't strike if only they understand;
unless in the understanding they find something they know to be wrong
and unjust."

"I was talking to that Labour fellow--Ramage--the other day," said Vane
thoughtfully. "According to him State control of everything is the
only panacea. And he says it's coming. . . ."

"Dare say it will," returned the other. "The principle remains the
same. With sympathy nine out of ten strikes will be averted
altogether. Without it, they won't. The leaders will be in touch with
their men; as leaders they will be able to feel the pulse of their men.
And when things are going wrong they'll know it; they'll anticipate the
trouble. . . . Sympathy; the future of the Empire lies in sympathy.
And this war has taught many thousands of men the meaning of the word.
It has destroyed the individual outlook. . . . There, it seems to me,
lies the hope of our salvation." He finished his drink and stood up.
"If we're going to continue a ceaseless war between leaders and
led--it's me for Hong-Kong. And it is only the leaders who can avert
it. . . ."

"Incidentally that's what Ramage said," remarked Vane. "Only he
demands complete equality . . . the abolition of property. . . ."

The other paused as he got to the door. "Then the man's a fool, and a
dangerous fool," he answered gravely. "Night-night. . . ."

For a long while Vane sat on, staring at the fire. Though only early
in October, the night was chilly, and he stretched his legs gratefully
to the blaze. After a time he got up and fetched an evening paper.
The great push between Cambrai and St. Quentin was going well; behind
Ypres the Boche was everywhere on the run. But to Vane gigantic
captures in men and guns meant a very different picture. He saw just
the one man crawling on his belly through the mouldering bricks and
stinking shell-holes of some death-haunted village. He saw the sudden
pause--the tense silence as the man stopped motionless, listening with
every nerve alert. He felt once again the hideous certainty that he
was not alone; that close to, holding his breath, was someone
else . . . then he saw the man turn like a flash and stab viciously; he
heard the clatter of falling bricks--the sob of exultation as the Boche
writhed in his death agony. . . . And it might have been the other way
round.

Then he saw the other side; the long weary hours of waiting, the filthy
weariness of it all--the death and desolation. Endured withou