"They want to sell _The
Volcano_, that's all."
"Yes," said Stuttfield, "but they do sell it, and people read it."
"I expect the circulation's about two thousand a week," I said
consolingly. But Stuttfield, as I could see, was not consoled.
I met him at intervals after that, and on each occasion he seemed to
be more obsessed with the notion that the "Reds" would overwhelm us
all shortly.
"Russia is Red," he whispered; he always whispers now for fear of
being overheard by a Red agent, though there was not very much risk of
that in St. James's Street. "And what about India and China?"
"Red, black and yellow--the Zingari colours," I said ribaldly, and
Stuttfield left me in disgust.
Then I heard from a friend that he had sold his cottage at Redhill.
This was a bad sign, and I went to see him. I found him much worse.
"You've taken an overdose of _The Volcano_," I said.
He seized my arm with trembling fingers.
"The Red Revolution is upon us," he hissed.
I laughed. "Don't you worry about the Red Revolution. You come out to
lunch."
He would hardly be persuaded.
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