which might never be born? There was something practical about Mr.
Foley's offer, an offer which could have been made only by a great man.
His brain moved swiftly. As he stood there, he seemed to look out upon
a vast plain of misery, a country of silent furnaces, of smokeless
chimneys, a country drooping and lifeless, dotted with the figures of
dying men and women. What an offering! What a sacrifice? Would the
people still believe in him when the blow fell? Could he himself pass
out of life with the memory of it all in his mind, and feel that his
life's work had been good? He remained speechless.

"Let me force one more argument upon you," Mr. Foley continued. "You
must know a little what type of mind is most common amongst Labour. I
ask you what will be the attitude of Labour towards the starvation of
the next ten or twenty years, if you should bring the ruin you threaten
upon the country? I ask you to use your common sense. Of what use
would you be? Who would listen to you? If they left you alive, would
any audience of starving men and women, looking back upon the
comparative prosperity of the past, listen to a word from your lips.
Believe me, they would not. They would be more likely, if they found
you, to rend you limb from limb. The operatives of this country are not
dreamers. They don't want to give their wives and children, and their
own selves, body and soul, for a dream. Therefore, I come back to the
sane common sense of the whole affair. By this time next year, if you
use your power to bring destruction upon this country, your name will be
loathed and detested amongst the very people for whose sake you do it."

Maraton turned away.

"You have put some of my own fears before me, Mr. Foley," he confessed,
"in a new and very impressive light. If I thought that I myself were