Sara flared, ‘Oh, why don’t you TELL ’em you’re a communist and a party member, Mr. Silga — Eugene? It won’t hurt ’em!’

Fred was more cautious than ever. ‘No, it won’t hurt us at all. I heard you were a communist, Mr. Silga, when you were mixed up in the Pragg glass-works strike. But here’s something even stranger than that. Me, I’m a Republican and go to church!’

From Hazel there was a faint squawk that sounded like, ‘WHEN?’ as Fred went on selling:

‘I’m glad to meet you, I won’t pretend I like communism, but I much prefer you out-and-out advocates to the limousine socialists, like Sara here, who say, No, it wasn’t the communism, it was something they ate; who cuss out capitalism and go right on living on it.’

‘I don’t know, Mr. Cornplow. An agitator finds limousines awfully useful sometimes, for escaping from the cops.’

‘Hm. Yes. Glad meet you. I’ve been reading where it’s become the fashion for the Reds to shave and bathe and leave the bombs home . . .’

‘Sorry, never seen a bomb.’

‘ . . . in the bottom bureau drawer, and I’m interested to see that it’s true, Gene.’

With warm-hearted aid from Guy and Howard, derisiveness from Annabel, and watchful silence from Eugene, Sara portrayed for Fred and Hazel the future of the Coheeze, and of the monthly Protest & Progress, which was to bring to far-flung workers in byre and grange and speak-easy the surprising news that, if they were real toilers and not parasites, like Fred, all Irishmen, Chinese, Japanese, Germans, Frenchmen, Spanish leftists, Spanish rightists, Negroes, Californians, Floridians, New York garment workers, Vermont apple growers, and pearl divers in Borneo loved one another to death.

‘What do I do about it?’ weasled Fred.

‘Why, you contribute!’ Sara laughed heartily.

‘Not me. I laid off loving the workers when the last automobile strike prevented my getting any cars to sell for couple of months, right at the height of the season.’

Sara protested, ‘Guy’s father, Mr. Staybridge, has given us a hundred dollars. Are you going to let him beat you?’

‘Absolutely! Guy, you tell your father I’ll let him contribute the whole doggone fund, if he wants to.’

‘Oh, Dad!’ (That was Sara again.)

Hazel spoiled everything:

‘Fred, if Sara is enjoying this so much, and I’m sure Mr. Silga could tell us such interesting things about Russia, sex and divorces and how much the servants get and all — I do hope he’ll be willing to lecture before the Egeria Club, it’s my turn next month to get a speaker — and if Sara is having a good time out of it, I’m going to donate fifty dollars myself! Out of my own money, I mean!’

Fred goggled, remembering that Hazel’s ‘own money’, from the estate of an unexpected uncle, had last year brought in $786.10, of which, to his knowledge, she had spent over nine hundred. While Hazel was being thanked, Fred craftily led Annabel apart and fished: