Rot! D---- rotten jingo slush! What the hades has the King done for
you and me?" roared a red-faced passenger at the other end of the car.
This was none other than Bill Neverwork, secretary of the Weary
Willies' Union and Socialist M.P. for the town of Wearyville.

"Go an' boil yer old fat 'ead!" said Bill, calmly lighting his pipe.

"Ye turnip-faced spalpeen, oi'll cut yer dirty thrapple wid my gully
knife."

"Rot!"

"You beastly fellow!" said Claud, giving him a scornful look.

But this Socialist gentleman was not to be denied. He would speak.
"Listen, boys," he roared above the din.

"All right, father--we'll listen," said Bill, giving the others a nod.
Peace reigned, then Neverwork commenced.

"Boys, you've been fooled. Why should you fight for Hengland----"

"Britain, please--I'm a Scot," interjected Sandy.

"Well, what has Britain done for Australia? We don't want Hengland to
hinterfere with our business and get hour boys killed. We've enough
work 'ere to do. This is the working man's paradise. And we can make
it a sight bigger paradise. We want more men like me."

"'Ave a banana," chirped Bill.

"Yes, mates; we want Socialism. We're going to get a Republic. We'll
cut the painter. Curse England!"

"Britain, auld cock!" interjected Sandy again.

"Curse Britain--and you, ye porridge-faced hemigrant! It's the
hemigrants that spoil this country. Kick them out, I say. Australia
for Australians. That's my motto, mates. I know what I'm talking
about. I'm Bill Neverwork----"

"B.F. for Wearyville," interjected Bill as he got up. "And now, you
puddin'-headed red flagger, if you'll sit down, I'll have a cut in."
The bucolic M.P. collapsed in his seat, wiping the perspiration off his
beetled brow with the aid of a navvy's red handkerchief.

"Now, boys, you know me."

"Good old Bill--give it him!"

"This gent, what is called M.P., is a worm. I'm a Union man--we're all
Union men. Andy Fisher's a Union man, and so is Pearce, the chap
that's defending Australia. But there's Union men and Union men.
They're mainly good, but some are bad. That's one of the bad ones
there. His name is Neverwork, and he never worked in his life. He's a
blowhard, a gasbagger, a balloon full of curses and twaddle. This
bloke thinks we're fools. He's kidded his Union on that he's a smart
fellow--a sort of High Priest of Salvation. He's talked himself into a
job, and he's drawing about five hundred a year