“How DISGUSTING!”
The disturbed creatures were finding their holes or had ceased to scuttle; here and there, a large one, isolated, seemed to watch them.
“Imagine!” cried Fleur. “And food’s been cooked here all these years! Ugh!”
“After all,” said Ruth La Fontaine, with a shivery giggle, “they’re not so b-bad as b-bugs.”
Mr. Blythe puffed hard at his cigar. Fleur muttered:
“What’s to be done, Michael?”
Her face was pale; she was drawing little shuddering breaths; and Michael was thinking: ‘It’s too bad; I must get her out of this!’ when suddenly she seized a broom and rushed at a large beetle on the wall. In a minute they were all at it—swabbing and sweeping, and flinging open doors and windows.
Chapter II.
ON THE ‘PHONE
Winifred Dartie had not received her Morning Post. Now in her sixty-eighth year, she had not followed too closely the progress of events which led up to the general strike—they were always saying things in the papers, and you never knew what was true; those Trades Union people, too, were so interfering, that really one had no patience. Besides, the Government always did something in the end. Acting, however, on the advice of her brother Soames, she had filled her cellars with coal and her cupboards with groceries, and by ten o’clock on the second morning of the strike, was seated comfortably at the telephone.
“Is that you, Imogen? Are you and Jack coming for me this evening?”
“No, Mother. Jack’s sworn in, of course. He has to be on duty at five. Besides, they say the theatres will close. We’ll go later. ‘Dat Lubly Lady’s’ sure to run.”
“Very well, dear. But what a fuss it all is! How are the boys?”
“Awfully fit. They’re both going to be little ‘specials.’ I’ve made them tiny badges. D’you think the child’s department at Harridge’s would have toy truncheons?”