[Illustration]

It was a very unseasonable Yule-tide. Instead of the old-fashioned
mild weather that had been the constant companion of Christmas for
many years, the ground was covered with snow and the river blocked
with ice. However, thanks to modern improvements, the artisans had not
been impeded in executing their four hours of labour as provided by a
recent statute. They had been sitting at their Club (supported by the
State), reading the newspapers purchased out of the rates, and were
only annoyed that no food and drink was supplied them free gratis and
for nothing.

"It would never do," said an old workman, who remembered the
eight-hour day that used to prevail at the end of the Nineteenth
Century. "You see were we to have beer at will, the brewers' draymen
might complain. It was once attempted, but the Licensed Victuallers
made such a disturbance that the idea was abandoned."

"There is something in what you say," observed a second workman;
"but, for the life of me, I don't see why the Nation shouldn't provide
bread."

"No, there you are out!" cried a third. "I am a baker, and anything
that interferes with my industry won't do."

And so they talked, discussing this and that, until all the subjects
of the leaders in the daily papers had been exhausted. It was then
that one of the workmen suggested a walk and a pipe on the Embankment.

So they lounged down the main thoroughfare of London, with its