a complete proletarian outfit.
"Well, I haven't," I said. "Not that these clothes of mine will lead
anyone to mistake me for a capitalist. But, so far as lunch goes,
hadn't we better be killed by a Red bomb at the Fitz than by tripe in
Bermondsey?"
Stuttfield could not but admit the sense of this, so we started out.
It is widely recognised that Flag Days, however admirable their
objects, have been a little overdone. But it was sheer bad luck that
brought Stuttfield face to face with a flag-seller just as we were
entering the Fitz. She came at him with a determined aspect and began
"The Red Cr----"
It was enough. Poor Stuttfield was across the pavement and into a taxi
before I could stop him. There was nothing for me to do but follow
him.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Waterloo," he answered through blanched lips. I could get nothing
more from him.
At Waterloo he sprang out, leaving me to pay the cab, and disappeared
into the station. I followed as quickly as I could, but he was nowhere
to be seen.
"Where would he go to hide from the Reds?" I asked myself. Suddenly I
had an idea about his destination.
I was right. In the foremost carriage I found him. I tried to persuade
him to come out, but he clung to the rack. So I left him. I have not
seen him since.