Clubs and restaurants would be attacked
first, he thought. If we lunched together it had better be in
an eating-house in Bermondsey. "I have a disguise," he said, and
disclosed a complete proletarian outfit.
"Well, I haven't," I said. "Not that these clothes of mine will lead
anyone to mistake me for a capitalist. But, so far as lunch goes,
hadn't we better be killed by a Red bomb at the Fitz than by tripe in
Bermondsey?"
Stuttfield could not but admit the sense of this, so we started out.
It is widely recognised that Flag Days, however admirable their
objects, have been a little overdone. But it was sheer bad luck that
brought Stuttfield face to face with a flag-seller just as we were
entering the Fitz. She came at him with a determined aspect and began
"The Red Cr----"
It was enough. Poor Stuttfield was across the pavement and into a taxi
before I could stop him. There was nothing for me to do but follow
him.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Waterloo," he answered through blanched lips. I could get nothing
more from him.
At Waterloo he sprang out, leaving me to pay the cab, and disappeared
into the station.
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