“Fifty,” said Will. “There you are, gentlemen! Fifty!”
“Three-and-fourpence in pawn,” said Watchman.
“We’ll put it into the C.L.M. if it comes off, Will,” said Legge.
“What’s the C.L.M.?” demanded Watchman.
Will stared straight in front of him and said: “The Coombe Left Movement, Mr. Watchman. We’ve a branch of the South Devon Left, now.”
“Oh Lord!” said Watchman.
Legge threw his second dart. It seemed almost to drop from his hand but he must have used a certain amount of force since it sent home solidly into the top right-hand division.
“And the one. Six-and-eightpence looking a bit off-colour, Mr. Watchman,” said Abel Pomeroy.
“He’s stymied himself for the other double twenty-five, though,” said Watchman. “The first dart’s lying right across it.”
Legge raised his hand and this time took more deliberate aim. He threw from a greater height. For a fraction of a second the dart seemed to hang in his fingers before it sped downwards athwart the first, into the narrow strip round the centre.
“And fifty it is!” said Will. “There you are. Fifty. Good for you, comrade.”
A little chorus went up from Parish, Cubitt and old Abel.
“The man’s a wizard.”
“Shouldn’t be allowed!”
“You’m a proper masterpiece.”
“Well done, Bob,” added Will, as if determined to give the last word of praise.
Watchman laid a ten-shilling note on the table.
“I congratulate you,” he said.
Legge looked at the note.
“Thank you, Mr. Watchman,” he said. “Another ten bob for the fighting fund, Will.”
“Good enough, but it’s straight-out generous to give it.”
Watchman sat down again on the table-edge.
“All very nice,” he said. “Does you credit, Mr. Legge. I rather think another drink’s indicated. With me, if you please. Loser’s privilege.”
Will Pomeroy glanced uncomfortably at Legge. By Feather’s etiquette, the winner of a bet at darts pays for the next round. There was a short silence broken by old Pomeroy who insisted that the next round should be on the house, and served the company with a potent dark ale, known to the Coombe as Treble Extra.
“We’ll all play like Mr. Legge with this inside us,” said Parish.
“Yes,” agreed Watchman, looking into his tankard, “it’s a fighting fund in itself. A very pretty tipple indeed.” He looked up at Legge.
“Do you know any other tricks like that one, Mr. Legge?”
“I know a prettier one than that,” said Legge quietly, “if you’ll assist me.”
“I assist you?”
“Yes. If you’ll stretch your hand out flat on the board I’ll outline it with darts.”
“Really? You ought to be in the sawdust ring. No. I don’t think I trust you enough for that, you know. One would need a little more of Mr. Pomeroy’s Treble Extra.”
He stretched out his hand and looked at it.
“And yet, I don’t know,” he said. “I’d like to see you do it. Some other time. You know, Mr. Legge, as a good Conservative, I feel I should deplore your gesture. Against whom is your fighting fund directed?”
But before Legge could speak, Will answered quickly: “Against the capitalist, Mr. Watchman, and all his side.”
“Really? So Mr. Legge is also an ardent proletarian fan?”
“Certainly,” said Legge. “I have the honour to be Secretary and Treasurer for the Coombe Left Movement.”
“Secretary and Treasurer,” repeated Watchman. “Responsible jobs, aren’t they?”
“Aye,” said Will, “and it’s a responsible chap that’s taken ’em on for us.”
Legge turned away and moved into the inglenook. Watchman looked after him. Cubitt noticed that Watchman’s good humour seemed to be restored. Anyone would have thought that he had won the bet and that it had been for a much larger sum. And for no reason in the world Cubitt felt that there had been a passage of arms between Legge and Watchman, and that Watchman had scored a bit.
“What about you, Abel?” Watchman asked abruptly. “Are you going to paint the feathers red?”
“Me, sir? No, I don’t hold with Will’s revolutionary ideas and he knows it, but us’ve agreed to differ. Does no harm, I reckon, for these young chaps to meet every Friday and make believe they’re hashing up the laws and serving ’em out topsy-turvy: game in servants’ hall and prunes and rice for gentry. Our Will was always a great hand for make-believe from the time he learned to talk. Used to strut about tap-room giving orders to the furniture. ‘I be as good as Squire, now,’ he’d say in his little lad’s voice and I reckon he’s saying it yet.”
“You’re blind to reason, Father,” said Will. “Blind-stupid and hidebound. Either you can’t see or you won’t. Us chaps are working for the good of all; not for ourselves.”
“Right enough, sonny. A fine noble ideal, I don’t doubt, and when you’ve got us all toeing the line with no handicaps and nothing to run for—”
“The good of the State to run for. Each man equal—”
“And all coming in first. Damn queer sort of race.”
“The old argument,” said Legge from the fireplace, “and based as usual on a false analogy.”
“Is it a false analogy?” asked Watchman. “You propose to kill private enterprise—”
“A chap,” said Will Pomeroy, “will be as ambitious for the public good as he will for his own selfish aims. Give him the chance, that’s all. Teach him to think. The people—”
“The people!” interrupted Watchman, looking at Legge’s back. “What do you mean by the people? I suppose you mean that vast collection of individuals whose wages are below a certain sum and who are capable of being led by the nose when the right sort of humbug comes along.”
“That’s no argument,” began Will angrily. “That’s no more than a string of silly opinions.”
“That’ll do, sonny,” said Abel.
“It’s all right, Abel,” said Watchman, still looking at Legge. “I invited the discussion. No offence. I should like to hear what Mr. Legge has to say about private enterprise. As Treasurer—”
“Wait a bit, Bob,” said Will as Legge turned from the fireplace. “I don’t like the way you said that, Mr. Watchman. Bob Legge here is well-respected in the Coombe. He’s not been long in these parts — ten months, isn’t it, Bob? — but we’ve learned to like him. Reckon we’ve showed we trust him, too, seeing the position we’ve given him.”
“My dear Will,” said Watchman delicately, “I don’t dispute for a moment. I think Mr. Legge has done remarkably well for himself, in ten months.”
Will’s face was scarlet under his thatch of fox-coloured hair. He moved forward and confronted Watchman, his tankard clenched in a great ham of a fist, his feet planted apart.
“Shut up, now, Luke,” said Sebastian Parish softly and Cubitt murmured, “Don’t heckle, Luke, you’re on a holiday.”
“See here, Mr. Watchman,” said Will, “You can afford to sneer, can’t you, but I’d like to know—”
“Will!” Old Abel slapped the bar with an open hand. “That’s enough. You’m a grown chap, not a lad, and what’s more, the son of this house. Seems like I ought to give ’ee light draught and lemonade till you learn to take a man’s pint like a man. If you can’t talk politics and hold your temper then you’ll not talk politics at all. ’Be a job for you in Public here. ’Tend it.”
“I’m sorry, Will,” said Watchman. “Mr. Legge is fortunate in his friend.”
Will Pomeroy stood and looked under his brows from Watchman to Legge. Legge shrugged his shoulders, muttered something about moving into the public bar, and went out. Will turned to Watchman.