the
heirs of all the ages that have gone before.'

Some of them began to wonder whether Owen was not sane after all. He
certainly must be a clever sort of chap to be able to talk like this.
It sounded almost like something out of a book, and most of them could
not understand one half of it.

'Why is it,' continued Owen, 'that we are not only deprived of our
inheritance--we are not only deprived of nearly all the benefits of
civilization, but we and our children and also often unable to obtain
even the bare necessaries of existence?'

No one answered.

'All these things,' Owen proceeded, 'are produced by those who work. We
do our full share of the work, therefore we should have a full share of
the things that are made by work.'

The others continued silent. Harlow thought of the over-population
theory, but decided not to mention it. Crass, who could not have given
an intelligent answer to save his life, for once had sufficient sense
to remain silent. He did think of calling out the patent paint-pumping
machine and bringing the hosepipe to bear on the subject, but abandoned
the idea; after all, he thought, what was the use of arguing with such
a fool as Owen?

Sawkins pretended to be asleep.

Philpot, however, had suddenly grown very serious.

'As things are now,' went on Owen, 'instead of enjoying the advantages
of civilization we are really worse off than slaves, for if we were
slaves our owners in their own interest would see to it that we always
had food and--'

'Oh, I don't see that,' roughly interrupted old Linden, who had been
listening with evident anger and impatience. 'You can speak for
yourself, but I can tell yer I don't put MYSELF down as a slave.'

'Nor me neither,' said Crass sturdily. 'Let them call their selves
slaves as wants to.'

At this moment a footstep was heard in the passage leading to the
kitchen. Old Misery! or perhaps the bloke himself! Crass hurriedly
pulled out his watch.

'Jesus Christ!' he gasped. 'It's four minutes past one!'

Linden frantically seized hold of a pair of steps and began wandering
about the room with them.

Sawkins scrambled hastily to his feet and, snatching a piece of
sandpaper from the pocket of his apron, began furiously rubbing down
the scullery door.

Easton threw down the copy of the Obscurer and scrambled hastily to his
feet.

The boy crammed the Chronicles of Crime into his trousers pocket.

Crass rushed over to the bucket and began