The other was of more prosperous appearance than most of the men
on such seats; still, he was not what one calls a gentleman,
and had probably worked at some time like a human being. He
was a small, sharp-faced man, with grave, staring eyes, and
a beard somewhat foreign. His clothes were black; respectable
and yet casual; those of a man who dressed conventionally
because it was a bore to dress unconventionally--as it is.
Attracted by this and other things, and wanting an outburst
for my bitter social feelings, I tempted him into speech,
first about the cold, and then about the General Election.
To this the respectable man replied:
"Well, I don't belong to any party myself. I'm an Anarchist."
I looked up and almost expected fire from heaven.
This coincidence was like the end of the world. I had sat down
feeling that somehow or other Park-lane must be pulled down;
and I had sat down beside the man who wanted to pull it down.
I bowed in silence for an instant under the approaching apocalypse;
and in that instant the man turned sharply and started talking
like a torrent.
"Understand me," he said. "Ordinary people think an Anarchist means
a man with a bomb in his pocket. Herbert Spencer was an Anarchist.
But for that fatal admission of his on page 793, he would be a
complete Anarchist. Otherwise, he agrees wholly with Pidge."
This was uttered with such blinding rapidity of syllabification
as to be a better test of teetotalism than the Scotch one of saying
"Biblical criticism" six times.
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