possibilities that lay in his sporting chance. But what about me? I have a competence; I eat three square meals a day; I wear warm, if slovenly clothes; I go about at my pleasure; I sit in the dress circle; I travel second-class; I subscribe to Boots; I smoke the best tobacco; I fish in chalk streams; I possess Rose Doré at three shillings a tube; I live like a lord whose estate is not too seriously encumbered. And for the first thirty years of my life I did not begin to pay expenses. I have been the death of many thousands of pounds and I have not earned enough, if spread over the whole of my life, to keep me from starving. In a word I am one of the undeserving rich.
Old Bunting is seventy-five. He rises at four in the morning and goes to bed at nine in the evening. Between those hours he rests perhaps for four. He can make hay, he can hedge and ditch, he can plough and sow and reap and mow, and be a farmer's septuagenarian. He has raised a large family of strong admirable citizens. He lives on bread and tea and beer and cabbage and bacon and a little tinned salmon and a little beef. He smokes something called Coolie Cut. The price of my reel is a week's living to Old Bunting.
And he is contented, nay, happy; delights in hedging; mows with gratitude.
Why, in the name of Injustice? Why?
