Chapter XXII
The Old Patriot
In the Prague office of the People's Journal everyone was working at top speed. The telephone operator was yelling furiously into the telephone and quarrelling with the young lady at the Exchange. Scissors clicked and typewriters clattered, and Mr. Cyril Keval sat on the table and dangled his legs.
"I say, they're holding a meeting at Vaclavak," he said in a low voice. "Some Communist's up there preaching voluntary poverty. He's haranguing the people, telling them they ought to be like the lilies of the field. He's got a beard right down to his waist. What a frightful lot of long-bearded chaps there are about nowadays! All looking like apostles."
"Mhm," answered old Rejzek, turning over the papers from the Czechoslovak Press Bureau.
"What makes their beards grow so long?" Mr. Keval ruminated. "I say, Rejzek, I do believe the Absolute has something to do with that as well. Golly, Rejzek, I'm afraid of something of the sort growing on me. Just imagine it, right down to the waist!"
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