Big Brother's own throat isn't dry, hasn't been dry. The injustice rasps him. He wants his beer again. He wants the 'poor man's club' again. And he has a jolly good right to have them. What do you say to that?"
"Oh, he has rights enough," Oliver assented; "but the poor man's club has passed into the hands of a receiver—a mighty capable one. The poor man's club is now in the hands of his wife. She is in charge now of the Saturday afternoons and evenings. Do you think, when her vote is as good as his, she will let him pour his wages into the sink? Rather not. She has spent them, spent them in advance, for a generation to come."
"Yes," said Cornelia. "Isn't it a pity! Workwomen are the most wasteful creatures. Why, when Margaret—"
"You don't quite get the idea, my dear," Oliver resumed. "As I was saying—in war time, while her old man was sober, with money bulging his pockets and nowhere to go, she made him buy her a house and a Ford and a Victrola and savings stamps and baby bonds. Now she's buying a municipal playground along the line of the old grog-shops and a new schoolhouse and a hospital
