PREFACE
Upsurge (first published, 1934) was once described as
Australia’s most forgotten novel. The story of the
book, however, is far from forgettable. It is one of the
most fascinating in modern Australian literature. The
novel scored a number of firsts: it was the first Austra-
lian novel to employ the literary technique of socialist
realism, the first to be banned under the guidelines of
the Commonwealth Book Censorship Board and the
first to be the subject of police prosecution.
The search to find out about J.M. Harcourt and his
novel began for me in late 1981 while I was a student of
history at the University of Western Australia, contem-
plating a topic for an honors dissertation. I had already
worked on the fiction of Katharine Susannah Prichard
and was interested in literary responses to the 1930s
depression in Western Australia. Prichard’s Intimate
Strangers (1937) led me to the lesser known author and
Upsurge which had been collecting dust for almost fifty.
years. Since 1981 the search has taken me to Sydney,
Melbourne, Canberra and back to Perth.
Through Stephen Murray Smith in Melbourne, I was
able to trace Harcourt’s movements after he left Perth
in 1934. In late 1984 I contacted Harcourt’s widow,
Mrs Diana Harcourt, at Whale Beach in New South
Wales. Through her, I was able to negotiate the re-issue
of Upsurge. Although Mrs Harcourt was unable to pro-
vide any information about Harcourt’s early life in
Western Australia or, indeed, about the novel, she was
able to point me in the right direction. Through the
Battye Library in Western Australia I was able to find
relevant newspaper clippings about the book and the
author. In Canberra, Mr Robert Darby helped enor-
mously with material he had collected on Harcourt. At
the Australian National Library and the Australian
Archives at Canberra I was able to stitch together many
of the details about the novel. A great deal more needs
to be researched about Harcourt and Upsurge but it 1s
hoped this re-issue will go part the way towards estab-
lishing author and novel to their rightful place in Aus-
tralian literature and cultural history.
RicHarpD
 A. NILE
John Harcourt was born in Melbourne in 1902. His
Methodist parents were from Western Australia where
he grew up and spent much of his early adult lite. For a
time Harcourt attended Wesley College at Melbourne
but a combination of homesickness and the desire to
live adventurously resulted in him running away in
1916 to hump a bluey through Victoria and New South
Wales, later joining his father on the Western Austra-
lian goldtields. While working as an assistant surveyor
at Kalgoorlie, the notion of becoming an author oc-
curred to the young Harcourt. He left the security of
his job in the early twenties to pursue a writing career
in the city. Perth, however, like other Australian cities
was in the midst of a crippling post-war recession and
there was little work, if plenty to write about, for an
aspiring author.
With rapidly diminishing funds, Harcourt decided to
leave Perth for Broome in the hope of making enough
money as a pearler to later support his writing. After
two years’ as a shell opener, with little return for his
efforts, his fortune changed when he found a pearl
valued at thirteen thousand pounds. Harcourt’s share
of this windfall was two thousand pounds. His pockets
swollen and confidence sufficiently boosted by the
recent publication of two of his short stories in the
Sydney 7riad, Harcourt was tempted back to the city.
Almost immediately he began working as a journalist,
writing fiction part-time.
With the publication of his first novel, The Pearlers,
in 1933 Harcourt established a reputation for himself as
a radical and angry young man. The Pearlers shocked
many readers who thought it followed too closely a
‘modern’ literary tendency of reflecting the sordid side
of the human condition. A 1933 review remarked that
The Pearlers was ‘dangerously credible’, a label applied
with equal vigour to Harcourt’s next novel, Upsurge,
billed as a ‘story of the world crisis’. Upsurge caused an
immediate sensation when it first appeared in March
1934. A review in the West Australian commented:
It would be hard to imagine a more thoroughly unplea-
sant set of people than are found in the pages of Mr Har-
court’s immature narrative of ‘petting parties’, shop
girls’ strikes, street-rioting—where the police are made
to behave like a lot of Bashi-Bazooks—Communist
agitators, crude caricatures of magistrates and business
magnates—the whole extraordinary conglomeration
being liberally spiced with frankly erotic situations.
Rolley Hoffmann, a journalist and former colleague
from the author’s days on The Daily News, wrote that
he ‘almost suspected’ Harcourt had written Upsurge
‘cherishing the fond hope of so many young authors’
that it would be banned. The comment pre-empted the
ultimate fate of Upsurge and minimized the seriousness
with which Harcourt approached the task of writing
his second novel. Hoffmann’s review disregarded Har-
court’s political and social commentary, alluded to by
the West Australian, and his intention of writing a
novel about the state of flux in Western Australia
during the years of the great depression:
Upsurge, by J.M. Harcourt (John Long Ltd., price
7s 6d), the Western Australian novelist whose first book
The Pearlers was published last year, brings forward pri-
marily, the question of the relationship of pornography
to art. Mr Harcourt is a young writer, a new writer. He
is it might be added, a good writer with such qualities of
promise that look well for his future. But his two
books—in Upsurge particular—he has taken the mis-
guidedly bold course of giving his story an overpower-
ing taint of the sexual—a course that has often reacted
unfavourably for the future of other young novelists.
The sort of stuff in Upsurge may have provided excite-
ment of some sort to the author in the writing of it: it
may provide excitement for some of his readers— those
who carry prohibited Parisian picture cards in their
pocket wallets and scribble on walls ... Assuming that
the literary and social customs of this age demand some-
thing rather more exciting than they did twenty years
ago there are still limits to sexual emphasis to which a
writer may go, and I hardly think that any reader of Up-
surge will disagree with me when I say that Mr Harcourt
has here exceeded them.
Harcourt’s questioning of the political and social situ-
ation in Australia during the 1930s, his manifest sym-
pathy with the huge numbers of unemployed and his
support for a worker-based revolution delighted Aus-
tralia’s best known novelist and communist of the
period,
 Katharine
 Susannah
 Prichard,
 who
 immedi-
ately proclaimed Upsurge Australia’s first truly pro-
letarian novel. Her claim on behalf of Upsurge, though
a little extravagant, has some merit. Upsurge preceded
other great 1930s depression novels including Kylie
Tennant’s Tiburon (1935) and Foveaux (1938), and
Prichard’s own Intimate Strangers (1937). Prichard’s
praise for Upsurge stemmed trom the fact that it was the
first Australian novel to be written in the style of
socialist realism which she first learned about in 193during a tour of the Soviet Union. In 1934 Upsurge
Xi
 introduced socialist realism as a new point of departure
in Australian literature and joined a growing tradition
of working-class novels which dated back to the 1890s
and William Lane’s Working Man’s Paradise.
The manifesto of socialist realism was first pro-
claimed in the U.S.S.R. in 1934 at the first All-Soviet
Congress of Writers but its precept of using literature
as a vehicle for encouraging the ‘ideological transforma-
tion and education of working people in the spirit of
socialism’, had been widely acknowledged since about
1932. Socialist realism required writers inside the Soviet
Union to write in a mood and manner befitting the
1917 revolution and the subsequent achievements of
communism. Outside the U.S.S.R., writers were called
upon to be ‘fellow travellers’ with the soviet cause
while helping to prepare a revolutionary sensibility in
their own countries. In an article written just before his
death Harcourt described Upsurge as socialist realist and
himself as a fellow-traveller.
Harcourt believed that Upsurge recorded a side of the
depression in Western Australia which was ignored by
the tabloid press. He even went as far as to suggest that
the popular press falsified the depression’s experience
by deliberately under estimating the extent and degree
of genuine hardship it caused. His intention in writing
Upsurge was to redress the imbalance he saw inherent in
the existing records. He felt that fiction freed him from
the editorial and ideological constraints of newspaper
journalism. It provided him with the intellectual and
emotional range to record what he felt to be true.
Harcourt’s claim that the papers fostered a false view
of the depression has far reaching implications for
historians who have written about the period. For
example, Geoffrey Bolton’s A Fine Country to Starve In
(1972) constructed a picture of the 1930s by relying
 X1heavily on the authenticity of newspaper reports. Up-
surge offsets such widely accepted images as those found
in A Fine Country to Starve In. Taken as a serious
account of the depression experience in Western Aus-
tralia, Upsurge challenges what Tom Stannage in 197called the ‘authorized version of our past’. Given Har-
court’s political bias, his account is to be anticipated
but Upsurge should not be dismissed because it was
polemical or because the author’s observations were
couched in fiction. As a contemporary account of the
depression it is made all the more valuable by these
factors. In 1935 Harcourt wrote that, although Upsurge
was ‘not to be regarded as an historical record’ it was,
nonetheless, ‘more than merely founded upon fact’:
Most of the main incidents and many of the minor ones
actually occurred, and neither the conditions the un-
employed put up with in relief camps, nor the treatment
metered out to the demonstrators, have been in any way
exaggerated. In some cases details of actual happenings
have been altered for the purposes of the story; that 1s
all. For instance the strike of shop assistants that occurs
in the book was actually a strike of catering employees,
and did not develop along quite the line the strike
develops in Upsurge. The relief workers’ strike 1s a com-
posite picture of two actual strikes. The men in the relief
camp I have described struck for the reasons stated, but
after a few days they went back to work. At another
camp however, Franklin River—where the men were en-
gaged in clearing timber, they struck and marched out
en-masse as they do in the book. From that point on-
wards the story and actual fact walk hand in hand.
Thirty-five years later Harcourt reiterated the point:
‘In conclusion, I may say of Upsurge that, despite its
literary shortcomings, and God knows they were
X1V
 many, it was an honest fictional account of the Western
Australian State of Denmark at the time’.
Upsurge concerns itself primarily with the expert-
ences
 of
 three
 characters:
 Theodora
 Luddon,
 a
nineteen-year-old daughter of a Collie coalminer
recently moved to the city in search of work; Peter
Groom, an idler who loses his twenty thousand pound
inheritance and later finds himself on ‘susso’ in a relief-
workers’ camp and; James Riddle, the city magistrate.
The novel opens as Theodora stands before the magis-
trate charged with infracting a city by-law which
required bathers to wear bathing costumes extending
from the neck to the knees. The law clearly is archaic, a
suggestion by Harcourt of the rapidity of social change
in Western Australia, particularly since the 1914-1war and, in the fiction at least, since the 1917 revolu-
tion in Russia. The by-law was antiquated, wrote Har-
court, ‘It had lain in the statute books
 ... like a for-
gotten bomb. The only bathing costumes which could
have complied with it were in the historical museums’.
Harcourt believed that the increased rate of change in
general societal attitudes and the concomitant expecta-
tion created by that change could not be accommodated
by existing social structures: ‘... so the bomb was
brought up from the cellar and tossed in the magis-
trate’s lap where it exploded silently’. Harcourt’s
humour here sharpens an implied discontinuity in the
novel between law and reality; between lawmakers/
administrators and reality. It is suggestive of a more
severe discontinuity between what the author saw as
the expectations of working-class women and men and
the inability of the crisis-stricken capitalist society to
fulfil them. The discontinuity is taken up by a com-
munist friend of the magistrate. Significantly, the com-
munist is also a chemist and belongs to the same class as
the magistrate:
 XV
We're rapidly approaching the time when the rabble as
you call it will be the class in power ... You’d naturally
regard it as nonsense, but that’s because your affiliations
make it impossible for you to properly interpret what
you see. Every social and economic phenomenon of the
day points to it ... the girl you fined—even she is one of
the straws in the revolutionary wind my friend. You
saw the moving and you had sense to know that it
wasn’t moving without cause, so you came to the con-
clusion that modesty was disintegrating. But you didn’t
go far enough; you neglected to ask yourself why it was
disintegrating.
Theodora’s defence, that everyone at the beach in-
fracted the law by rolling down their swimming
costumes, is invalid in the official judgement of the
patriarchal magistrate who 1s, nonetheless, aware that
she is right. The magistrate finds himself extremely
attracted to the lithe Theodora and two sides of his
nature, that of his sexual desires and his desire to be
respected and respectable as an authority figure, are
seen to come into conflict. The incident satirically sug-
gests that legal institutions are the most concrete
example of a powerful ideology looking after the
interests of the ruling class at the expense of the work-
ing class.
As a result of her court appearance, Theodora loses
her job as a receptionist at the Brazilian Consulate and
is forced to seek employment selling stockings at
Kronen’s Ltd, a large drapery store in the centre of
Perth. Her changed position is accompanied by a reduc-
tion in wages from four pound a week to two pound
seven pence. As a receptionist Theodora was deluded
into believing that her opportunities for upward social
mobility were far better than the majority of working-
class people. Harcourt has her wrongly believing that
XV she is higher on the social ladder than she actually 1s.
The loss of her job over a trivial incident eventually
convinces her that she will never be free from the heavy
load of ideology which bears down on her unless she
joins the struggle against oppression and injustice. Her
acknowledgement that she is without any real wealth,
power or status and, like other working-class people,
subject to the laws and whims of the bosses begins her
on the path of revolutionary struggle. When her
already precarious economic situation is further threa-
tened by the Financial Emergency act of 1931, giving
employers the right to lower wages by 10%, her educa-
tion in working-class politics is accelerated. It is com-
pleted when she becomes party to strike action after
being dismissed along with thirty other employees
working at Kronen’s.
Like the 19th century Luddites, Theodora Luddon
(metaphorically) begins smashing the machinery of
capitalism by refusing to adhere to one of its central
tenets of worker submission to ruling class authority.
At the conclusion of the novel she is martyred under
the whirling baton of a mounted policeman during a
demonstration
 of unemployed.
 The spilling of
working-class blood is
 suggestive
 of the historical
potential of the period
 and
 the
 inevitability
 of class
war.
Theodora’s story is balanced by that of the working-
class Rumble family. Colin Rumble’s decision to
murder all members of his family before taking his own
life at a small ramshackle house in the working-class
suburb of Maylands highlights Harcourt’s belief in the
absolute necessity of worker solidarity. Rumble’s deci-
sion is prompted by the sacking of his daughter. With
the removal of her wage all money ceases to come into
the Rumble household. The Rumble family are the
 XV1l
most violated victims of capitalism. They live in a halt
world of despair which results in senseless waste. Colin
Rumble blames himself because of his family’s im-
poverished and worsening conditions. Unlike Theo-
dora he cannot find renewed vigour in a fight against
inequality. He fears the future:
When a man’s got no hope [Colin Rumble wrote], zts no
good him going on living, and its no good to my wife and
girls to go on living either, so they are going with me. I
don’t want people to think that I was mad. This isn’t the
first time I’ve thought about it, and I’ve had a sort of peace
since I made up my mind. If my daughter hadn’t lost her
job I mightn’t have woke up to what a fool a man 1s to go
on living when he’s certain his life is going to be just like it
was before... and I don’t like to think of my girls getting
desperate—Ethel going on the streets or into a brothel
because she can’t get a job, and Clarry, I suppose on the
state. I’ve tried to be a good father to them, but I reckon this
is the most sensible thing I ever done.
Because of its senselessness this scene is the most bru-
tally violent in the book.
Peter Groom is a member of the effete bourgeoisie.
As a result of his continual philanderings and infideli-
ties his wife leaves him and takes the inheritance with
her. Groom is untrained for anything but leisure. The
depression compounds his problems: ‘A cold sweat of
fear broke out on him when he realized what it would
mean. He had never worked in his life. What work
could he do in an age when one in three of all who nor-
mally worked were unemployed.’ Groom is forced to
go on the ‘susso’. With a change 1n his situation comes a
change in attitude. He becomes aware of injustice and
inequality for the first time. He begins to resent the city
and capital but, unlike the increasingly class conscious
Theodora, his resentment is couched in personal terms:
XVI
 As he gazed upon the wealth there he hated the city. It
was like his friends with their secret smiles, like his per-
fidious wife, like the insolent clerk behind the counters
of the Labour Bureau.
He retraced his way slowly
Ten days later the erstwhile idler, Peter Groom, with
twenty two other men, was drafted to Bridesway River
relief works in the district of Wilmott, about a hundred
miles south of the capital.
When Groom reaches the relief camp at Bridesway
River he feels a sense of belonging with his newly
acquired compeers and an affinity with their struggle.
Although the men at the camp initially regard him
with suspicion, calling him a silvertail and a lounge-
lizard, they welcome him when he joins their plans for
strike action. He joins the ‘rebellious outcasts’ in their
plan to take their grievances to the city, singing ‘songs
of revolution’ as they march. However, Groom 1s more
impressed by the pageantry and spectacle of the protest,
particularly the number of red flags which seemingly
appear from nowhere, than the cause itself. His sym-
bolic wedding with a social conscience (Groom/Brides-
way River) is short lived. It is plagued by infidelity in a
manner reminiscent of his actual marriage. At the end
of the novel he is reunited with his wife and the money.
We sense that his experiences at the camp will become a
conversation piece related as part of a personal adven-
ture.
In his depictions of Theodora and Groom, Harcourt
was implying that there were clear class distinctions in
the so-called homogenous society of Western Australia
and that they were exacerbated by the depression. He
contended that, although the depression was general, its
real victims were the working-class. (Perhaps he was
 X1X
ridiculing the federal government’s 1931 call for
‘equality of sacrifice’.) His depictions of the working-
class are particularly enlightening in terms of un-
employment in Australia which ran at about ten per
cent before 1929. Harcourt seemed to be saying that the
working-class are always in fear of losing their jobs and
that before the depression set in in earnest in 1930,
many had directly and indirectly (through their
families,
 etc.) experienced
 its rancour;
 families
 were
broken up, people went hungry and domestic violence
was endemic. The working-class in Upsurge are shown
to be thrown onto the scrap-heap of industrial capital-
ism once the system begins to malfunction.
Upsurge depicts characters who, because of their
depression experiences, are forced to accept living stan-
dards below those which they had come to expect. The
exception is James Riddle who has a moral reassessment
rather than a financial one. In many ways the action in
the novel centres around decisions made by Riddle as
the city magistrate. This is significant because of the
implied discontinuity between law and reality alluded
to in the opening scenes. Although Riddle acknow-
ledges the need for particular changes in society, he
regards capitalism resilient enough to overcome its own
problems. For example, he is unable to understand
Theodora when she tells him that they are on different
sides and that the chasm which separates them is im-
possible to bridge as long as he continues to be a custo-
dian and protector of existing legal and social structures
and she one of its victims.
Riddle presides over law as well as justice but, as the
communist has already told him, he doesn’t go far
enough. In many ways the magistrate suffers derision,
reinforced in the fiction by his nick-name ‘Jimmy
Riddle, Lord of the Urinal’. Riddle has an appreciation
XX
 for history and sees that changes to existing social
orders in the past were necessary in bringing forward
better systems. For example, he is aware of the postu-
lated change between feudalism and capitalism and ex-
plains:
‘Mont’s my servant ... His real name is Thomas Edward
Charles Montmorency and he is, I understand, a
member of one of the oldest families in England. I dare
say my forebears waited on his. But he waits on me,
none the worse for that.’
As a member of the petite bourgeoisie, Riddle belongs
to the class which displaced the old aristocratic families
in the transition to capitalism. He is as reluctant to see
his class authority eroded as the old feudal lords were in
their time. However, Harcourt suggests that another
upheaval of the social order is as inevitable as the
previous change. At the conclusion of the novel, Har-
court added a postscript:
Later in the same year, at Berne, an international confer-
ence of peasant and proletarian organizations took place.
A revolutionary upsurge in every industrial country of
the world was remarked. The Australian delegates
observed that that even in Western Australia, the least
advanced of the Austral States, there was a definite
revolutionary upsurge.
The upsurge to which Harcourt referred was the strike
oy men at the Franklin River relief works in 1932 and a
strike of catering staff organised by Celia Shelley.
Harcourt’s attitude to history was both cyclical and
linear. In one sense he depicted the depression as a
break with the developments of the 1920s. It was part
 XX
of the cycle of boom and bust which characterizes
capitalism, a result of over- ‘production and increased
competition for markets. The term ‘depression’, for
example, as it is used in the novel, is synonymous with
‘crisis’ and the two terms are used interchangeably. On
a larger scale the depression is depicted as part of the
overall crisis of capitalism. An allegorical play written
by the journalist, Noel Manning, a fictional projection
of Harcourt, traces developments leading up to and cul-
minating in the 1914-18 war. It lays the blame for war
squarely at the feet of those who produce goods for
protit. Harcourt compared the 1890s depression with
the current economic downturn and warned that the
world may be on the brink of another, more sinister,
conflict. His target was the rise of fascism in Europe.
Fascism, he maintained, was the most dangerous mani-
festation yet of industrial capitalism and an extreme
expression of worker false consciousness. Harcourt’s
postscript affirms the revolutionary potential of the
working-class while simultaneously warning it against
fascism.
Harcourt’s unrepentant and consistent plea on behalt
of a workers’ revolution made Upsurge one of the most
radical Australian books written during the interwar
period. The novel was of grave concern for common-
wealth and state censors because it challenged almost
every established social more of the period from the
status of the judicial system and existing legal practices
through to industrial and sexual relations. After contro-
versy raged for several months in the press Upsurge was
banned under Section 52(c) of the Trades and Customs
Act prohibiting the importation of ‘blasphemous, in-
decent or obscene’ publications, making it only the
second Australian novel to incur the wrath of the
censor, the first to be banned by the Commonwealth
XX1 Book Censorship Board which was set up in 1933. Up-
surge was the first Australian novel to be the subject of
police prosecutions. Before being prohibited federally,
state detectives in both Western Australia and New
South Wales seized copies of the book under local legis-
lation prohibiting the sale of ‘indecent’ publications.
The banning of Upsurge sent tremors running
through Australian literary circles on both sides of the
continent. A direct result was the formation in Mel-
bourne of the Book Censorship Abolition League in
early 1935 and the election of Harcourt as its first presi-
dent. Earlier Harcourt had fled from his home in Perth
amidst fears that he was to be prosecuted for slander by
a prominent Western Australian businessman who was
convinced he had been used libelously as a prototype
for one of the characters in Upsurge. Katharine Prichard
followed Harcourt to Melbourne and established him
there as the president of the short-lived ‘Revolutionary
Writers’ League’, a group of left-wing authors prepar-
ing to welcome the Czech communist and writer, Egon
Kisch, to Australia. Kisch had been dispatched by the
Third International to tour, lecturing and advising
socialist writers on the techniques of socialist realism.
The controversy surrounding the proposed tour,
Kisch’s dramatic leap from his ship after being refused
entry to Australia and his subsequent deportation are
now legendary in Australian history. The writing and
banning of Upsurge belong to the same legend.
Upsurge was banned during a period of severe repres-
sion of all sorts of literature, but particularly that from
the left. Before 1928 only four books were banned in
Australia. In April 1929, beginning with James Joyce’s
Ulysses, the Trades and Customs Department launched
itself into a campaign which resulted in the prohibition
of an estimated 2,000 publications within ten years.
 /XXI
Seditious pamphlets were seized at the rate of about one
per week at various ports around the country and an
unprecedented number of novels were banned under
Section 52(c) including Aldous Huxley’s Brave New
World, Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms and
D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover. These
classics were prohibited along with others sporting
such salacious titles as Rowena Goes too Far, Replenish-
ing Jessica and The Spanking Diary of Rose Evans. The
banning of Daniel Defoe’s Moll Flanders (first published
in 1722) and a ministerial decision rejecting a 193Censorship Board recommendation to free the book
for sale is a poignant example of the ironical and
anomalous state of censorship in Australia in the 1930s.
Upsurge was allegedly banned because of its explicit
use of sexual details. However, it does not appear to
treat sexual matters more explicitly than, for example,
Brian Penton’s The Landtakers or Eleanor Dark’s
Prelude to Christopher, two prize-winning Australian
novels published in the same year. It seems likely that
Upsurge was banned because of its support for a radical
political programme and its marxian analysis of the
depression. Its style was aimed at a working-class audi-
ence which may have proved alienating for middle-class
readers. The Landtakers and Prelude to Christopher were
intended for an educated middle-class audience and did
not question directly the underlying basis of capitalism.
Upsurge was considered extremely dangerous because it
encouraged rebellion against authority during a period
when there were unprecedented levels of unemploy-
ment. The combination of sex and subversion in the
same book was too politically potent to allow Upsurge
to pass uncensored.
The saga of the banning of Upsurge began in July 193when a group of Western Australian detectives re-
XXIV
 moved eight copies of the book from leading Perth
booksellers and asked that five other copies held in
lending libraries be handed in. In the same month, the
Investigation Branch of the Federal Attorney-General’s
Department, the forerunner of A.S.LO., opened a file
on Harcourt. (The file is listed in the Federal Archives
in Canberra under A.S.1.O. but is unavailable, pre-
sumed lost. My enquiries with the Federal Police led to
a similar dead end.) Until this time Upsurge had been
freely available and was selling quite well. Following
the July raid, the secretary of the Western Australian
police, Inspector C. Treadgold, phoned the Common-
wealth
 Customs
 and
 Excise
 Office
 at
 Fremantle,
requesting the novel be placed on the prohibitive im-
ports list. (The move is significant because the Trades
and Customs Department only had juristiction over
what was officially termed ‘Blasphemous, Indecent or
Obscene’ literature. The Attorney-General’s Office
was responsible for seditious literature.) Acting on the
request, the Controller of Customs asked the Clerk in
Charge of Correspondence and Records, C.J. Carne,
for a preliminary report on the novel. On 14 July
Carne purchased a copy of Upsurge trom the Book-
lovers’ Library in Perth.
Presumably independent of the Trades and Customs
Department, Western Australian detectives again
visited Perth booksellers on 15 August and removed
remaining copies of the novel, effectively banning it
from sale in Western Australia. Harcourt, who had by
this time
 moved
 to Melbourne,
 was
 furious
 at the
police action which pre-empted any decision by the
Book Censorship Board. It is not known whether Har-
court knew that the book had been forwarded to the
Censorship Board. It had recently been passed by the
Customs authority in Melbourne and Adelaide. Har-
 XXV
court appeared in a defiant mood when interviewed in
Melbourne on 17th August: ‘While I did not expect the
West Australian police to take action it is not really
surprising. The theme of the novel is the modern
economic crisis with its accompanying decay in the
manners and morals of society.’ Harcourt defended his
novel saying that it dealt with the contemporary situ-
ation in a ‘realistic way’. His suspicion that Upsurge was
being treated unfairly in Australia was tested the
following day when news arrived that the novel had
been banned in Ireland.
In Sydney on August 31 Upsurge became the subject
of a court case in which action was brought against
Dymock’s for selling an indecent publication. No de-
fence was offered and the case was settled with the
defendants paying costs. Accordingly the police offered
no evidence that the novel was indecent or obscene.
The prosecuting sergeant merely held up a copy in
court and stated: ‘It is grossly indecent. If people of the
younger generation get hold of this book it will have a
bad effect on their minds.’ Dymock’s forwarded all
remaining copies of Upsurge in their possession to the
police. As in Western Australia, Upsurge was now eftec-
tively banned in New South Wales.
Meanwhile in Perth, Carne had prepared his report
for the Controller of Customs. He was of the opinion
that Upsurge was ‘indecent’. In particular he drew atten-
tion to pages: 64, 66, 68, 101, 106, 110, 111, 112, 184,
189, 190. These pages included a threat by a communist
to ram a ‘plug of gelignite’ up the ‘arse’ of the city
magistrate and blow him ‘to hell’; a love scene between
Riddle and Theodora; a beach scene where sexual vagar-
ies and infidelities are played out; the predatory gaze of
Paul Kronen fixed on a female secretary in his com-
pany, his desire to ‘slip his hand up under her skirts and
XXV pat her firm thighs’; a description of the boss’s ‘girl-
friend’ as a ‘little wanton’ with a slim ‘boy-girl’s body’;
the seduction of Ethel Rumble and Theodora by
Kronen and Groom at the beach one night; a meeting
between Theodora and a young communist, his sexual
frustration concluding with a resolve to visit the city’s
brothels to rid himself of the thought of her.
Carne also believed that Upsurge contravened the
Commonwealth’s Literature Proclamation of 193concerning seditious literature. This is significant for
no novel had ever been banned in Australia because it
was considered seditious. The 1932 proclamation de-
fined seditious literature as that which advocated:
(a)
 the overthrow by force or violence of the estab-
lished government of the Commonwealth or any
state or any other civilized country;
(b)
 the overthrow by force or violence of all forms of
law;
c)
 the abolition of organized government;
) the assassination of public officials;
) the unlawful destruction of property;
) wherein a seditious intention 1s expressed or a seditious
enterprise is expressed or a seditious enterprise is advo-
cated.
According to a report from the Attorney-General’s
Department, paragraphs (b), (c) and (d) had been origin-
ally aimed at anarchism, (e) at I.W.W.ism which was
rife in Australia at the end of the First World War. By
1934 the department believed that the anarchists and
the ‘wobblies’ had been ‘superseded by Communism’.
Although there was a fear that the Industrial Workers
of the World might regroup the Attorney-General
identified Communism and ‘Communistic literature’
as the principle source of sedition in Australia.
 XXVIII
Carne believed that Upsurge was ‘... thinly disguised
propaganda on behalf of Communism and social revo-
lution’. He perceived, rightly, a link in the fiction be-
tween sexual promiscuity and the inevitable decay of
capitalism. Carne wrote that, apart from two ‘avowed
communists’ all characters in Upsurge led ‘immoral
lives’. He protested that parliament was held up for
‘contempt and ridicule’ and that the police were
depicted as acting ‘with wanton brutality’: ‘Practically
all the women in the book are wantons,’ he continued
and ‘the state is depicted as possessing thousands of un-
employed who are rife for revolution’. For Carne, and
possibly others in the Trades and Customs Depart-
ment, there was much to be feared by a lack of sexual
morality given its political potential as rebellion against
the broader social mores.
On 30 August heavy pressure was brought to bear on
the Trades and Customs Department in the form of the
elitist National Council of Women of Australia, whose
patrons were Lady Isaacs and Mrs J.A. Lyons. The
Council of Women asked that Upsurge and The Pearlers
be ‘banned’ because both were ‘extremely objection-
able’. The Minister for Customs Colonel, T. W. White,
replied that he would look into the matter. He sent a
memo to the Comptroller of Customs at Canberra
who forwarded a copy of The Pearlers to the Censor-
ship Board which was already reviewing Upsurge.
On November 14 and 19 two reports by members of
the Censorship Board were handed to the chairman.
The first judged Upsurge ‘A crude book of “‘revolution-
ary upsurge”’’ and drew attention to ‘disfigured’ and
‘gross passages’ including the brothel scene and a refer-
ence to the city magistrate, ‘Jimmy Riddle’, as ‘Lord of
the Urinal’. The report concluded that the novel had
brought the banning upon itself: 

‘If a writer chooses to introduce obscenities like these,
 I should ban’.
The second report suggested that Upsurge was ‘not without
good points’ but should be banned because it was ob-
scene. It went on to add that Harcourt was ‘manifestly
in sympathy with certain acts of lawlessness’ and dis-
played a ‘marked tendency to hold up established
authority to contempt and ridicule’. On 20 November
1934 Upsurge was banned federally. Significantly, the
chairman’s report made no mention of the book’s
political programme or the fact that Harcourt had writ-
ten in the style of socialist realism. It concluded:
This book is not without merit, though somewhat
crude. But it is disfigured by some grossly indecent
passages, without any excuse of being necessary to the
story. A book cannot be ‘cut’ like a film; and if an
author chooses to offend in this way, he must take the
consequences. The Board recommends that the book be
prohibited on the grounds of indecency.
Upsurge was banned because of its mix of sexual and
social descriptions and the author’s intention of using
both as a political weapon against accepted social
values. Although some readers were genuinely offended
by what they considered ‘indecent’, the authorities were
equally concerned at the radical political programme
espoused by Harcourt. In the turbulent thirties when
one in three of Australia’s workforce was unemployed,
Upsurge presumed to question existing social mores.
Harcourt’s message cut too close to the sensitive nerve
of social responsibility and social control. Four months
after Upsurge was banned, in February 1935, the
Censorship Board voted on The Pearlers, recommend-
ing that, although the book had some objectionable
passages, it be passed. In one of the reports there was a
suggestion that many of the copies had now been sold
and a ban would be ineffective.
After the banning of Upsurge Harcourt seemed to
decide to abandon earlier ambitions of being an author.
In 1937, he wrote a romantic novel entitled, Jt Never
Fails. It was a monumental failure with none of the
social commentary that characterized his first two
novels. In the early forties Harcourt wrote a half com-
pleted draft of a biography of J. Jorgensen and the artis-
tic community at Monsalvat near Melbourne. In 194he retired to build mud-brick houses in the outer-
Melbourne suburb of Eltham during the post-war hous-
ing shortage. He later shifted to Whale Beach in New
South Wales where he died in 1971.
RicHarpD A. NILE
School of History
The University of New South Wales
November 1985.

UPSURGE
As was shown in his first novel, ‘‘The
Pearlers’’, Mr. Harcourt has the gift
of telling dramatic stories full of
strong atmosphere.
 ‘‘The Pearlers’’
gave us a fine picture of life in a
Western Australian Pearling station.
In ‘‘Upsurge’’ the Author takes us
to Perth, the capital of Western
Australia, and paints for us a power-
ful picture of post-war conditions.
There are strikes, lock-outs, riots, and
sudden death, for a change is taking
place—in fact, ‘‘Upsurge’’.
He shows us the undermining of
morals, loose-living and so _ forth
among the upper and middle classes,
and the retribution which follows in
their wake.
The characters are boldly drawn,
and include an eminent judge, a Com-
munist agitator, an ever-forgiving wife
whose patience was tried too far, a big
business man eaten up
 with conceit,
and a score of others.
There is tragedy and comedy, and
the book grips from start to finish.
UPSURGE
A
Novel
By
J.M.HARCOURT
Author of “The Pearlers”
London
John Long, Limited
34, 35 & 36 Paternoster Row, E.C.UPSURGE
CHAPTER
 ONE
 Perth, the capital city of the state of Western
Australia, on the 13th day of February, 193-, a
young civil-servant named Herbert Knight, and a
girl of twenty named Theodora Luddon, who was
employed as a confidential secretary by the Brazilian
Consul, were charged in the Police Court, before the
magistrate, James Riddle—‘‘the Lord of the Urinal”
—with a breach of a City Council by-law which
required bathers on beaches under the control of the
Council to wear costumes extending from their necks
to their knees.
This by-law was antiquated.
 It had lain for decades
in the statute-books of the Council, accumulating dust
like a forgotten bomb in a cellar.
 The only bathing
costumes in Australia which would have complied
with it were in the historical museums.
 But the per-
turbed city fathers could find no other by-law under
which to prosecute, so the bomb was brought up from
the cellar and tossed into the lap of the magistrate,
James Riddle, where it exploded silently... .
Riddle had not been so perturbed in eight years.
He wondered if he showed it, and thinking grimly
that he probably did, shot a furtive glance at his
colleagues on the Bench—Justices of the Peace who
sat from sheer vanity—the Jew, Meyer,
 on his right,
the Prohibitionist, Lalor, on his left.
Since the felicitous death of his wife eight years ago,
 UPSURGE
Riddle
 had
 gone
 little
 into
 society,
 preferring
 the
solicitude of his villa in the hills, and the companion-
ship of the philosophers and poets on his shelves, and
an occasional gay little lady, to promiscuous social
contacts other than those imposed upon him by his
work.
 He had believed that his work kept him-
sufficiently in touch with the changing temper of the
times,
 but
 this
 case
 made
 him
 doubt,
 made
 him
wonder if he had not lost contact.
Surely the bathing-suits of the day—he had seen
them depicted on the advertisement hoardings—gaily
coloured, closely fitting, backless and legless; surely
they exposed enough of their wearers without it being
necessary to roll them down to the waist ! There
was not much wrong with a man stripped to the buff,
of course, but when it came to a girl . . . For the girl
the charge amounted to one of indecent exposure!
 She
had been holding up the front of her costume to con-
ceal her breasts,
 to be sure,
 but...
Her face fascinated him.
 It wasstrong and definitely
beautiful.
 It was tanned an even golden brown by
the sun but was otherwise colourless.
 Her brow was
low and broad above wide-open grey eyes.
 Her nose
was short and straight, her lips full and definite.
 She
caught him watching her and lowered her eyes, and
the magistrate noticed that her lds were deeper in
colour than the smooth surrounding skin. There was
a strange quality of serenity about her—nothing at
all of the wanton.
 How could a girl like that shame
herself on a public beach?
 And how could she sit
there in the dock as unmoved as if she were attending
a curate’s tea-party ?
“Well?” he asked her when the inspector prose-
cuting
 had
 finished.
 ‘“‘Haven’t
 you
 anything
 to
say?”
UPSURGE
 II
The
 man
 charged
 with
 her
 began
 to
 speak,
 but
Riddle checked him.
“T don’t want to hear you.
 I may say that in your
case I don’t regard this case as very serious. There
is nothing indecent about a man stripped to the buff.
But I want to hear what the girl has to say. Why
did she do it ?”
The girl said: “Simply because . . . well, the sun
is nice on your skin.’’ Her voice was a rich contralto.
She added as if it were an afterthought: ‘“‘Besides, if
you don’t slip off the shoulder-straps you have white
marks where they keep the sun off and... and it
looks unsightly in evening dress. And everybody
does it.”’
“Everybody ?”’
“Well,
 lots,
 anyhow.”
“That’s
 hardly
 true,
 your
 worship,’
 began
 the
inspector.
 ‘There are a few, but...”
“Never mind,” said Riddle.
True.
 Of course it was true. It had to be true to
account for this girl and her conduct.
 Modesty was
not an instinct, he reflected, as he supposed he was
expected to believe, but a taboo which drew its strength
from popular sentiment.
 That sentiment was weaken-
ing or the girl would never have dared . . . She was
not a trollop!
The inspector said that he was instructed to ask for
the maximum penalty the law provided to deter others
from similar conduct.
 It was becoming far too
prevalent.
“So lots of people do do it ?”” Riddle asked him.
“Er...
 no,
 your
 worship,
 not
 lots.
 But
 a few.
It’s becoming increasingly common.”
“All right. That will do.”
Riddle conferred with his colleagues.
 The maximum
IZ
 UPSURGE
penalty the archaic by-law provided was a fine of two
pounds.
“Two pounds is all right for the man,” the prohi-
bitionist Lalor whispered. ‘“‘But the woman—she
ought to be imprisoned.”
“She
 can’t be,”
 Riddle
 said curtly,
 then
 raised his.
voice and addressed the delinquents:
 “You
 are each
fined in the sum
 of two
 pounds,
 with
 three
 shillings
costs. The court will adjourn for five minutes.”’
He rose abruptly, pushing back his heavy chair, and
left the court by the door which led into his chambers.
He was annoyed with himself for his own obscure
feelings, and for the absurd physiological weakness
which made it necessary for him to relieve himself
after any strong accession of emotion.
His chambers had their own privy....
Yes,
 he
 was
 out
 of
 touch.
 His
 poets
 and
 philo-
sophers were dead.
 That girl...
An image of her hung in his mind and would not be
dismissed.
CHAPTER
 TWO
I
T was only a short walk from Riddle’s villa to the
black bitumen highway along which the buses ran
to Perth.
 The magistrate reflected as he waited at
the roadside that this was the first occasion for a very
long time that he had left the hills on a Sunday.
 He
wondered how long he would have to wait tor a bus.
He had neglected to look up a time-table before
setting out.
 On week-mornings he caught a bus at
nine-thirty, reaching his chambers at ten-fifteen, which
was only fifteen minutes after the first case was sup-
posed to be called in court ; or if he missed that bus he
caught another at ten-thirty—they ran every hour on
week-days.
 But they ran differently on Sundays and
holidays.
The morning sun was hot.
 The magistrate was
beginning to feel uncomfortable, standing at
 the
roadside waiting for the bus.
 For occasions like this,
he thought, a car would be useful.
 He had not
owned a car since the death of his wife.
 In the
possession of a car it was less easy to escape from
social obligations.
 James Riddle did not visit his
friends ; his friends visited him.
 So satisfactory an
arrangement would not have been possible if he had
had a car.
The bus came at last.
The bus drew up in St. George’s Terrace by a green
oasis of gardens.
 Riddle got out and gazed about him
1I UPSURGE
at the unfamiliar city.
 The city he knew was a city
at work, living, significant: a city of two hundred
thousand souls ; with crowded narrow footpaths, and
wide busy streets ; with clanging electric trams, painted
a dull grey-green and decorated with advertisements,
with red diamonds painted on either end from which the
head-lamps looked out like Cyclopean eyes; with a
morning, and evening, and four important weekly
newspapers ; with fine public buildings ; with bronze
and stone and marble memorials to the War and
others of the great and noble deeds of men ; with green
parks and public gardens ; with Chambers of Commerce
and of Industry ; with wealth amounting to hundreds
of millions of pounds sterling deposited in bills and
deeds and currency in a dozen banks; and with
thousands of unemployed who huddled in the shade of
the trees in the parks, their shabby clothes and drawn,
want-marked faces spoiling the pleasant prospects for
the more fortunate.
But the city lay now in an exhausted sleep, empty
and meaningless, sprawling like a dead monster among
green living things.
 A few leisurely pedestrians, clad
in loose, comfortable garments, passed to and fro over
the pavements.
 The clangor of a tram, two blocks
away, was the death-rattle of a robot.
 Under the
trees in the parks the unemployed lay gasping in their
sweat-soaked rags : the ordure of the city.
 In the hot
Sabbath sun the city slept amidst its ordure, amidst
the excrement passed from its concrete bowels; and
the church-bells pealed slowly, echoing meaninglessly
through the empty streets.
Riddle walked several blocks to the point from which
the Scarborough buses departed.
 A bus was waiting.
He entered and sat down on the shady side. The bus
filled up slowly.
 The passengers were chiefly young
UPSURGE
 1men in blazers and open shirts and flannel trousers,
their feet thrust into canvas shoes, and girls in light
loose frocks.
 A party of four, wearing only wrappers
over bathing suits, came running as the vehicle began
to move, and clambered aboard with much gasping
and giggling.
 Only two seats were vacant, so the
girls of the party sat upon the knees of the men.
 The
magistrate noticed that they did so without self-con-
sciousness or coyness.
The bus gathered speed and left the city and ran
through smiling garden suburbs for several miles.
Then the pretty cottages with their lawns and shrubs
and flower-beds gave place to primal bushland.
 The
bus lumbered on over the narrow black road, followed
by a little cloud of grey dust.
Clad in the dull grey-green of eucalypt and banksia,
this antipodean terrain fell in slow undulations of
limestone hills to the sea. The fall was checked by a
tumbled ridge of dunes, then the land spilled itself in
a spate of shining white sand into the Indian Ocean.
 _
For a space the dunes were levelled into a broad
esplanade.
 The bus turned into the esplanade and
stopped.
 The passengers poured out, and the magis-
trate James Riddle stood for a moment blinking in the
incandescent glare of the sun, and absorbing details
of a scene more animated than any in his memory.
Across the wide bitumen expanse of the esplanade a
score of little shops and cafés, gay beneath roofs of
multi-coloured tiles, looked out upon a sea of tur-
quoise and sapphire.
 Shops and cafés were thronged
with half-naked customers, young men and girls in
bright, scanty bathing-suits, in loose gay gowns, in
1 UPSURGE
jazz-patterned pyjamas.
 Up and down the wide
flights of steps which led down from the esplanade
through a wall of yellow sandstone to the beach, and
across the esplanade itself, was a coming
 and
 going
that was vital with colour.
The magistrate descended to the beach.
 From the.
white sand great umbrellas of red, green, blue, yellow,
rose like a crop of gigantic toadstools.
 Bathers
crowded in their shade.
 Others
 lay
 in
 the
 full
 glare
of the sun, stretched
 supine
 upon
 the
 sand,
 drunk
with the fierce heat.
 The crowds ebbed and flowed.
The ocean laved the sands with three rolling white
lines of surf.
 Half-naked bathers rode upon the
breakers on their painted boards, or laughed and
shouted in the clear green water, their cries merging
with the slow, ceaseless roar of the surf.
The beach stretched away to the north till it was
lost in a rocky outcrop behind which rose low, black
cliffs, and to the south in a curving white line that
grew smudged with distance, to City Beach, Ocean
Beach,
 Cottesloe,
 Buckland
 Hill,
 Leighton,
 to
where, very
 dimly
 through
 the
 heat-haze,
 could
 be
seen
 the
 stone
 mole
 which
 guarded
 the
 harbour
 of
Fremantle, and the masts and funnels of the ships in
the port.
In the public dressing-shed Riddle changed into a
new sky-blue bathing-suit, and emerged feeling con-
scious of the whiteness of his limbs, grotesquely naked
in the presence of the people about him in their coats
of tan.
 Stepping over the bodies of sun-drunken
bathers he reached the water and plunged into the
surf.
The water surged about his waist and he dived,
coming up refreshed, washed clean of discomfort and
self-consciousness and incipient bad temper.
 Dodging
UPSURGE
 1the
 plunging surf-boards he struggled out
 beyond
the
 surf, luxuriating in the cool caress
 of the
water.
In a while, however, it grew chill, and he returned to
the beach to get his towel from the dressing-shed, dry
his arms and shoulders and face, and drop down on the
hot sand.
Then he heard someone hailing him by name, and
gazed about him in surprise, for he had not expected
to encounter anyone he knew on the beach.
 At last
he espied his friend the chemist John Graham, beckon-
ing to him from under a sunshade.
 He moved over
gladly.
 Graham was a man after his own kind, a
man of intellect and intelligence, for all that he some-
times kept dubious company.
 Riddle had not seen
him for more than two months.
 Bending from his
erect height he shook hands with the big thick-set man
who wore always the same still smile on his broad
serene countenance.
 Graham greeted the magistrate
with friendly irony :
“Has your soul rebelled against your poets and
philosophers at last, James, that you should join this
orgy of sensuality °”’
‘Sensuality ?”’ Riddle repeated questioningly.
 “Is
that what it is ?”’
“Simon pure sensuality,’’ said the chemist.
 “‘Look
at it—a pagan bacchanal!’’
 He made a gesture which
embraced the whole beach.
 ‘‘They’re drunk with the
wind and the surf and the sun—especially the sun.
 A
thousand half-nude men and women luxuriating in
pure
 sensation.
 Bare
 backs,
 bare
 shoulders,
 bare
thighs. And half of them not content with costumes
cut away almost to the waist must slip off the shoulder-
straps and roll them wholly down.
 Even the women.
Look at them, half of them concealing their breasts
B
1 UPSURGE
only with their cupped hands, making barely a pretence
at holding up their costumes... .”
Startled, the magistrate looked about him, remem-
bering suddenly the primary purpose of this unwanted
excursion of his. He thought again of the girl,
Theodora Luddon, sitting in the dock on a charge.
that amounted to one of indecent exposure, yet seem-
ingly unembarrassed and serene.
 She had told the
truth,
 of
 course
 she
 had!
 Here
 it was
 written
 in
warm, sun-tanned flesh upon the beach. ...
The chemist went on: ‘Next year, perhaps, they
won’t even bother to make a pretence.’
 He paused
for a moment, then added with relish: “This cult of
the beaches and the sun, James, is sabotaging the idea
of modesty.’
“That’s my impression,’”’ observed Riddle.
 “There
was a case in court last week—a young man and a girl.
The council inspector caught them with their costumes
rolled down.
 The girl...remarkable!
 What amazed
me most was her self-possession.
 In my ignorance of
all this...’
 He gestured as a moment before Graham
had gestured.
 ‘‘. . . it seemed to me that the charge
amounted to one of indecent exposure.
 Yet she was
wholly unaffected.
 I fined her two pounds.
 This...
makes me feel rather foolish.
 I came... to see for
myself.”’
“And you’ve seen !’’ Graham chuckled.
 “I take it
she was a good-looking girl ?”’
“She was,” the magistrate admitted.
 “Extremely
good-looking.
 An altogether remarkable girl.”’
Chuckling
 again, the chemist observed:
 “Her
charms, it seems, impressed you as much as her self-
possession.
 I suppose it wasn’t, by any chance, the
hope of seeing her that brought you out to-day °”’
“No,” Riddle said brusquely, “it wasn’t.”’
UPSURGE
 1Yet even as he spoke he was conscious of a stirring
of hope that he would see her, and his glance began to
wander unobtrusively about the beach, searching
group after group of the bathers.
On the edge of a group a few feet away a young
woman lay upon her stomach with her head buried in
her arms.
 About the straight black hair, drawn back
from her small head in two plaits and coiled low behind
each
 ear,
 and
 the
 slim,
 firm,
 olive-white
 limbs
 that
seemed impervious to the sun, there was something
which impressed the magistrate as vaguely familiar.
The shoulder-straps of her costume had been slipped
off, and against the sand her young breast swelled
deliciously.
 A fair-haired young man lay with his
head pillowed on her thighs.
“T seem to know that girl,’ Riddle said in a puzzled
way.
 “I can’t see her face, but...”
Graham answered lazily: “‘That’s my wife and her
latest admirer.
 Of course you seemed to know her.”
He called to her : “Gerda !”’
She raised her head in a dazed way.
‘“‘Here’s a friend of yours,’
 Graham
 said to her.
Pushing the young man’s head off her legs, Gerda
Graham sat up, the dazed expression still on her face.
But in a moment she appeared to recognize the magis-
trate, and smiled, shooting him a languishing glance
from her yellow eyes.
 Slipping her arms into the loops
of her costume,
 she crawled
 over.
 Riddle
 said that
he had been trying to recognize her.
“Had you forgotten me °” sheinquired reproach-
fully.
He shook his head.
 ‘‘You are much too striking a
2 UPSURGE
person to forget.
 But your face was hidden in your
arms.”’
She rewarded him with another long glance, and
they began to chat of unimportant matters:
 the last
occasion they had met, a play, a divorce case then
before the Supreme Court of the State.
 At last she.
said :
“Come and meet the others.
 Afterwards we are all
going to the Grooms’ at Cottesloe to have a party.
You must come too.”
“But I don’t know your Grooms.”
“I’m going to introduce you.
 Come on.”
She took his hand and led him somewhat against his
inclination to the group she had leit.
They acknowledged the introductions vaguely, too
subtly conscious of the sensuous air, the hot white
sand, the hazy symphony of heat and colour and
movement of which they were part, to strain their
manners.
 The young columnist and paragraphist,
Noel Manning, whom Riddle already knew slightly,
leaned against the recumbent body of his fiancée, Joyce
Mealing.
 Paul Kronen, the young managing director of
the great drapery firm of Kronen’s Limited, was slowly
burying the long slim legs of Fanchon Follower, the
daughter of a wealthy timber-merchant, under a pile of
sand.
 The handsome
 young
 idler, Peter Groom,
 dis-
turbed when Gerda went to greet the magistrate, now
supported his head upon his hand.
 In thecentre of the
group his pretty, brown-haired, young wife Cynthia
squatted on her heels and accused him of infidelities.
Her clear voice flowed on resentfully lke a thread
through the vital harmony :
“And only yesterday—Joyce and Noel had come to
tea—Peter and Noel went out to get some bread, and
just when we were beginning to think they’d had an
UPSURGE
accident, or gone to the hotel and got drunk, they came
back with two girls... .”
Groom interrupted his wife : ““How could we
 know
they’d come.
 We picked them up for a lark, and drove
them
 round in the car for a while, and couldn’t think
of any polite way of getting rid of them.
 So I asked
them to come along home with us and meet our wives.
How could we know they’d accept an invitation like
that ?”
“That doesn’t explain why you stopped out till four
o’clock in the morning,”’ said Cynthia.
Joyce Mealing sat up suddenly and said: “Noel
didn’t.”’
“But Peter did—after he’d taken them home. Joyce
and I refused to meet them—we simply left the flat.
They sat down and ate the meal we’d got ready, while
we had to go to the hotel.
 I choke when I think of
it—those raddled little hussies sitting down to our tea
with Peter and Noel.
 And when we came back the
lights in the flat were out. They were lying in the
bedroom with them—Noel, too—he was just as bad
as Peter up to that time.”’
Joyce Mealing bit her lip.
“Noel wouldn’t have done a thing like that if it
hadn’t been for Peter.’
 Noel
 Manning
 smiled
dreamily, but his fiancée went on unnoticing : ‘I don’t
know why you put up with it.”
“He...he... always gets round me,’ Cynthia said,
throwing the young scapegrace she had married a look
of angry adoration.
 “Some day I’ll leave him and
take his money with me.
 You could have driven those
creatures home in half or three-quarters of an hour,”’
she declared addressing her husband directly.
 “But
you didn’t get home till four in the morning.
 I don’t
know what you did... .”
2 UPSURGE
“T told you,’’ Groom’ said.
 ‘One of them was an
interesting girl. We sat talking and didn’t notice the
time going.”
“What did you talk about ?”
“Oh, Lord!
 About a hundred and one things !”
‘How do I know you're telling the truth ?”
“Have I ever lied to you, Cynthia darling ?”’
His voice was laughing and tender, and his wife
made no answer.
Paul Kronen said:
 ‘Ha, ha, ha !”’
Joyce Mealing protested: ‘You don’t believe him,
do you ?”
“T don’t know,”
 said Cynthia.
 “I don’t know what
to believe.”
“Why, he even makes love to your friends !”’
“They encourage me,’ said Groom, rising easily to
his feet.
Six feet high, he stood for a moment gazing at the
welter of youth about him; youth supine upon the
sand ; revelling in thesurf; the gay colours of bathing
suits
 and
 pyjamas,
 coatees,
 tall
 beach
 sombreros
rioting like a jazz harmony in the shimmering heat ;
young men and women as beautiful as gods, as thought-
less and care-free as monkeys.
 The young idler shook
the sand from his limbs like a dog, and the long, lithe
muscles rippled under the sun-tanned skin.
 Watching
him with reluctant admiration, the magistrate saw his
glance wander from one to another of the group at his
feet, resting for an instant on Gerda Graham with her
almost-yellow eyes, her olive-white skin and black
hair;
 on the slim Fanchon Follower, half buried in the
sand, who might have been a boy but for the little
twin apples that pressed out her bathing suit, and lips
so reddened with salve that her mouth looked like a
bleeding gash; on his wife with her charming, sun-
UPSURGE
 2tinted face in its frame
 of brown
 hair;
 on the classic,
dark-brown beauty of Joyce Mealing.
 Bending, the
young idler caught hold of Joyce, and, ignoring her
protests, swung her to her feet with easy strength ; and
calling to Cynthia to bring the surf-boards, hustled her
shrieking into the surf.
 |
The
 group
 broke
 up.
 Fanchon
 Follower
 erupted
from her mound
 of sand, crying that she was tired of
sun-bathing.
 Seizing their surf-boards, she and Paul
Kronen dashed into the water.
 The others followed
leisurely, with the magistrate and the chemist and his
wife bringing up the rear.
Gerda moved languidly, lethargically, as though the
sun had drained the vitality from her.
 But the swirl
of the water about her knees revived her.
She cried out: “Wait for me !’—and pushed out
after those ahead.
But they failed to hear her or ignored her and she
fell back again to Riddle and her husband.
Joyce Mealing and Peter Groom came in fast on a
breaker, riding their boards in a smother of foam.
They would have passed ten yards away, but they
altered the course of their shoreward flight slightly and
came straight for Gerda and Riddle and Graham.
Riddle braced himself nervously, expecting to be
struck.
 Gerda cried out in alarm.
 At the last
moment the two swung their boards broadside to the
surf and found their feet beside the others. They
were laughing.
“Come
 on
 out
 where
 they’re
 breaking,’
 Groom
shouted to Gerda.
She
 snubbed
 him
 with
 a look,
 and
 turned
 to the
magistrate.
2 UPSURGE
“You take me out, Mr. Riddle.”’
Riddle remembered that his friend,
 Graham,
 had
referred to the young idler as his wife’s latest admirer.
He suspected that he was being played off against
Groom,
 but he did not mind.
 He
 smiled
 assent, and
he and the chemist’s wife pressed out together.
A breaker surged towards them and they went under
to come up in the bubbling wake.
 They thrust out
till the water was shoulder-high and they had to
struggle desperately to make headway against the
onslaught of the surf.
 Breakers reared green and
sheer above them.
 They dived under the toppling
crests and at last won their way to the clear deep
water beyond the surf.
A strong swimmer in his youth, the magistrate was
yet unused
 to such
 violent
 exertion,
 and
 trod water,
gasping.
 The woman watched him in a calculating
provocative way though she, too, was a little out of
breath.
 Looking back at the shore, they seemed to
be a long way out.
The magistrate remarked on the distance.
Gerda smiled: “We're only about sixty yards out.”
‘More than that, surely ?”’
She shook her wet head, still smiling.
“You don’t want to go back already, do you ?”
“No,” he said, answering her smile.
As she trod water she moved close to him,
 so that
now and then their legs touched.
Riddle thought:
 ‘The minx !’’—but
 the contact
excited
 him a
 little,
 and
 he
 wondered
 if he
 should
suggest to Graham that he bring his wife out to his
villa in the hills one day.
‘“Let’s dive together to the bottom,
 Gerda sug-
gested.
 “‘Put your arm round me.’
The warmth of her body reached the magistrate
UPSURGE
 2through the cool film of water that was all that seemed
to separate her from him, and he bit his lip gently
from pleasure and excitement.
 Gerda smiled at him
in an intimate way.
Then the smile faded and was replaced by a frown.
Riddle observed that she was gazing at something
over his shoulder,
 and
 he turned
 his head
 to see the
young idler, Peter Groom, swimming towards them.
The young man called out: “Eh, Gerda !”’
The chemist’s wife did not reply.
 With an osten-
tatious gesture she drew Riddle’s arm more closely
around her and said: ‘“‘Come on. Let’s dive.”
They dived till they were groping on the white
bottom.
Then, simultaneously, they saw, approaching them
out of the green depths, a dark moving shape.
With a single desperate movement the woman
released the man, and they shot separately to the
surface.
Gerda
 screamed:
 “A
 shark!
 Oh,
 God,
 a shark !’
—and fainted.
An icy chill of fear passed through Riddle.
 Six
feet away the young idler, Peter Groom, gazed about
him with a look of frank and hopeless terror on his face.
A shrill whistle sounded from the watch-tower on
the beach.
 A tenseness ran through the crowd on
the ‘sands like an electric current.
 Like a wave
they rose and crowded to the water’s edge to mix
in confusion with the bathers struggling out from the
surf. A solid wall of humanity stood on the edge of
the surf and gazed out beyond the breakers to where
two men supported between them an unconscious girl.
2 UPSURGE
Close beside them something black
 came
 up
 out
 of
the water and sank again: a fin.
“Tt’s
 Gerda
 and
 Riddle,”
 John
 Graham
 said
 in
 a
curiously impassive voice, ““—and young Groom, I
think.”’
He had become slightly pale, and his eyes were -
fixed intently on the sea.
Cynthia Groom screamed and dropped to her knees
on the edge of the surf in a fit of wild weeping.
 Fan-
chon Follower gazed with the fascinated expression of
a bird hypnotized by a snake.
 Joyce Mealing sud-
denly hid her face on the shoulder of Noel Manning.
Paul Kronen, very pale, looked steadily out to
sea.
 Another
 fin,
 and
 another,
 then
 one,
 two,
 three
shining black backs . . . a school of porpoises. . .
From the crowd on the beach came a gasp of relief
that sounded like a newly-awakened wind sighing
through trees.
“Cynthia!
 Cynthia darling !’”” Joyce Mealing cried
hysterically, throwing herself down beside Cynthia.
“Cynthia,
 look,
 look!
 It’s
 not
 a
 shark,
 it’s
 por-
poises !’’ She dashed some tears from her eyes.
“Cynthia, they’re safe.
 It’s nothing.
 Look!”
Cynthia looked up vacantly.
 “What °”
“Cynthia, it’s not a shark, only porpoises.”
‘“Porpoises ?”” echoed Cynthia.
 “‘Porpoises ?”
“Yes, porpoises.”
Cynthia stopped crying and rose to her feet.
 She
looked out to where her husband and the magistrate
still supported Gerda Graham.
 Twenty yards from
them the rolling black backs broke the water again
and disappeared. Porpoises! Cynthia began to laugh.
She laughed while the tears still streamed from her
eyes and continued as though she could not stop.
UPSURGE
 2She
 clutched
 at her side,
 at her throat,
 but
 the hys-
terical laughter went on.
 She laughed till the others
became frightened for her, then stopped as suddenly
as she had begun.
 She sank down on her haunches
on the sand, and a queer sob rose out of her throat.
“There,
 there!’
 Joyce
 Mealing was crooning.
“There,
 there!
 There,
 there,
 darling,
 they’re
 going
out for them.
 They’re going out for them with the
life-line.”’
People crowded round asking questions.
A brown young athlete in the skull-cap and costume
of the Scarborough Surf Life Saving Club was making
his way out through the surf. A life-belt with a line
attached was fastened round his waist.
 Behind him
the life-savers paid out the line above their heads with
the precision of machines.
The belt-man dived through the last line of surf and
swam out to where Groom and the magistrate trod
water, supporting the unconscious girl. With one
hand the young idler clung to his surf-board.
“Take
 her,’
 Groom
 said,
 thrusting
 the
 chemist’s
wife into the hands of the belt-man.
 “I’m all right.
Got a bit of a scare, that’s all. Are you all right ?”
he inquired of Riddle.
“Yes.”
The belt-man began to abuse them: “Bloody fools
_ .’—but his comrades on the beach began to haul
in the line and his abuse ended in an angry splutter
as his head dipped under.
Riddle
 and
 Groom
 struck out for the shore,
 and in
a few strokes were in the breaking surf. Shouting to
the magistrate to get on behind, Groom caught a
breaker with his surf-board, and they reached the
shore not long after the belt-man.
As they waded through the last few yards of surf,
2 UPSURGE
Cynthia Groom came running to meet them.
 She
clutched her young husband’s hand, crying :
“Peter,
 oh,
 Peter,
 you
 don’t
 know
 what a
 relief it
was! ...”
There were tears in her eyes.
The young man replied gaily: “Why, you've been .
crying!
 Did you think your faithless husband had
gone then, Cinny ?”’
He put an arm round her shoulders and shook her
gently.
 She said nothing but squeezed his hand and
looked up at him through her wet lashes in a humble,
dog-like way.
The magistrate James Riddle hung behind as they
mounted the wet slope to the beach.
 He was touched.
So pitiful and so charming in her love, he thought.
Were the women who came before him on Friday
mornings,
 seeking
 separations
 from
 their
 husbands,
once like that ?
When he reached the beach he hurried along to
where Graham’s wife had been brought ashore by the
life-savers.
 She had recovered consciousness on the
way-in in the arms of the belt-man and had swallowed
no water, but they had laid her face downwards on
the sand notwithstanding, and were applying resus-
citation methods.
 Gerda protested weakly, but they
would not desist till Graham and Riddle interfered.
The husband and his friend supported Gerda back
to the sunshades.
 They put her down in the shade,
and Paul Kronen made a pillow of beach-coats and
slipped it under her head.
“She’s all right,” Riddle said.
 “A little fright,
that’s all.”
One of her coiled plaits had come undone in the surt
and hung from her head now like a dead black snake.
She said weakly: “Oh, I feel so ashamed |"
UPSURGE
 2“Nothing
 to
 feel
 ashamed
 about,
 a the
 magistrate
said cheerfully, and the others chorused:
 “Nonsense !
Ashamed, indeed !”’
“Nevertheless,”
 said
 Gerda,
 “I’m
 ashamed.
 To
faint like a schoolgirl at the sight of a porpoise!
 But
coming
 through
 the
 water
 as
 it
 did,
 it
 ded
 look
 like
 a
shark.’
 |
She recovered quickly, and in a little the scare was
forgotten.
An orgy of sensuality. . . . Riddle lay inert on the
sand with his face buried in his arms.
 His flesh was in
the grip
 of
 a
 tingling
 lethargy.
 Even
 his thoughts
flowed
 slowly.
 He
 thought
 of
 the
 phrase
 of his friend
the chemist:
 an
 orgy
 of
 sensuality
.
 The
 enervating,
vitalizing
 heat
 of
 the
 sun,
 and
 the
 cool
 effervesc
ence
of the
 surf
 .
 .
 .
 then
 the
 sun
 again
 and
 the
 surf
 again
—a sort of multi-layered sensual sandwich.
 Slices of
sand
 with
 sea
 between,
 fierce
 heat
 and
 bubbling
cold... .
The sun, the magistrate reflected, was a drug and
an intoxicant, and was becoming unpleasantly hot
again on his back and legs.
 It was time to cool off
again
 in
 the
 surf.
 He
 sat
 up.
The sun had sunken half-way down the western
sky and was reflected in splashes of incandescence
from the waves, which were rising under the influence
of a breeze
 from
 the west.
 |
Groom and Gerda Graham came up from the surf
with water dripping from them.
 The young idler
grinned
 cheerfull
y
 at
 the
 magistrat
e.
“We're thinking of going,’ he said.
 “‘It’s less
pleasant when the sea breeze gets up.
 Youre coming
with
 us, of course ?”’
3 UPSURGE
“Well...”
“Of course he’s coming,”
 Gerda said.
“That
 settles it,’ Groom
 remarked,
 grinning
 again.
A little surprised at himself, Riddle said:
 “I'd be
glad to come.
 I'll have a dip first though.
 Where’s
John ?”
He
 looked
 round
 for the chemist
 but could not see .
him.
Gerda said:
 ‘I think he’s in the water.
 Hurry up.
You’ve got to dress.
 We came like this.”
She approached close to Riddle and wrung the
water from the bottom of her costume so that it
dripped over him.
 He flinched from the cold contact
and scrambled
 to
 his
 feet while she smiled at him with
her yellow eyes.
As he made his way down the wet slope to the
water he was still surprised at himself.
 He had met
these
 people
 that
 morning—all
 save
 John
 Graham
and his wife, perhaps—with a sense of detachment,
of belonging to a sphere and a life apart from them.
Now he seemed to be of them.
 It was as though the
fright he had
 shared
 with
 the
 young
 idler, Peter Groom,
and Gerda Graham
 had
 admitted
 him to intimacy
with them without
 his
 own
 volition.
 He was prone
to avoid new acquaintanceships,
 being
 unwilling to
accept the obligations
 they
 imposed
 ;
 he
 was jealous
of his own self-sufficiency
 ;
 yet
 he
 had
 acquiesced
 in
the evening’s arrangements
 without
 reluctance
 and
almost with pleasure... .
The surf roared in his ears as he dived.
 The roots
of his being seemed
 to
 bathe
 in
 a
 sensation
 of effer-
vescent coolness.
 .
 .
 This
 elemental
 sensuality,
 he
thought, was
 a philosophy ;
 it made
 him
 remember
that he was an animal... .
He saw John Graham and struggled over to him.
UPSURGE
 3“Hullo,” said the chemist.
 “I thought you were
asleep in the sun.”’
“I think I must have been.”’
“It’s touched you up a bit,” observed Graham,
regarding Riddle’s shoulders, no longer white but a
deep pink.
 “You should have kept in the shade with
that livid hide of yours.
 You get burnt quite enough
even in the shade.”’
He slapped his friend lightly on the shoulder and
the magistrate flinched.
“TI expect you're right,’ he said ruefully.
“You'll be taking it out of the poor devils in the
dock to-morrow.”
“H’m.
 [ll have to make allowances by imposing
lighter penalties than I think are warranted.”
“Dear old James!
 You
 take your job seriously,
don’t you ?”’
“T do,” said Riddle gravely.
A breaking wave interrupted their talk. They
plunged about together in the surf till they were
chilled then returned to the beach.
 The others were
gathering up their belongings, their rubber beach-
bags and caps, their cloaks and sunshades.
Gerda Graham said reproachfully to the magistrate :
“Oh, I asked you to hurry.
 We want to get away
before we get hot again.”’
Her husband said: ‘‘You go on then.
 I'll bring
Riddle with me.”’
As they mounted
 the wide
 flight of steps to the
esplanade, Joyce Mealing said to her fiancé:
‘Riddle’s the police magistrate, isn’t he ?”’
“Yes,” replied Noel Manning.
“Why do they call him the Lord of the Urinal ?”
“Because
 of his name—Jimmy
 Riddle.”
3 UPSURGE
“But I don’t see how that... .?”
“Rhyming slang.
 Jimmy
 Riddle means... er
_, to make water.
 They call his court the Urinal.”
“Oh!
 How... ribald!”
“Yes, They also say he suffers from some bladder
trouble,
 but I don’t know
 how
 true that is.”’
In the crowded dressing-shed the magistrate donned
his clothes and ascended to the esplanade, where
Graham awaited him in his battered little two-seater
car.
 |
‘Here
 endeth
 the
 orgy,”
 remarked
 the
 chemist.
 “I
don’t
 know
 what
 you’re
 to
 expect
 to-night,
 James.
Something in the nature of a party I imagine.”
The little car moved off with a jerk.
“What sort of party?”
“Oh ... a gramophone, too much liquor, a little
huddled dancing as a preliminary to copulation on the
beach at three o’clock in the morning.”
“Oh !’’ said the magistrate.
“Doesn’t it appeal to you, James ?”’
Riddle could not have said whether it appealed to
him or not.
 He did not understand himself.
 He was
unsettled
 ;
 he
 had
 a
 sense
 of
 having
 been
 jolted
 out
of
 a
 rut.
 He
 felt
 as
 though
 he
 were
 standing
 at
 the
edge
 of
 a
 forest
 of
 new
 experienc
es
 and
 was
 free
 to
wander
 therein.
 It was feeling at once pleasurable
and disturbing.
“Tell me something about these people,’ he said.
“T find it a little difficult to imagine them as your
friends.’’
The chemist shrugged.
 ‘‘They’re not my friends;
they’re
 Gerda’s.
 They
 don’t
 altogether approve of me.”
UPSURGE
 3“Why ? Because of your political affiliations ?”’
“Yes.
 I’m not a right-thinking citizen. They con-
sider many of my associations are unbecoming to a
gentleman.’
 |
“Well,
 I
 don’t
 blame
 them
 for
 that,’
 said
 the
magistrate.
 “If you must side openly with the rabble
in politics you must take the consequences.”
The
 bulky
 chemist
 smiled.
 “We're
 rapidly
approaching the time when the rabble, as you call
it, will be the class in power,” he said equably.
“Nonsense !”’
You’d naturally regard it as nonsense, but that’s
because your affiliations make it impossible for you
properly to interpret what you see. Every social and
economic phenomenon of the day points to it. That
girl who impressed you so much, for instance—the
girl you fined—even she was one of the straws in the
revolutionary wind, my friend.
 You saw the moving
straw and you had sense enough to know that it
wasn’t moving without cause, so you came to the
conclusion that modesty was disintegrating.
 But you
 |
didn’t go far enough;
 you neglected to ask yourself
why it was disintegrating.”
‘Well, are you going to tell me that it’s because a
revolution’s approaching ?”’
“Yes,’’ said Graham.
“Tn all my life,” declared the magistrate, “I’ve never
heard a greater piece of absurdity !”’
“No?”
“No.”
“The
 morality
 of a civilization,’
 d
 said
 Graham,
 “‘is
an ethical reflection of the economic organization of
that civilization.
 A breakdown of morality neces-
sarily implies a breakdown of the economic machinery
behind it.”
C
3 UPSURGE
The magistrate shook his head irritably.
 “Some-
times you annoy me, John,” he said.
 “You
 attempt
to solve every problem you encounter by reference to
Karl Marx.
 His theories dominate your whole out-
look.”
“Marx made the obvious discovery that the first
task of the human species is earning a living,’ Graham
observed, “and that that task is sufficiently important
to
 colour
 all our
 other
 activities,
 our
 art,
 morality,
philosophy, religion and all the rest, and he went on
to draw the necessary conclusion that the forms these
other activities take depends upon the manner in
which we earn a living, that is to say, upon our economic
organization.”
“If he’d stopped there . . .” began Riddle.
The chemist interrupted: “For the purpose of our
argument he does stop there.
 But you won't accept
the logical implications of the theory.”
The magistrate snorted.
 “I'll accept them when
they are logical ; but when I’m asked to regard a few
youthful irresponsibles peeling off their bathing suits
as foreshadowing a revolution! .. .”
“You'd be willing enough to regard a small cloud
on the horizon as presaging a storm,” said the other.
“Tf there were other indications as well, perhaps.”
“And are there no other indications ? They are not
difficult to find. Art forms are changing, architectural
forms are changing, philosophy is falling in to dis-
repute, the churches cry aloud of empty pews and
none hear, the sacred institutions of marriage and the
home are threatened by the rising tide of immorality,
crime is increasing, and commerce and industry are
floundering in an economic crisis that is without
parallel in history!
 Or as a magistrate are you
officially unaware of these indications ?”
UPSURGE
 3“No.
 Naturally I’m aware of them, but I don’t
regard them as indications of an impending revolu-
tion.”’
‘Perhaps you regard them as meaningless?
 How
are they to be interpreted 1f not as reflections of an
impending change in the organization of society ?”’
“T don’t know,”
 said Riddle, “but I’m not prepared
to attach that interpretation to them.”’
The chemist shrugged.
 “‘All right, all right!
 If
you won't be convinced .. .”
For a while they drove on in silence. The magis-
trate felt tired; the day on the beach had drained
him of energy.
 The jolting of the little car over the
irregularities of the road was causing him to chafe
where the sun had burned him.
“In any case,” he said, “when I asked you to tell
me about these friends of yours it was not in anti-
cipation of an argument in which neither of us has
the least hope of convincing the other.
 What does
young Groom do, for instance ?”’
“He’s
 an
 idler,’
 said
 Graham.
 “His
 mother
 left
him twenty thousand pounds, I understand.
 I’m
also informed that he made a present of it to his wife
—when some get-rich-quick scheme in which he was
interested threatened to go wrong.
 My wife finds
him peculiarly attractive.”
‘““H’m, yes, so I’ve noticed !”’
“She makes no secret of it.
 The
 conventions,
 as
we have observed, are changing.
 I think you know
Noel Manning, don’t you ?”’
“T’ve met him.”
“Paul Kronen is the son of old James Kronen—
Kronen’s Limited.
 A member of the council of the
Chamber
 of Commerce,
 the Council of Industries,
 the
Rotary Club, and half a dozen other institutions—an
3 UPSURGE
important young man.
 In fact, he’s one of those
higher products of civilization that we revolutionaries
shall have such great pleasure in shooting when the
time comes.”
“You don’t like him ?”’
“I do not!
 I doubt if he’s ever yielded to a dis- .
interested impulse in his life !”’
“Isn’t he the head of the business ? He must have
ability.”
“Oh, he has ability!
 The type always has.
 Do
you know, James, sometime
s
 I
 wonder
 if
 that
 type's
quite sane.
 When I talk to Kronen I get the impres-
sion of a fine mind
 bound
 in infancy,
 as it were,
 like
the feet of a Chinese woman—swathed in bandages of
prejudice and tradition so that it grew up crippled and
twisted and deformed.
 His vanity is inordinate.”
“Prejudice
 and
 tradition ?’’
 repeated
 Riddle
curiously.
 “I should not
 have
 thought
 he
 had
 very
much tradition behind him.
 I
 understa
nd
 that
 his
father was the son of
 a
 convict.”
“I don’t think old James is responsible; I think
it’s his mother.”
“Queer that a woman like that should marry the
son of a convict.”
Graham laughed.
 James was presumably a wealthy
man.
 His origin was probably forgotten.
 It doesn't
do to inquire too closely into
 the
 origins
 of
 any
 of our
ereat commercial families.”
“H’m, no.
 I suppose not.”
Again a silence fell upon them.
 Presently they
entered the suburbs of
 the
 city.
“Where are we going?” the magistrate asked.
“To Cottesloe.
 Absurd that we should have to go
tight back to town to get there!
 ‘There should be a
road along the coast.”’
UPSURGE
 3“Yes.
 I'd like a wash, John.
 I feel damnably hot
and dry.”
“You can get one when you get there.
 You'll find
they don’t stand on ceremony.
 Incidentally, when
I’ve dropped you, I’ll have to get back to the shop ;
I have to open between six and eight on Sundays.
But Gerda will look after you, and I'll be back later.”
CHAPTER
 THREE
I
HE chemist turned his shabby little car into a
street which was a magnificent avenue of pines.
The street ran over the crest of a hill and down towards
the sea : and so great were the pines that their branches
almost met overhead,
 so that one looked westward
 at
waves, golden in the lowering sun, as through a dark
tunnel.
 .
The flat in which the young idler,
 Peter
 Groom, lived
with his wife was in a single-storied block on the crest
of the hill. The windows opened beneath the great
branches of the pines.
 Now, as John Graham stopped
his car by the narrow, gravelled footpath, jazz strains
floated through the open windows of the fiat, and
Riddle caught a glimpse of Paul Kronen and the girl,
Fanchon
 Follower,
 still in their bathing suits, dancing
to the music.
Following Graham, he entered the tiny square hall
of the flat and passed under an arch into the room
where they were dancing.
 It was a long room with a
floor of oiled jarrah, bare save for a rug or two, and
comfortably furnished with deep chairs and lounges.
At the far end a door was open upon a narrow hall-
way, and through it came the sound of a runnin
g
shower and the voices of Cynthia Groom, and
 Gerda
Graham and Joyce Mealing,
 mingle
d
 with
 the
 clatter
of spoons and dishes in the kitchen.
The dancers stopped as Graham and Riddle entered
and greeted them without warmth.
 Riddle allowed
3UPSURGE
 3himself to sink down upon one of the lounges, sighing
gratefully as the soft upholstery yielded to his weight.
He was tired.
“Vou have to change, too,
 do you?”
 Kronen
 -
remarked to Graham, observing
 that the latter was
still in his bathing suit.
 ‘‘Noel’s a long time with the
shower.
 You'll
 have
 to
 wait your turn.
 Fanchon’s
next,
 then me.
 There’s
 not room
 for more
 than
 one
at a time in that cupboard of a bathroom.”
Graham answered curtly:
 “Thanks for warning
me,
 but
 I’ve
 no
 time
 for
 a
 shower.
 I'll get into my
clothes in Groom’s bedroom.
 I’ve got to get back to
my shop.”’
With a shrug Kronen turned his back on the chemist
and began to talk to Fanchon.
 Then the sound of
the shower ceased, and a little later Manning appeared
in the hall doorway and said that the bathroom was
vacant.
Fanchon
 said:
 ‘Thank
 goodness !’’—and
 hurried
out.
Kronen seated himself on the lounge beside the
magistrate.
“Sun touched you up a bit, did it ?”” he remarked,
looking at Riddle’s burning face.
 “Well, it won't last
more than three or four days.
 I always have a hell
of a time myself at the beginning of a season.”’
The record on the gramophone came to an end and
Kronen got up to stop it. Returning, he said:
‘We've been glad to see shoplifters getting heavier
sentences in your court lately, Mr. Riddle.
 Shop-
lifting’s one of the biggest difficulties we have to
contend with.
 If I told you how much Kronen’s
Limited lose annually through shoplifting you'd hardly
believe it.”
He smiled.
 His smile was intelligent and merry,
4 UPSURGE
but it failed to expose his teeth ; his lips opened like
a gash in his smooth face.
“As a matter of fact,’ answered the magistrate,
‘heavy sentences have been imposed only in a few
special cases—where the position was uncomplicated.
Shoplifters belong to a class of offenders which has
always been something of a problem.
 Many of them
can’t pay fines, and when they’ve small children and
homes
 to take
 care
 of, as so many
 of them
 have,
 to
send them to gaol is to punish not only them but their
dependants.”
“But that’s not your look-out, surely ?”’
The magistrate felt suddenly that he disliked Paul
Kronen.
He said suavely:
 “I am under the unfortunate
necessity of administering justice as well as the law.”
“But is it necessary to concern yourself with their
private lives ?”’
“Tt is necessary to take all circumstances into con-
sideration,” replied Riddle.
 ‘“‘Justice is a commodity
that cannot be dispensed as easily as silk or butter,
Mr. Kronen.”’
Kronen laughed in a contemptuous way.
“No, I suppose not.
 You’ve got to disentangle it
from
 governmental
 red
 tape,
 eh?
 Well,
 it’s
 only
natural.
 I think it’s generally admitted that all state
enterprises suffer from red tape.
 If the enforcement
of the law was placed in the hands of responsible
private enterprise it could be freed from red tape and
sentimentality.
 Shoplifters and others would be
taught a proper respect for property, and everybody
would get justice at about half the cost to the state.”
Riddle did not know whether to be angry or amused.
Glancing up, he caught the concerned gaze of Peter
Groom, who had entered the room while they were
UPSURGE
 AI
talking.
 Out of deference to his host, he decided to
seem amused, and uttered a short laugh.
“Don't you think so ?’’ exclaimed Kronen in sur-
prise.
 |
The unquenched spark of anger in the magistrate
flared up. This young oligarch was either a fool or
he was trying to make a fool of him, Riddle.
“T don’t appreciate your joke, Mr. Kronen,’’ he said
coldly.
“IT was not joking,’ retorted Kronen, his face
becoming expressionless.
“T laughed in error then.
 It did not occur to me
that anyone could make such a ridiculous statement
seriously |”
Kronen’s eyes flashed, but he did not reply.
 He
rose slowly to his feet.
 In a curiously indifferent
voice he said to Groom :
“I’m going, Peter.
 I’m not going to stay here to
be insulted.”’
“Good
 Lord,
 Paul!’’
 Groom
 exclaimed.
 “You
haven't been insulted !”’
“I prefer to be the judge of that.”
“But ... Good God, man!
 You brought it on
yourself.
 If anyone has grounds for complaint it’s
Mr. Riddle... .”
Kronen did not reply directly.
 He said:
 ‘Tell
Fanchon I'll be waiting for her in the car, will you ?”
‘Don’t be so bloody childish !’’ cried Groom.
‘When I said I wouldn’t stay here to be insulted,”
said Kronen coldly, ‘‘that went for you, too, Peter.”’
He stalked out of the flat as he spoke.
Groom spread his hands in a despairing way.
 ‘I’m
sorry, Mr. Riddle.
 I... I don’t know what to say.
Paul . . . he’s such a queer swine.
 You never know
how to take him.”
4 UPSURGE
“His
 manners,’
 remarked
 the magistrate,
 who
 was
still angry, “certainly leave room for improvement !””
“T think it’s because he was spoiled as a kid,” the
young idler said apologetically.
 “‘And he’s never had
a chance to get it knocked out of him.”
Hot and uncomfortable and angry, the magistrate
erunted.
 He was remembering a remark of his friend,
the chemist, that had seemed merely rhetorical at the
time: that sometimes he wondered if men like Kronen
were sane. . . . Kronen’s inordinate vanity... .
The sea-salt was still stiff and sticky in his greying
hair, and powdered dryly on his face.
 He was thirsty
and uncomfortable.
 He wished he had not come.
‘“Here’s the tea,’
 Groom
 said with relief.
Cynthia handed Riddle a cup of tea, smiling at him
charmingly, and he began to feel better.
 He drank
the tea thirstily.
 When he had washed, his annoyance
and incipient depression were gone.
Returning to the living-room he was conscious again
of a pleasant sense of anticipation.
 Manning engaged
him in conversation.
The women seemed to resent their clothes after their
day in bathing-suits.
 Gerda Graham alone wore
stockings.
 They sat about carelessly, frequently
exposing their legs to mid-thigh without coquetry or
self-consciousness.
 They talked together in a hap-
hazard,
 careless fashion, rising now
 and then to dance
to the music of the gramophone.
As the rich yellow light of late afternoon changed to |
twilight, Cynthia and Joyce busied themselves again
in the kitchen,
 and,
 as the grey light faded,
 served
 a
meal of crayfish, and salads, and omelettes.
When the meal was over the aimless chatter and
dancing began again, but was enlivened now by
drinking.
 They drank avidly.
 Temperate by long
UPSURGE
 4habit,
 Riddle
 became
 a
 little
 perturbed.
 The
 last
bus by which he could reach his home in the hills left
the city at nine o’clock.
 It was too late now to catch
it. He was glad when Graham arrived again.
The bulky chemist threw himself willingly enough
into the spirit of the party, but in his.usual, ironical
fashion.
 Riddle watched him dancing—gracefully
despite his bulk—with Joyce Mealing, and envied him
his apparent faculty of participating without, as it
were, surrendering himself.
 Graham
 possessed a
quality that he, Riddle, found impossible to analyse,
difficult even to define: a strange quality of inviol-
ability, of serenity, of cold yet unrepellent detachment.
He could not imagine Graham in a state of anger, or
being swayed by any emotion.
 Yet the man was
sensitive to all those things which were commonly
supposed to appeal to the emotions, to visual beauty,
to music, to poetry, to sculpture—particularly to
sculpture.
 The magistrate had seen his friend run
his fingers over a small marble Venus as though the
very touch induced an ecstasy... .
Gerda Graham was dancing with Peter Groom, and
they were whispering together in an intimate way.
That affair didn’t appear to worry Graham, Riddle
thought, perhaps he was too sure of his wife; what
young Groom’s wife thought about it was another
matter,
 however.
Cynthia and the journalist, Manning, stood close by
the chair in which the magistrate was seated.
 He
glanced up at her.
No, she was not as complacent as Graham.
 Her
face revealed nothing, but her eyes followed her grace-
less young husband.
 And she was charming, charming,
he thought.
 That air of innocence and naiveté!...
It was a shame !
4 UPSURGE
The record on the gramophone came to an end, and
Cynthia moved to replace it. In the momentary
silence a slight commotion sounded outside:
 the
crunching of feet on gravel, and a woman’s voice
raised suddenly on a note of dismay: “Oh!
 Is this
where we're going !’’
The voice was a rich contralto to which some sub-
merged memory in the magistrate responded imper-
fectly but instantly.
A moment later several people appeared in the hall
archway ; two men and three girls. With a cry of
surprise and pleasure, Cynthia hurried to meet them,
cutting off the magistrate’s view.
“Why, Sylvia!
 And Gwen!
 Tom Rogers!
 Stanley
Bell!
 Oh, how do you do!” she cried.
Riddle
 watched
 with
 interest,
 but
 from
 his
 chair
he could see the faces only of the two men.
 Cynthia
stood between him and the rest of the party.
One of the girls said: ‘‘We’ve brought a friend,
Cynthia.
 She didn’t want to come but we told her
you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of
 course
 not,’’
 Cynthia
 began,
 then
 added
 hesi-
tantly:
 “But
 ...have
 we?...”
“We...
 we
 didn’t
 really
 have
 a chance
 to.”
Again the rich contralto angled in the memory of the
magistrate.
 ““When your husband brought us in, you
... you didn’t wait...”
Riddle heard Noel Manning say softly: “Good God!”
“Oh !’? exclaimed Cynthia.
 “‘You’re one of the
girls Peter and Noel! .. .”
“Cynthia! Theo! Whatever is the matter °”’ cried
one of the newcomers.
 ‘Do you know each other ?”
The girl with the contralto voice answered:
 “In
UPSURGE
 4... yes, in a sort of a way.
 But I didn’t know we
were coming
 here.
 You see,
 I didn’t
 know
 your
name.
 Your
 husband...”
“For heaven’s
 sake!
 Theo,
 what?
 ...”
“T’ll explain. It’s so ridiculous. . . . Olive Porchess
and I met two men.
 The fools! They invited us to
their flat to meet their wives.
 . . Oh, we thought
they were joking, and... and... Well, they
brought us here... .
 3“It was Peter and Noel Manning,” said Cynthia
briefly.
An interval of silence was broken suddenly by
shrieks of laughter.
“What a joke !’”’ they cried.
“What a gorgeous joke !”’
“Peter and Noel!”
“But Cynthia, you don’t bear any grudge’?
 There
are no ill-feelings, are there, Cynthia ?”’
“No,” said Cynthia shyly.
 She, too, had joined in
the laughter.
“Then let me introduce you: this is Theo Luddon.”’
Theo Luddon?
 Theo Luddon?
 Cynthia stepped
aside, and in stupefaction Riddle recognized the girl
whose face and bearing had made so profound an
impression on him in court!
The recognition was mutual!
 The smile faded from
Theodora’s face. The magistrate was appalled!
 Had
he not been involved in enough ridiculous situations
that day without enduring another?
 He had been
used as a foil by the wife of a friend in her side-play
with a probable lover; he had been scared out of his
wits by a school of porpoises; he had been reduced
to physical torment by the sun ; he had been involved
in an embarrassing scene by the imbecile vanity of
Paul Kronen ; was there yet another impossible scene
4 UPSURGE
to face?
 And
 the
 girl,
 too—had
 not
 she
 endured
enough ?
With a swift, careless gesture, he pressed a finger to
his lips. He did not dare to make the action too
obvious lest it be overseen.
 But she understood. The
dismay in her grey eyes was replaced by an impersonal,
friendly look.
 A moment later, in the train of her
companions, she followed Cynthia out of the room.
“IT suppose you don’t often meet your... your
what do you call them—clients? ... meet them
socially after they've appeared before you in court,
do you ?”
Theodora sat upright on the lounge beside the
magistrate—as upright as the yielding upholstery per-
mitted—and yet contrived to convey an impression of
utter relaxation.
 She sipped slowly at a glass of sweet
wine.
“Not
 often,’
 Riddle
 admitted
 with a smile.
“You were a little . . . unfair.”
“In the administration of justice one is sometimes
more than a little unfair.”’
“That’s what’s called a paradox, isn’t it ?”
In the low, rich, contralto voice there was no sug-
gestion of reproach, nor in the calm gaze of her grey
eyes.
 She spoke as if she were simply stating a fact.
“Perhaps,” said Riddle carefully, “the word ‘justice’
should not be used in connection with our courts.
 It
is too ambiguous a term.
 The justice I administer is
the law.”’
“Do even magistrates recognize a difference between
justice and the law ?” she asked in a surprised way.
Riddle looked at her sharply.
~~
UPSURGE
 ry
“Tt may interest you to know, young lady,’ he
observed, ‘‘that if justice had resided in the discretion
of the Bench, you’d have received about three months’
hard labour as a result of a majority decision. Appar-
ently you’ve no idea how you shocked my colleagues.”
Theodora
 laughed.
“Fortunately for you,’”’ Riddle went on, “the by-law
under which you were charged provided for a maximum
penalty of two pounds.”
In a puzzled way she said: “But that only means,
doesn’t it, that the law isn’t quite so unjust as it might
have been ?”’
The Lord of the Urinal was startled.
 He gazed at
her in surprise.
 Was this girl who had inveigled him
into a debate on justice now going to turn the Socratic
dialectic upon him ?—going to force upon him the
defence of a notion whose only strength lay in offence :
the identity of law and justice?
 Was there more in
her than her curious serene charm, her flawless, golden-
brown beauty°
“My dear young lady, surely you realize the neces-
sity for law ?”’
“T suppose so,’ ?
 she said slowly.
 “Everybody says
so... . But... it wasn’t only the fine, you see. I
lost my job, too.
 I had a job at the Brazilian con-
sulate.
 I was paid four pounds a week, and I had
hardly anything to do.
 But I lost it because of that
case, and now I have to sell stockings and things at
Kronen’s.
 I have to work from nine to six, and I only
get two pounds and sevenpence a week.”
Riddle exclaimed:
 “Oh!
 I’m sorry! ...”
 He
added gently: “But you don’t blame me for that, do
you ?”
“For a little I did,” the girl admitted.
 “Not now.”
“Why not now ?”
4 UPSURGE
“Oh ...I realized ... that you couldn't have
done anything else. It was simply that silly regula-
tion. . . . And the council inspector—the beast !”’
“But he, too, had his duty to do.”
“TI suppose so. But it all seems so...
 so silly.
Why should it be anyone’s duty to do silly things ?
Everything that is called duty seems to be silly.”
To the magistrate’s annoyance, at this point in
their conversation Peter Groom approached and asked
Theodora to dance.
 Setting down her half-finished
glass of wine she rose and surrendered herself to the
young idler’s arms.
 Watching her dance, Riddle
remarked the strange grace of her movements.
 She
was
 like
 a cat,
 he
 thought,
 in
 her
 curious
 seli-con-
tainedness, in her slow, effortless grace.
 Impatiently
he waited for her to return.
But when she returned she seemed to have receded
from him in some indefinable way.
 She finished her
wine.
 Groom pressed more upon her.
 She protested
that more than one glass went to her head, but when
he persisted she accepted it.
“That’s foolish, if you don’t want it,” Riddle said.
She
 did not
 answer,
 but
 smiled
 at him,
 and
 began
sipping the wine.
 Groom settled himself on the arm
of the lounge and divided her attention.
The wine brought a flush to her cheeks and an unreal
brightness to her eyes.
 A voluptuous note appeared
in her low-pitched laughter.
Presently Gerda Graham claimed the young idler,
but Riddle found that Theodora now baffled him as
she had when he first saw her. Though she was mani-
festly getting drunk, the quality of serenity, of acquies-
cence, persisted.
 She no longer supported his efforts
at conversation, but seemed content to sit in smiling
silence while he talked.
 Like acat! Unapproachable.
UPSURGE
 4Her personality
 eluded
 him,
 seemed
 to retreat the
further into that mist of serenity the nearer his under-
standing approached.
 At last, in despair, he asked
her to dance.
In his arms she was warm and yielding, and...
heavy.
 He was surprised.
 His eyes questioned her.
“Tm ... drunk!” she said, laughing quietly.
 “Ii
I have more than one glass it always goes to my head.”
He resisted an impulse to laugh himself, feeling
again on firm ground.
 If it were simply the fumes of
wine behind which she had been hiding...
‘Would you like to go home ?” he asked her.
“Oh, I can’t.
 No... . The others... theyre
enjoying themselves.”
“T’ll take you if you’d like to go.”
“T couldn’t.
 No... .”
He felt that she wanted to go, that there was really
no more inclination in her to resist his proposal than
there had been to the wine young Groom pressed upon
her.
“Of course you can,” he said.
 “Have you any-
thing to get?
 A coat?”
She acquiesced.
“Ves,
 a coat.”
He stopped dancing and released her.
“Go and get it then.
 I'll make apologies for you.”
Both Groom and Cynthia protested.
“I say, you can’t go yet !’”’ the young idler exclaimed
reproachfully.
 “Why, we've hardly got to know you.
And after
 nearly
 being eaten by sharks together .. .”
“Porpoises,”’ said Cynthia.
Groom chuckled.
 ‘Yes, porpoises.
 Can’t help won-
dering what I’d be feeling like now if they'd really
been sharks |”
D
5 UPSURGE
“Certainly not wondering what you'd have been
feeling like if they’d been porpoises,’’ said Riddle.
“No,” agreed Groom a little vacantly.
 “No... .
But I say, don’t go.
 Have another drink.
 It’s not
twelve yet.
 It’s early. -
“For you, perhaps,” said the magistrate smiling,
“but not for me.
 At my age one must temper one’s
dissipations with a little discretion.
 And I live in the
hills. I’ve a long way to go.”’
“Oh,
 well, if you must...
 .
 9)
Theodora appeared with her coat.
“Good-bye,” said Riddle.
Half drunk, they all insisted on shaking his hand.
John Graham said in a mocking undertone: “Good
luck!’
 Confound the fellow!
Riddle and Theodora walked down the hill beneath
the branches of the pines.
 The esplanade was flooded
with light. The wind had fallen away.
 Under the
beach floodlights a few people still lingered in the slow,
Short
 surf.
 |
They found a taxi. The magistrate gave the address
Theodora told him.
While he lay back against the upholstery she sat
upright as she had on the lounge in Groom’s flat, con-
veying still that uncanny impression of utter ease.
 In
a fatherly way he put his
 arm
 round
 her
 shoulders
 and
drew
 her back
 beside
 him,
 and
 thus,
 in silence,
 they
covered most of the distance to Perth.
In an unobtrusive way the magistrate began to
question her about herself.
 She answered him briefly,
easily, seeming to withhold nothing, yet volunteering
nothing.
 He discovered that she was the daughter of
a
 Collie
 coal-miner;
 that
 she
 had
 been
 born
 in
 a
cottage on the coalfields.
 Incredible!
 She had two
younger brothers and one younger sister.
 One of her
UPSURGE
 5brothers—the elder—was a miner like her father; or
he had been; now he was out of work.
 The other
was not yet old enough to work.
 Her sister still went
to school—she was only thirteen, her sister.
 She,
Theodora,
 had
 grown
 tired
 of
 her
 habitat,
 of
 the
dreary routine of housework.
 So she had come away,
and when she reached Perth one of the directors of
the colliery company which employed her father found
her a job in the company’s office, and, later, her post
at the
 Brazilian
 consulate.
What she told Riddle served merely to whet his
curiosity in her, but he was reluctant to question her
too closely.
 Becoming silent, he was content to watch
her in the changing darkness.
The taxi swung in to the kerb between the boles of
two plane trees, and stopped before a brick and con-
crete residential.
“This is where I live,’ she informed him.
Riddle laughed.
“That,” he remarked, “is the first voluntary state-
ment you’ve made since we left Cottesloe.”
 He hesi-
tated for a moment, then said: “Will you show me
your quarters ?”’
She
 nodded,
 and
 he
 followed
 her
 out
 of the
 taxi.
He hoped that her personal surroundings would afford
some clue to the enigma of her personality, and he
was warmed by a pleasant feeling of anticipation.
“We'll have to be quiet,’’ she warned him.
The warning was unnecessary.
 The hush of sleep
lay upon the house, and he moved quietly involun-
tarily.
She led him up a narrow, dimly-lit stair to a square
landing, and unlocked a door and switched on a light,
5 UPSURGE
and Riddle beheld a spacious, uncrowded room.
 A
threadbare carpet covered the floor, and a_ broad
stretcher bed, beneath a brocade coverlet and cushions,
disguised itself as a couch.
 The mantel over the wide
fireplace was loaded with books, and Riddle, examining
the titles, experienced a shock of surprise.
Between novels by Henri Barbusse, Romain Rolland,
John dos Passos, Jack London, Upton Sinclair, were
sandwiched such works as the “‘Capital”’ of Karl Marx,
the “Socialism’’ of Engels, the “State and Revolution”
of Lenin, the “‘Communist Programme” of Bucharin.
The mantel was loaded with the literature of class-war
and revolution !
“Ts this the sort of stuff you read ?’’ Riddle demanded
in astonishment.
She answered evasively: “They belong to a friend
of mine—I used to go to school with him.
 He comes
here when he wants to be quiet.”
“Then I’m afraid your friend doesn’t show very
much concern for you,’”’ said the magistrate quietly.
“Don’t you know that it’s dangerous, particularly at
a time like this, to have books like this in your pos-
session?
 Half of them are actually illegal publica-
tions.
 Their circulation is forbidden.
 You could get
‘into serious trouble for having them in your room.
Did your friend tell you that ?”’
She nodded, smiling.
“That’s why he keeps them here.
 He was afraid of
them being confiscated if he kept them in his own
room.
 You see, the police know all the Communists.
They watch him.”’
“Are you a Communist ?”’
Theodora shook her head slowly.
“T don’t know.
 Sometimes I think it’s something
I don’t understand.
 Some of the others come here
UPSURGE
 5with him sometimes, and they talk.
 But they seem
to... their point of view ... I hardly know how
to explain .. . it’s as though they were on the other
side of everything... .”’
The magistrate did not pursue the subject.
 He felt,
somehow, that it would be better not to.
Theodora offered him coffee, and went
 behind
 a
Japanese screen in a corner
 of the room to make it.
Riddle took the ““Communist
 Manifesto”’ from its place
on the mantel, and dropped
 with it on to a couch by
the fireplace, opening it at
 random.
“Tn every historical epoch,” the read], “the prevailing
mode of economic production and exchange, and the
social organisation necessarily following from tt, form
the basis upon which is built wh, and from which alone
can be explained, the polrtical and intellectual history of
that epoch... .”
Curious, he thought, that the first passage to catch
his eye should be the proposition from which John
Graham had been arguing that afternoon.
 Graham
saw its implications.
 He read it again.
 It was
obscure, he thought.
 He was not sure that Graham
didn’t draw more far-reaching conclusions from it than
were Justified.
 Did it necessarily imply that morality,
religion, art, philosophy, were all simply products of
the prevailing mode of production and exchange, as
Graham believed ?—that great leaders, great intellects,
were
 not
 the
 causes
 of
 social
 movements,
 but
 the
effects? ...
With a shock the magistrate realized that his reflec-
tions were based on the assumption that the proposition
was true |!
It was nonsense, of course.
 The amazing thing was
that men like Graham could take it seriously.
 The
5 UPSURGE
mass of those who subscribed to it didn’t understand
it . . . accepted it with a sort of blind, religious faith,
as some people still accepted Christianity. . . . Com-
munism was not a philosophy, or a political creed, but
a religion... .
That, thought Riddle, was what the Archbishop had
said. The Archbishop had been indiscreet.
 In the
course of a sermon he had observed that the Com-
munist doctrine might conceivably be a new revelation
from on high. The magistrate chuckled.
 What the
Archbishop had said was probably not what he meant,
but the papers had reported what he said, and a
hundred thousand people had been shocked out of
their breakfast appetites.
 A storm in a Holy Com-
munion wine cup! ... If the Archbishop was ever
again so unfortunate in his choice of words, there
would be those who asked themselves whether it was
not time that his high office was filled by one who
had no doubts of the right-mindedness of God... .
Theodora came from behind the Japanese screen
bearing on a tray two cups of hot water in which
lumps of condensed coffee and milk and sugar dis-
solved muddily.
 Riddle took his cup dubiously, but
when he had stirred in the thick compost found it
palatable enough.
 Theodora seated herself beside him
on the couch, sipping at her cup in silence.
The silence irked him, baffled him.
 As though
acknowledging defeat, imperceptibly his interest in her
underwent a change.
 His consciousness of her phy-
sical desirability increased.
How many men had made love to her?
 How had
they fared ?
UPSURGE
 5A little, excited pulse began to beat in his throat.
By way of experiment, he covered one of her hands
with his, and when she did not
 withdraw
 it, took
 it
up and began to fondle it.
She looked at him, smiling faintly.
Releasing her hand, he took her by the shoulders
and turned her slowly till she faced him.
 Her grey
eyes seemed darker.
 Was it the light, or desire
awakening in her?
 He approached her mouth with
his own.
 An expression blent of reluctance and
hunger passed over her face like a shadow, then she
parted her lips for his kiss, and he felt her body grow
limp and heavy as she leaned against him... .
When
 he
 began
 to
 fumble
 with
 her
 clothes,
 she
whispered:
 “‘No! No! No!’’—but made no move
to check him, and presently surrendered herself with
a little shudder of ecstasy.
It was two o'clock when Riddle left her. The
driver of the taxi had fallen asleep.
 He shook the
man awake, and told him to drive fast.
The car lurched and jolted as it sped over the uneven
roads but the magistrate was not conscious of dis-
comfort.
 His mind was still preoccupied with the
enigma of the personality of Theodora Luddon, and
still ravished by the memory of an ecstasy.
Theodora sank into sleep through a misty aftermath
of pleasure.
 The events of the evening, and the other
events out of which they were born, passed before her
again aS in a dream.
 The young man, Peter Groom,
with his fair hair and his irresistible, boyish smile . . .
he and his companion . . . and the absurd manner of
5 UPSURGE
their meeting.
 She had not believed that he had a
wife—not even when they reached the flat, and
Cynthia and Joyce had fled in outrage.
 She had
thought it just another summer ménage to which he
had wished to put an end. . . . Cynthia was sweet to
have taken it so, but Cynthia could not know the
whole of it. . . . Peter Groom .. . and the man who
had sat in judgment on her, the magistrate, James
Riddle. How different on the Bench and in her arms:
cold-eyed and stern, then smiling rarely, murmuring
that she was adorable. . .. She could never resist.
Ah, she was weak, weak, when desire importuned her !
There was no resistance in her.
 Her will went out of
her and her reluctant flesh responded with flutes and
viols.
 ...
CHAPTER
 FOUR
I
HE iron grille which guarded the portals of the
Treasury Building was drawn-to and_ locked,
and the deputation of unemployed herded against it
like baffled animals, some of them shaking the metal
laths of the grille and cursing in their rage. Behind
them a crowd spread across the street, blocking all
traffic.
 The crowd talked together in little groups, most of
them in low, indifferent voices, but some with fury and
gesticulation.
 ‘The faces of most of them were drawn
with under-nourishment and lax with apathy, but
some were angry and threatening.
To and fro between the groups moved police in
uniform, with batons swinging idly in their hands.
The police were discreet and courteous.
 Even the
troopers on their gentle, magnificently trained horses,
who edged into the large and angry groups, gently
breaking them up, preventing anything in the way of
concerted action, were equable and courteous.
 They
ignored the occasional insults hurled at them.
 They
were waiting for reinforcements.
Swelled by curious newcomers, the crowd seethed
like a slow whirlpool in the stream of the city’s traffic.
The occasional shouts of the unemployed and the low
murmur of their talk mingled with the clamour of
scores of impatient motor-horns.
The deputation was trying to see the Premier, but
neither in the hearts or minds of the twelve men who
composed it, nor in the thousands they represented,
55 UPSURGE
was real hope or real purpose.
 The deputation was a
gesture of rebellion against the Juggernaut which
crushed
 them,
 against
 the
 system
 which
 lay
 dying,
choked by its own plenty.
 The people starved while
the wealth of the land rotted in the glutted ware-
houses.
 Of the workers who lived beneath the
Southern
 Cross,
 more
 than
 one
 in three
 were
 unem-
ployed.
 There were over four hundred thousand
unemployed, and the number increased daily.
 They
lived on the meagre unemployment dole, or on the
charity of their relatives and friends.
 And in the
warehouses of the land the wealth these four hundred
thousand had created by their past labours lay
rotting....
An official from the Premier’s Department appeared
on the other side of the grille with a message from his
chief.
 The Premier, he said, would see the deputation
provided that certain of its members were excluded.
He read three names from a slip of paper.
 The
Premier, he said curtly, had every sympathy with the
unemployed, and was prepared to do everything in
his power to assist them, but he would have no dealings
with Communists.
The deputation held a low-voiced consultation.
“Tell the Premier the unemployed appointed this
deputation,”
 said
 the
 leader
 at
 last.
 “Tell
 him
 he
can see the lot of us or none of us. And tell him we’ll
bloody well camp on his door-step until he does !”
The official returned to the Premier with the answer
of the deputation.
 The Premier, Alexander Campbell,
the head
 of
 a Labour
 Government,
 and
 an ex-trades-
union secretary, set down his empty teacup on his vast,
polished desk, and shrugged his heavy shoulders.
“Get
 in
 touch
 with
 the
 police,
 then,”
 he
 said
abruptly.
UPSURGE
 5If he had been the leader of a Nationalist govern-
ment,
 he reflected, he could have
 seen them ; but the
Press pretended to believe that the Labour party had
radical sympathies, and he couldn’t afford to provide
his political opponents with ammunition by seeing a
deputation which included known Communists... .
On the edges of the crowd the traffic grew impatient.
A pretty girl in a smart two-seater began to edge her
car into the slowly-seething crowd, sounding her horn
almost continuously.
 The crowd would not make
way.
 A slatternly woman against whose knees the
bumper-bar of the car pressed uncomfortably, spat
and swore at her for a pampered doll. A voice in the
crowd began to sing the “International’’, and presently
a hundred voices took it up.
 The girl in the car
frowned with impatient rage and said sharply to her
male companion :
“All these lazy, unemployable brutes!
 Where are
the police ?°”
“No
 good getting impatient,’
 her companion
returned, but she continued
 to sound her horn.
 !
 e eThe crowd grew steadily larger.
 e n
 a i tAt
 last
 came
 the
 clatter of iron-shod horses’ hoofs,
 a i l t _
and the tramp of marching feet. The police reinforce-
ments ran in amongst the crowd, their batons whirling
above their heads.
 The “International’’ chorus ceased
suddenly.
 Little eddies of panic ran through the
mass of humanity wedged in the street. The edges
of it began to disintegrate.
 Thud, thud, thud went
the batons.
 Men went down.
 The troopers rode
over them.
 The air was filled with the sound of
blows, and cries of fear and pain and rage.
In front of the girl in the car a trooper struck a man
in the face with his baton.
 The man’s mouth dis-
appeared in a bloody pulp through which the jagged
6 UPSURGE
edges of broken teeth gleamed whitely.
 The girl
blanched and covered her face with her hands.
_ There was no resistance in this half-starved mob of
unemployed.
 In five minutes the crowd was dispersed.
The great black police van arrived, and the heavily
breathing police hustled in half a dozen captives, and
lifted in two more who were too hurt to climb the
steps.
 A moment later the street was clear. The
interrupted traffic flowed on, erasing the blood from
the black, tyre-polished pavement.
In the morning six of the arrested men were brought
before
 the magistrate, James Riddle, in the Police
Court,
 charged with creating a disturbance, with
hindering the police in the execution of their duty,
with resisting arrest.
 The other two were in hospital.
Their comrades had come to court to see how they
fared, and were packed in the public enclosure at the
back of the court as tightly as sheep in a shearing-pen.
They talked together in barely audible whispers, which
echoed throughout the court-room till it seemed filled
with a caged wind.
 A sour, dank smell arose from
them and spread through the court—a smell of un-
washed bodies, of carious teeth, of filthy, sweat-soaked
clothing.
The nostrils of the magistrate twitched, and his thin
lips curled back in a fixed expression of disgust.
 He
surveyed the packed enclosure with distaste.
 Intent,
sullen faces looked back at him, in which the eyes
gleamed
 dully with
 misery
 or despair,
 or sparkled
brightly with hate.
 The whispering went on: eddies
of sibilant sound swirled about among the recesses of
the ceiling.
UPSURGE
 6“Silence !’’ exclaimed Riddle coldly.
The court usher repeated the order and the whisper-
ing ceased.
There was a slight movement in the enclosure as a
late-comer thrust his way forward.
 Then the front
rank parted and Riddle beheld his friend John Graham.
He stared for a moment, then shrugged.
 The chemist
would be there to go bond for the men in case the
cases were adjourned.
 That seemed to be his official
position with the Communist party : bail bondsman.
Riddle read the charges.
“Well, how do you plead 2?” he said to the men in
the dock.
“Not guilty.”
That
 meant,
 confound
 it, that
 the
 court
 wouldn’t
rise before half-past twelve !
One after another policemen took the witness stand.
Riddle took down their evidence resentfully. One of
them hadablackeye.
 He had lost his feet in the crowd,
he said, and had been trampled under.
 As he struggled
to regain his feet the man Steven Riley, one of the
accused, had kicked him in the eye.
 Riley was the
ring-leader of the trouble-makers.
 All the way back
to the police station he had abused the police obscenely.
From his note-book the constable extracted a grubby
scrap of paper.
 A sample of the abuse was written on
it, he said.
Riddle glanced at the slip indifferently and passed
it on to the man Riley.
“Did you use this language to the witness ?”’
“T
 used
 worse
 than
 that,’
 said
 the
 accused
 man
harshly.
 |
The court usher made a threatening movement
towards the dock. The lips of the man Riley curled back
in a snarl. He muttered something beneath his breath.
6 UPSURGE
The case dragged on.
At last the police evidence was finished.
“Do you want to give evidence on oath ?” Riddle
asked the men in the dock.
Riley spoke for them: “Yes !""
He was a wiry man in his early thirties, with a strong,
sharp face, and thick, blond hair.
 His clothes were
ill-fitting but fairly new.
 In his gait, as he crossed
the court
 from
 the dock
 to the witness
 stand,
 was
 a
springy, feline grace.
 A man who might be dangerous,
the magistrate thought.
 He addressed him :
“Hold up your hand and repeat after me: ‘I swear
by almighty God...”
The other answered with a snarl: “I’ve no use for
almighty God! I affirm that I will speak the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth !”’
“All right,” said Riddle impatiently.
 “If you're an
atheist,
 that
 will
 do.
 Now,
 what
 have
 you
 got
 to
say?"
His voice
 harsh
 with
 anger,
 the man
 gave
 his evi-
dence,
 flatly contradicting
 everything
 the police had
said,
 accusing
 them
 of
 wanton
 and
 unnecessary
brutality.
The prosecuting sergeant began to cross-examine him.
“You're a Communist, aren’t you ?”’
“What does it matter whether he’s a Communist or
not, sergeant ?’’ Riddle said irritably.
 ‘‘He’s not
charged with being a Communist.”
The sergeant replied patiently : “I want to show the
character this man bears, your worship.”’
“The court can see what character he bears.
 Con-
fine yourself to his evidence.”’
Swallowing his anger the sergeant asked a few
questions and sat down.
 Riddle arranged his notes,
thinking quickly.
 |
UPSURGE
 6“There is only one aspect of this case which appears
to me to call for comment,” he said at last.
 “In times
like the present, the police, the appointed
 custodians
of law and order, are faced with a more than ordinarily
difficult task. It is not remarkable that under the
stress of provocation they are sometimes a little rough
in the discharge of their duty.
 If I believed the evi-
dence of the accused in this case, however,
 I should be
forced to the conclusion that the constables and
troopers who affected these arrests were not fit to be
in the force.
 Such a conclusion would be palpably
absurd.
 I cannot therefore place any credence in the
statements of the accused. I find the charges proved.
Have these men any records °”’
A low, threatening murmur rose from the back of
the court.
“Silence !”’
‘‘There’s a record in Riley’s case, your worship.”
The prosecuting sergeant passed up a card.
Riddle named five of the men in the dock.
 “On the
charge of creating a disturbance, you will each of you
be fined in the sum of one pound, with sixpence costs,
in default or distress three days’ imprisonment.
 On
the charge of hindering the police in the execution of
their duty you will be fined in the sum of two pounds,
with sixpence costs, in default or distress six days’
imprisonment.
 On the charge of resisting arrest you
will be fined in the sum of two pounds, with sixpence
costs, in default or distress six days’ imprisonment.
Steven Riley, you have a record.
 You have two
previous convictions for similar offences.
 You will be
sentenced to six weeks’ imprisonment with hard
labour !”’
“That,” said Riley in a hard, jeering voice, “is what
is called ‘justice’, comrades !”’
6 UPSURGE
“Take
 them
 away,’
 said Riddle to the usher.
“As for you !’’ Riley snarled, shaking his fist at the
magistrate, ‘“‘as for you, Mr. Lord of the bloody Urinal,
the day’ll come when we judge you! - Then one of us’ll
have the pleasure of ramming a plug of gelignite up
your arse and blowing you to hell!
 You and others
like you !”
In the court-room for a moment there was a silence
broken only by the frenzied scratching of the reporters’
pens.
 Then a gasp escaped from the packed enclosure,
and someone raised a feeble cheer.
“Silence !”’
“Would you like six months’ imprisonment instead
of six weeks ?”’ Riddle inquired coldly of Riley.
“Twelve if you like, damn you!’’ the Communist
retorted through his clenched teeth.
“Yes,’’ said Riddle, “I suppose you would.
 But I’ve
no intention of making a martyr of you.”
 He
motioned to the usher:
 ‘“‘“Take ‘em away.”
Then he rose. The day’s court was over.
In the street outside the court were gathered the
hundreds who had been unable to find room in the
public enclosure.
 Now those who had been inside
streamed out to join the crowd in the street.
 Ques-
tions were shouted at them.
 In an alley-way between
the court-house and the lock-up a cordon of mounted
troopers was drawn up, and foot police moved through
the crowd.
 From the shoulders of one of his fellows a
man attempted to make a speech.
“There
 are
 thousands
 of
 us,’
 he
 shouted,
 “and
there are only five hundred police in the whole State.
Let's rescue our comrades!
 We can if we will!”
UPSURGE
 6Two policemen pulled him down and hustled him
into the station.
There was some angry shouting, but the crowd was
unorganized and leaderless.
 Two more men were
arrested.
“Move on!
 Move on!’ the police kept urging,
shouldering men along the footpaths.
Once a movement was started the crowd streamed
away through the city to the open reserve on the bank
of the river—the Esplanade—where it was permissible
to congregate.
 The cruel sun beat down upon the
reserve, withering the grass, but they crowded in one
corner under the shade of giant Moreton Bay fig
trees.
 Lacking a stump, their orators spoke from the
great, spreading branches, making angry, futile speeches.
The crowd, which had seemed large in the street,
seemed small in the great reserve which would have
held all the people in Perth.
 Slowly the immensity of
the
 reserve
 insinuated
 itself into
 their
 consciousness,
reducing them to insignificance.
On three sides the Moreton Bays spread their shade.
Their bark was the colour and texture of elephant’s
skin,
 and
 in the
 forks
 of the branches
 were
 folds
 of
grey bark, like folds of skin. On the fourth side the
estuary shone through the cotton palms which raised
their tall fronds in front of the wooden premises of the
yacht clubs, with their slips for launches and yachts
and dinghies.
 For a hundred yards from the shore
the blue waters were dotted with small white pleasure
craft at anchor.
 Beyond lay South Perth, its banks
of lawn and trees and its red-tiled roofs rising from
the further bank of the estuary.
 Land and water
drowsed in the hot sun...
Touched by the sun or perhaps maddened by despair,
a man broke from the crowd of unemployed and reeled
E
6 UPSURGE
away, pressing his clenched fists to his temples and
crying :
“Putile!
 Futile!
 Oh, God!
 Oh, God!"
A sudden light breeze from
 the
 north bore the roar
of the city’s traffic to the
 ears
 of
 the unemployed.
Through the roar the voices
 of
 their
 orators sounded
as
 thin
 cries.
 ...
In Riddle’s chambers the chemist, John Graham,
was seated comfortably before the magistrate’s desk.
He was saying :
“Your judgment, James, was one of the finest
pieces of sophistry I’ve ever listened to. I congratu-
late you.
 Not only the evidence those poor devils
gave,
 but
 the
 admissions
 of
 the
 police
 themselves,
went to show that your forces of law and order behaved
themselves like wild beasts.
 The evidence against
the police was so strong
 that
 a
 Supreme Court judge
would have been hard put
 to
 it
 to explain it away,
yet you managed it in a few
 words.
 As you know,
I distrust emotion, but when
 I
 heard
 you
 give
 judgment,
James, I almost gave way
 to
 it.
 For
 a
 moment,
 in
fact, I did. For a moment
 I
 wished
 you
 the
 fate
Riley proposed for you; I could have taken pleasure
in shoving a stick of dynamite
 up your arse
myself... .”
Riddle glared impatiently: it was twenty minutes
past noon; at one he was to meet Theodora.
 When
the chemist fell silent he said :
“Are you sure that’s all you’ve got to say ?°”
“That’s
 all,” said Graham.
‘Well, I’ve got little time to spare, so I’ll say all I’ve
got to say, and I’ll say it quickly.
 The windows of my
court-room-are plain, but some
 of
 those
 in the supreme
UPSURGE
 6court are of stained glass and depict Justice with her
eyes bandaged, with a sword in one hand and scales
in the other.
 And above the altars of some of our
churches Christ hangs on a cross.
 If the church
taught and practised the precepts of Christ, my friend,
it would not be long before it ceased to exist in any
form recognizable as a church.
 And if magistrates and
judges dispensed justice as you and a few other
dreamers understand it, our civilization would topple
about our ears like a house of cards.
 Both religion
and justice must be subservient to the ends of civiliz-
ation and the well-being of the state.”
“Well,” retorted the chemist, rising, “it’s some
consolation to know that you don’t deceive yourself.
That's the first time I’ve heard you logically define
your position.”’
CHAPTER
 FIVE
I
WINGING his stick the magistrate James Riddle
walked leisurely into the city. There was yet some
time to kill before he called for Theodora.
 None of
the Perth shops closed before one o'clock on Saturdays,
and it would take her ten minutes or so to reach her
room from Kronen’s Limited.
 If he went there before
she arrived he would have to hang about on the pave-
ment,
 and that would look bad.
 He needed some ties
and socks.
 He might call in at his mercer’s shop and
get them now as well as later, he reflected.
He was halted for a moment at an intersection
while vehicular traffic passed, and noticed that the
constable on point duty was one of those who had
given evidence in the unemployed cases.
A living bomb!...
 As he continued on his way he
reflected idly on the tirade of the man Riley.
 Dan-
gerous!
 Yes, any man whose lust for revenge on
society expressed itself in visions of such appalling
ferocity as that was dangerous! ...
 But was he?
It was curious that the idea of simple violence should
sometimes seem more shocking than the idea of torture.
It wouldn’t stand examination.
 Swift, annihilating
violence.
 Instantaneous
 oblivion.
 Nothing
 very
shocking about that when one thought about it,
yet...
 Riddle remembered the queer chill that had
passed through him.
 Was a notion that arose from
feeling the less valid because reason seemed to contra-
dict it?
 John Graham would say: “Yes’’.
 He,
6UPSURGE
 6Riddle,
 was
 dubious.
 One
 reasoned
 about
 it
 and
reduced the notion to absurdity, yet failed to dissipate
the uneasy feeling it induced.
 The mentality that
could accept the idea of violence without uneasiness
was not the ordinary mentality.
 A new ideology was
required, a new consciousness almost. ...
 Was that
what these Marxists were breeding >—actually a new
consciousness ? It occurred to the magistrate suddenly
that Marxism induced the same feeling of uneasiness
as the idea of instantaneously annihilating violence.
But that, he reflected, was probably the result of a
simple association of ideas, revolutionaries and bombs,
and lacked objective significance.
 Well, it was of no
importance.
His attention was attracted to a jeweller’s window
in which was a display of seed pearl necklets, white and
softly luminous against their background of black
velvet.
 He stopped and looked at them.
 The jeweller
was having a “‘sale’’. The necklets were marked with
tiny tickets, fifteen, twenty, thirty pounds.
 Pretty,
silly, expensive baubles, yet capable, incredibly, of
giving pleasure commensurate with their cost, or none
would ever buy them.
 What was the value of
pleasure ?
 If the pleasure those necklets would give
was worth fifteen, twenty, thirty pounds, what was
the value, for instance, of the pleasure Theodora gave
tohim?
 Impulsively he entered the shop.
 Theodora
should have a string of pearls, not in payment for the
pleasure she gave him, but in recognition of it.
There seemed little difference between the strings
apart from their price, but he lingered over his choice,
chatting with the obsequious shopman.
 It was as
pleasant to kill time in the selection of pearls as in
strolling through the streets.
 He made achoice at last,
and wrote a cheque in payment with the thought that
l
la7 UPSURGE
it was fortunate he did not depend wholly on his salary
for the gratification of his impulses.
 Then it was time
to call for Theodora.
 With the pearls in a black-velvet-
lined case in his pocket, he set out for her room, leisurely
swinging his stick, and humming, beneath his breath,
a tune.
He knocked on her door and she bade him enter.
She was clad in a kimono and was standing in front of
her dressing-table with a powder puffin her hand.
 She
smiled slowly .in greeting, then turned back to the
mirror, resuming her toilet.
Laying down his hat and stick, Riddle went and
stood beside her.
The mirror threw back its reflection of her golden-
brown
 face,
 without
 wrinkle,
 without
 blemish.
 She
did not need powder.
 He took the pearls from his
pocket and laid them on the dressing-table beside
her.
“T’ve brought you a present.”
Theodora gave him a swift glance of surprise.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have !’’ she exclaimed.
“Open it,’”’ he suggested.
She stripped off the wrapping and opened the case,
then exclaimed again—and,
 to Riddle’s
 astonishment,
in tones of dismay :
“Oh, you shouldn’t have bought them!
 Oh, they’re
lovely, but they must have cost . . ."—she broke off.
“Don’t you like them ?”’ he asked gently.
“They’re lovely, but...”
“Take them, my dear,” Riddle said more gently still.
“TI shouldn’t have bought them if I hadn’t been able
to afford it.
 And if they’d cost ten times what they
did I should still be as far from discharging the debt I
owe to your unspoiled youth and beauty as | am
now.
UPSURGE
 7“But that’s foolish,’ Theodora protested.
 “‘How
can you owe me anything ?”’
“Every man with whom you ve ever come in contact
owes you a debt of gratitude for simply existing,” said
Riddle, and felt that he was speaking the literal truth.
“And I have been privileged to know you.”
She laughed.
 ‘“That’s nice, but it’s foolish, too... .”
‘Wear
 them,”
 he pleaded.
He took the pearls from her fingers and clasped them
round her neck.
She pulled down his head and kissed him.
“All right.
 Though you shouldn’t have bought
them.
 How can I thank you ?”
“By hurrying up with your unnecessary powdering
so that we shan’t miss the bus,’ he retorted gaily.
“Have you packed your case ?”’
She nodded.
 “I packed it this morning before I
went to the shop.
 I only have to put on a frock.”
She slipped off her kimono and folded it and stuffed
it into her case.
 Riddle sighed as he watched her
moving about in her brief under-garments.
 She moved
as though she were unconscious of an audience.
 That,
he thought, was the half of her beauty—her utter
unself-consciousness.
 She put on a linen frock, pulled
on a hat, and was ready.
7The bus bore them away from the city, jolting them
up and down in their seats.
 Used to his companion’s
easy silences now, the magistrate did not struggle to
make conversation.
As they reached the hills the heat increased.
 Un-
tempered by the thinner air, the sun’s rays poured
down upon parched fields and sweating forest. The
7 UPSURGE
bus groaned on in a lower gear.
 Sweat broke from
the faces of the passengers.
After the oven-like heat of the bus the inferno of
sunshine into which Riddle and Theodora descended
was cool and sweet.
 The air was laden with the odours
of the bush.
 The path which led from the road to the
magistrate’s villa wandered down a hillside which
commanded a view of the coastal plain, stretching away
from the vine-clad foothills to the sea. The city and
its environs, smudged by a thin pall of smoke, was
merged in the level immensity.
 The magistrate’s villa
was built on the hillside, surrounded by an acre of
original bush-land, patches of which, here and there,
were cleared to make room for lawns and flower-beds.
A wide veranda ran round the villa.
“From
 here, on a clear day,’’ said Riddle, “‘you can
see the sea, and Garden Island, and Rottnest.
 To-day
the heat-haze conceals everything.”’
He put his arm round her shoulders, and for a moment
they stood gazing out over the plain.
‘How
 level it looks,’’ said Theodora.
He laughed.
 ‘‘We are nearly a thousand feet above
it. From a ’plane a couple of thousand feet higher
even these hills would look level.”’
An
 old man,
 dressed in a khaki
 shirt and
 trousers,
came out on to the veranda and said :
“Your lunch is ready, Mr. Riddle, in the library.”’
“All right, Mont.
 This is Miss Luddon.”’
The old man inclined his head without speak-
ing,
 and,
 taking
 Theodora’s
 case,
 went
 inside
 with
it.
‘“Mont’s my servant,” Riddle explained.
 “His real
name is Thomas Edward Charles Montmorency, and
he
 is,
 I understand,
 a member
 of one
 of the
 oldest
feudal families in England.
 I dare
 say my
 forbears
UPSURGE
 7waited on his.
 But he waits on me none the worse for
that.”
Taking her arm, he conducted her into his library.
The spacious, low-ceilinged room gave her pleasure.
Save where they were pierced by rows of casement win-
dows, the walls, for six feet from the floor, were
concealed by shelves laden with books.
 Jarrah
pedestals upheld
 small
 statues
 of
 marble
 or
 bronze.
A glass cabinet contained rolls of parchment, and
miniatures painted on ivory.
 There were Persian
rugs, and
 deep
 leather
 chairs,
 and
 in a corner which
was itself
 a
 casement,
 a
 small
 table
 was spread with
white
 damask,
 and
 laid
 with
 silver
 and
 glass.
The old servant waited on them unobtrusively,
bringing them food cooled on ice brought from the city
by the bus.
 Riddle began to talk of his books, naming
his favourites amongst philosophers and poets, and
singing their praises.
 To Theodora they were as
remote as myths.
“Don’t you read at all ?”’ he asked her, puzzled.
“Not your sort of books.”
“What sort of books do you read ?”’
“Books that ... give information . . . when I read
at all.’’
“Don’t you read fiction ?”’
“T have, but... all the stories I’ve read seem unreal,
somehow.
 I don’t know how to explain.
 The people
in books never... seem to be real... as though they
never had anything to concern themselves with but
the things they think and feel.”’
“But people do think and feel, you
 know,”
 said
Riddle.
“Yes, I know.
 But not all the time.
 Most
 of the
time they’re earning their livings.”’
‘““H’m,” he said, interested.
 “It’s true that not many
7 UPSURGE
writers have found inspiration in work.
 There’s a
reason, I suppose.
 A book that dealt as largely with
the business of earning a living as life does would be
no more interesting than life itself, and there would be
no incentive to anyone to read it.”
“But life’s not always uninteresting,’ Theodora
protested.
“Of course not!
 But the pleasant moments in life
are transient, while in literature they are captured,
 as
it were, and fixed, so that they can be enjoyed vicar-
iously.”’
She laughed, perplexed.
“I can’t argue with you.”
“It wasn’t fair of me, a jurist, to make you,” Riddle
said, smiling.
 ‘But if you don’t care for fiction you
might like poetry—the imagery, the rhythm of it, and
the rhyme.”
Theodora shook her head.
“Or essays—ideas ?”’
“No, not those either.
 Somehow they always seem
either obvious or silly. It doesn’t give me any pleasure
to read them.”
“Amazing !’”” exclaimed
 the magistrate.
 “What
does give you pleasure ?”’
‘Facts,’ Theodora answered,
 “and...oh!...
 real
things.
 All sorts of things: bathing, lying in the
sun, eating, sleeping—or falling to sleep, rather.”
In a word, thought the magistrate, an animal!
 For
all her beauty, for all her charm, just an animal! But
with the natural, unaffected manners of an animal,
carnal and unspoiled.
The long, hot afternoon passed more quickly than he
could have wished.
 In the cooling twilight they dined
on the veranda which overlooked the panorama of
city and plain, stretched beneath the paling yellow
UPSURGE
 :
 7canopy of the afterglow.
 The short twilight dissolved.
The stars appeared, and on the plain below appeared
points of light as the electric switches were turned.
 As
the
 last
 effulgence
 faded
 the
 plain
 shone
 back
 at
 the
sky like a vast mirror, reflecting muddily the remote
stars.
They sat smoking, Theodora a cigarette and the
magistrate a cigar, on the darkening veranda.
 The old
servant came out and switched on the lights.
 He
carried a tray.
He said: “Is there anything more you want, Mr.
Riddle ?”’
“No, Mont.”’
The scattered dishes were gathered on to the tray
and the servant departed.
 For awhile they heard him
moving about inside, then, save for the faint droning
of insects, there was silence.
At last, as though animated by a mutual impulse, a
consciousness of appetites yet unappeased, they rose
and went indoors.
Riddle was not old, but this girl renewed the ardours
of an earlier youth.
 An animal, he thought; an
unaffected animal....
In the morning they rose early, and while the air was
yet cool, set out, on Riddle’s suggestion, on a ramble
through the hills to the river, two miles away.
 The
way was rough and devious, and when they reached
their destination the sun was half-way up the sky,
bathing the hills with heat.
 They were hot and tired.
The river was a series of pools in the rocks, shaded by
trees. They sat for a while in the shade by a pool,
then Riddle suggested that they bathe.
7 UPSURGE
Theodora
 protested
 that
 they
 had
 no
 bathing
costumes.
“Does it matter ?’’ he inquired.
She gazed at him curiously for a moment, then said
thoughtfully : ‘No, it doesn't matter’’—and proceeded
to take off her clothes.
A little later, as she stood in the pool like a naiad,
with the water laving her young breasts and dripping
from her face and hair, she began suddenly to laugh.
“What are you laughing at ?”’
She continued to laugh for a while without replying,
then answered :
“Tess than a month ago you fined me two pounds
and made me lose my job for slipping off the shoulder-
straps of my bathers.
 Now!...”
The magistrate was embarrassed.
“T had hoped,” he said, ‘‘that you'd forgotten that.”
“How could I forget °”
“T hoped at least that you’d forgiven me.”’
“Oh, I’ve forgiven you.
 I suppose you couldn't do
anything else.”
He came to her over the slippery rocks of the river
bed.
“Really, Theodora ?”’
“Yes.”
She laughed, and putting her hands on his shoulders,
leaned forward and kissed him.
“T didn’t mean
 to rub it in,” she said.
He was touched, and for the first time genuinely
remorseful for the part his magisterial duty had com-
pelled him to play.
And the cool contact with her naked body thrilled
him.
 Despite the exhausting ardours of the previous
night, desire welled up in him again.
 The girl became
aware
 of the
 emotion
 he was
 unable
 to conceal,
 and
UPSURGE
 ay
smiling a little, yielded herself to his arms and kissed
him.
 Her own flesh responded.
 They climbed out
of the pool
 and
 took
 their
 pleasure
 on the carpet of
dead leaves
 and
 grass
 at
 its
 bank,
 while
 flies and ants
crawled
 over
 them
 unnoticed.
When the short tumult of their passion was over, they
continued to lie for a little.
 But a growing sense of
discomfort pierced the pleasant lethargy, and presently
they scrambled to their feet, scratching at the insect
bites and laughing ruefully.
 They plunged again into
the pool, and when, for the second time the cool water
had assuaged their discomfort, donned their clothes and
returned slowly to the villa.
They lunched again in the casement
 corner of the
library,
 drinking
 iced
 beer
 with
 their
 food.
 The
magistrate smiled at the girl’s good appetite.
“Vou said it was one of your pleasures—eating—
didn’t you ?”’
The telephone bell rang in the hall.
 It was answered
by the old servant, who presently came and whispered
in his master’s ear.
Riddle shot an embarrassed glance at his companion.
“Tf you will excuse me?...”
She heard him speaking in the hall: “Ah, yes? .
Yes?
 ...
 What?
 No,
 no!
 My
 dear
 lady,
 no!
You mustn’t.
 J have people here....
 Yes, people
who know your husband.
 It’s quite impossible! ...
Yes...
 Ofcourse!...
 Howcan youdoubtit?...
Yes...
 Good-bye !”’
She smiled at him quizzically as he returned.
“T suppose I’m the people ?”’
“Yes.
 I told a lie in the interests of peace,” he
assured her.
 ‘‘What the consequences would have
been had I confessed to entertaining a charming young
woman I hate to think !”
7 UPSURGE
“Oh
 |?
“She also is a charming woman,’ he explained,
“but her charm’s tempered by a disposition to
a
 jealousy.”’
Theodora said hesitantly : “That . . . sounds like a
warning.
 You needn’t worry.
 I’m not... jealous.”
Riddle regarded her thoughtfully.
‘“Aren’t you?
 Are you sure ?”
“T’m not... jealous,” she said again.
“It distresses me,” he informed her.
 “Yet. .
somehow, my dear, I don’t know that I should find it
very distressing in you.”’
The girl was silent, and he went on:
 “T’m no saint,
my dear.
 I never have been a saint.
 A life of
austerity doesn’t suit me.
 I’ve loved many women
in the past, but will you believe me if I tell you that
since I’ve known you I’ve had no inclination towards
any other woman ?”
“No,” she retorted smiling, “I won't.”’
‘“Nevertheless, it’s true.”
She looked at him curiously, and the smile faded
from her face.
“You say that because you think it will please me,”
she said at last, seriously.
 “Even if it’s true... you
say it for that reason.
 It... it doesn’t please me,
really.
 If it’s true it’s... silly.
 I think I must be
different from other girls. When I’m with youl...
love you.
 You’readear!...
 But not when I’m not
with you.
 And I’d rather you... didn't feel any
differently about me.”
‘Ts that true ?”’ asked the magistrate wonderingly .
She said : ““Yes’’—nodding gravely.
Riddle laughed.
“Very well!
 You can trust me not to fall in love
with you !”
UPSURGE
 7But he was conscious of a vague, emotional dis-
satisfaction in himself.
 He attributed it to his inability
to understand this girl; the more he knew of her the
less he seemed to understand.
 She seemed to retreat
within
 herself
 as
 he
 approach
ed.
 Her personality
eluded
 him.
 Only
 her
 sensualit
y
 seemed
 real. With
a sigh
 and
 a
 smile
 he
 shook
 his
 head.
“Well,”
 he
 said,
 “at
 least
 we
 understand
 each
other.”’
So the week-end passed.
Early on Monday morning the old servant brought
them tea and thin bread-and-butter and fruit to eat
as they still lay in bed, for Theodora had to be at work
by nine. With their breakfast Mont also brought the
morning paper.
Finishing his tea quickly, Riddle swung himself out
of bed and went to the bathroom to shave, leaving
Theodora the paper to read as she still sipped at her
tea and bit into her fruit.
 |
When he returned she gazed at him in a queer way,
and he noticed tears in her eyes and the marks of them
down her cheeks.
“You're crying!’ he exclaimed.
 “What's
 the
matter ?”’
For answer she extended the paper to him, indicating
anitem.
 He took it and read:
UNEMPLOYED
 DEMONSTRATORS
SCENE
 IN COURT
MAGISTRATE’S
 FORBEARANCE
In the letter-press below was an account of the wild
outburst
 of
 the
 man
 Riley,
 set
 forth
 briefly ; then
Riddle’s own remarks and the sentences imposed.
 It
was a Conservative report, such as was to be expected
in the Conservative paper in which it appeared.
8 UPSURGE
Puzzled, Riddle looked from the paper to Theodora.
She had dried her tears with a handkerchief which
she still held in her hand, and her grey eyes looked
hard.
“That man you sent to gaol was my friend,” she
said.
“Riley !’”’ he exclaimed, remembering suddenly the
books on the mantel in her room.
She nodded.
“But, my dear girl...”
She interrupted him : “I know what you're going to
say—that you only did what you had to do, that Steve
had broken the law and had to be punished.
 I know.
But it seemed strange that
 1... when I’m his friend...
that I should be friendly with you . . . who sent him
to gaol.”
“Does that mean,” he asked quietly, “that we can’t
be friends any longer ?”’
“No, I don’t mean that,’’ she answered in a low voice.
“But ...
 perhaps I’m being silly, but it seems so
unjust . . . that you should send him to gaol and I
should be your friend when...”
Riddle was thinking : this man Riley is her friend ;
is he also her lover?
 And the magistrate James
Riddle,
 whom
 jealousy
 distressed,
 was
 too
 afraid
 of
what the answer might be to ask !
CHAPTER
 SIX
N the beach a few miles from the watering-place
()
 of Rockingham lay the wreck of the Kwinana.
The rusty iron shell served as a landmark for motorists
passing to and fro along the road to the watering-place,
and as a playground for holiday-makers who, in
summer time, came to camp on the nearby reserve.
An iron ship of about six thousand tons, the Kwinana
had been a prize of war.
 She was captured from the
enemy
 during the Imperialist war of 1914-1919,
 and
under her new articles, plied for a time between
Fremantle and the north-west ports and Batavia and
Singapore,
 carrying
 passengers
 and
 freight.
 Then
 a
violent storm piled her up on a sandbank in the
narrows between Garden Island and the mainland, and
she was sold for a song to a firm of scrap-iron merchants
who disposed of the coal in her bunkers for five times
the amount they had paid for her, and her brass fittings
for as much more, and let her lie.
A year or so later the Commonwealth Naval Depart-
ment served notice upon her owners to remove her
from the passage, as she constituted a danger to passing
shipping, that was to say, to the several scores of
sixteen and twenty-foot yachts which sometimes beat
out to the island for week-ends.
The scrap-iron merchants were in a dilemma.
 To
have obeyed the instructions of the Naval Department
would certainly have swallowed up all the profit they
had made on their transaction, and would probably
have involved them in a loss. But their problem was
solved for them by another storm.
 A gale from the
8 F
8 UPSURGE
north-west lifted the wreck from the sand-bar and
deposited it in shallow water against the mainland
beach.
Against the beach she lay for half a dozen years,
her tall masts, which the storms had failed to unship,
pointing forlornly to the sky. The action of the tides
formed a spit of sand between her iron side and the
beach. Campers from the nearby reserve cut into her
woodwork with axes to obtain firewood. Vandals lit
a fire in her innards and gutted her. Gulls and shags
covered
 her
 with
 their
 droppings,
 and
 rust
 ate
 into
her plates.
The young idler Peter Groom had motored past the
Kwinana
 a dozen
 times,
 and
 had
 bathed
 as often
 in
the calm, clear sea which lapped at her iron sides
before it occurred to him that commercial possibilities
lay, with the soilure of shags and gulls, and the sand,
in her gaping holds.
Groom
 was
 wealthy,
 and
 he
 was
 also
 impulsive.
At this time, too, he was fired to a spirit of commercial
Napoleonism by the success of his friend Paul Kronen
who, since his recent appointment to the managing-
directorship of the great retail firm of Kronen’s
Limited
 had,
 it was
 said,
 increased
 the
 turnover
 by
half despite the crisis, the arrival of which had more
or less coincided with his appointment.
 Bathing in
company with a number of friends beside the Kwinana
one day, Peter Groom was seized suddenly by inspira-
tion. At one moment his mind was filled with a mild
and
 envious
 admiration
 tor his
 friend
 Paul
 Kronen,
and at the next with a vision of the Kwinana as she
might be.
Torches flared at the mast-heads of the Kwinana
and in her rigging, and the whole vessel was ruddy
with their dim, smoky light. Jazz music oozed out of
UPSURGE
 8her into the night. High up in the sides square gun-
ports were cut, and, peeping through the gun-ports,
the muzzles of painted wooden replicas of seventeenth
century cannon.
 Within her, covering her iron decking,
was a floor of polished wood
 with stains upon
 it as
though it had known mutinies and battle, and
 had
drunken human blood.
 Around the floor were
 low
tables and green wicker chairs, piled with gay cushions,
set here and there between huge rum-casks and the
painted wooden cannon.
 Stag-horn ferns grew upon
the rum-casks. A gay crowd sat at the tables, waited
upon expertly by attendants clad in ragged shirts and
breeches, with bright kerchiefs tied round their heads
and pistols and cutlasses stuck in their waist-bands.
The Captain Kidd Cabaret !
Outside
 on
 the
 calm
 surface
 of the
 ocean,
 Groom
saw torch-lit gondolas rocking gently at anchor. The
torches burned smokily, splashes of flame in the
darkness.
 In
 the
 gondolas
 amorous
 couples
 were
making love... .
He saw the successful opening night of the Captain
Kidd Cabaret. . .. The music grew wilder and
wilder, louder and louder
 .
 .
 . then the clock struck
midnight ! On
 the
 instant
 a volley
 of pistol
 shots
rang out, and a band of shouting pirates, with flashing
knives and whirling cutlasses, charged in upon the
dancers. The dancers screamed and cowered back. A
few looked indignant and angry, but they were taken
captive
 and
 hurried
 below,
 where
 their relieved
 and
delighted eyes beheld a magnificent supper spread
before them. .. .
That was the inspiration of the young idler Peter
Groom, and he did not allow the grass to grow under
his feet. It was the second year of the crisis. Wages
were being forced down and unemployment was
8 UPSURGE
increasing.
 Thousands were already out of work, and
each
 day
 added
 hundreds
 to
 their
 number.
 The
national income had already fallen by a quarter, from
g
600 to 450 millions, and was still falling. Even the
aintimates of Peter Groom were affected.
 Some of
them had had their incomes halved, and the young
idler himself drew less from his stocks than had been
his wont. So pleasing and vivid was his vision of the
Captain Kidd Cabaret, however, that he could not
believe that the crisis would affect its success, and,
approaching the owners, he took an option of purchase
over the wreck.
He never exercised the option.
 He set a score of
ii
 men at work cleaning out the hulk.
 He ordered a
hundred
 torches
 from
 a firm
 of indent
 agents.
 He
allowed his friend Paul Kronen to sell him two hundred
yards of black velvet with which to make cushions
for the gondolas.
 It was not until he had spent, or
had committed himself to spend, over a thousand
pounds that the scepticism of his friends made any
impression upon him.
 Once the seeds of doubt were
planted in his mind, however, he became frightened
and immediately abandoned the whole project. Doubt
took possession of his mind as absolutely as had the
inspiration.
 It became a doubt of himself; then a
panic distrust of himself.
 He had lost a thousand
pounds: how much might he not lose if another such
inspiration seized him,
 another such Napoleonic
impulse ? Bankruptcy loomed before him as a serious
and likely contingency, and while the mood of panic
was still upon him he executed a deed of gift of all
he possessed to his wife Cynthia. Only when he had
done that did his old, irresponsible gaiety of soul
return to him.
CHAPTER
 SEVEN
I
LMOST
 every Sunday throughout the summer
young
 Groom and Cynthia,
 Joyce Mealing,
Fanchon
 Follower,
 Noel Manning,
 Paul Kronen,
 John
Graham and Gerda found themselves together on one
of the beaches.
 When
 they arrived, singly or together,
they found a hundred friends to whom to cry greetings,
a score of other groups to which they might attach
themselves
 for a little while ; but sooner or later they
drifted together as in obedience to a habit, like the other
groups within the same class.
Only one of them was not a member of that class :
the chemist John Graham.
 He put himself outside it
by his associations and by his beliefs.
 But they
accepted him on account of his wife, and treated him
with reluctant respect.
Fanchon was not amongst them on this day.
 Fan-
chon had her “pains” ; it made her feel ill to bathe in
that condition, and she could not lie in the sun and
enjoy it unless she could also bathe.
In Fanchon’s absence Paul Kronen was prey to a
vague discontent.
 He had no deep regard for her, but
the plain admiration with which she regarded him
nourished his colossal vanity.
 There were other women
who admired him, and he scrutinized group after group
on the sands in hope of discovering one of them.
 Every
attractive girl he knew seemed to have a man with her.
His gaze returned morosely to his own companions.
|
 5s
8 UPSURGE
Groom and Gerda Graham lay on their bellies on the
sand, with their heads together, whispering.
 Graham
had surrendered himself to the benison of the sun.
Joyce Mealing nursed Noel Manning’s head on her lap
while she chatted with Cynthia.
It had occurred to Kronen before that Cynthia
Groom was a very attractive woman.
 Now his gaze
wandered from her warm, animated face to her young
husband,
 who
 still whispered in Gerda’s ear, and back
again.
 He found a small shell and threw it at her to
attract her attention to himself.
 She smiled at him.
He raised his eyebrows significantly, glancing again at
her husband.
 She followed the direction of his glance,
and understood.
 He was asking her to take cognizance
of her husband’s preoccupation with another woman.
The smile on her face wavered, but did not disappear.
She would not give Paul Kronen that satisfaction |
For his benefit she shrugged her shoulders.
Kronen beckoned to her and called: “Come over
here !”’
‘What for ?”’ she asked.
“T’ve got something to tell you.”’
She crawled over the intervening six or seven feet
of sand, and said :
“What
 have you got to tell me?”
“Do you stand for that, Cynthia ?”’ he inquired in a
low, surprised
 tone, indicating her husband
 and
Gerda Graham.
“He can’t help it,’ she retorted.
 “Anyway, I can
trust Gerda.”’
Kronen made a noncommittal sound.
“You know, I just can’t imagine why any man
should want to play round with anyone else when he’s
got a nice wife like you, Cynthia.”
“Well, he does,” said Cynthia.
UPSURGE
 8“Listen, why shouldn’t you and I get together,
Cynthia ?”’
Cynthia laughed.
 “What about Fanchon ?”
“You know Fanchon doesn't really cut any ice with
me, Cynthia.
 But you're lovely.
 You know that,
don’t you ?”
She cried, laughing, but flattered and pleased never-
theless : ‘‘You fool, Paul !””
“No, seriously, Cynthia.”’
“Don’t be silly.”
“Cynthia,” he persisted, “‘let’s go out and play one
night.
 We'll drive out somewhere and have a good
time.
 Maybe Peter would appreciate you a bit better
if you did.
 Try his own medicine on him.”’
“You're only fooling,’ she said.
“I’m
 not.
 I’m
 dead
 serious,
 Cynthia.
 Will
you?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on !”’
“No.
 I know you, Paul.
 You're like Peter.”
He took her hand, but
 she disengaged it,
 say-
ing :
“Tt’s no good talking, Paul.
 Iwon’tgo.
 It wouldn't
make Peter jealous.
 He isn’t jealous.”
“He says he isn’t. But wouldn't you like to come
yourself, Cynthia °”’
“No,
 I wouldn’t.”’
“All right !’’ He grimaced with simulated resigna-
tion.
 “Anyway, stay and talk to me.”
He took her hand again and she did not withdraw it,
as it did not now seem to commit her to anything.
Caressing
 her
 hand,
 the
 conviction
 of
 her
 charm
grew upon Kronen.
 Again he glanced at her husband
and Gerda Graham, and back to Cynthia.
 No woman
had ever resisted Paul Kronen for long.
 He could
8 UPSURGE
have Cynthia like the others if he went after her, he
thought.
 Caressing her hand,
 he allowed his admira-
tion for her to show plainly in his eyes.
Cynthia Groom’s love for her husband was fierce
and passionate and possessive.
 His gay irresponsi-
bility humiliated and maddened her.
 She guessed
that he was unfaithful to her, but if she taxed him with
it his blithe cajolery always broke her certainty, always
weakened her till she found herself in tears and in his
arms.
 Several
 times
 she had
 left him,
 but she could
only stay away as long as she was upheld by anger.
When her anger left her, her will to stay away from
him
 left her.
 She had
 to return.
 She was his slave,
so completely did he dominate her heart.
“Some
 day,’ she told him,
 “I won’t come back !"
Groom played the gallant as naturally as a moth
flies to the light.
 He made love to one woman as
readily as to the next.
 He made love to his wite’s
friends if they would
 let him,
 and most
 of them
 did,
for few women were proof against his charm.
His wife’s jealousy irked him, made him stubborn.
He chafed against the barbaric possessiveness of Cyn-
thia’s love, feeling that he could yield to it only at the
cost of some essential part of his own ego, and as her
jealousy became more insistent, his philanderings
became less inconsequential and more deliberate.
Cynthia’s life became an alternation of fierce delight,
misery and despair.
 Nor with all his philanderings
was Groom happy, for loving his wife unbeknown to
himself, he shared her misery.
 He sought to reason
with her.
UPSURGE
 8“What harm does it do you if I play round a bit with
other women
 ?”
“Vou belong to me,” she would retort, “not to
them.”
“T’m damned if I belong to you!
 Do you think
because
 a damn
 fool with
 a collar
 turned
 the wrong
way round muttered a few silly words
 over us you
acquired a property right in me ?”’
“You promised to love me !”
“Well, I do love you.”’
“If you loved me,” she would
 say,
 “you wouldn't
want anyone else.”
“But
 that’s
 nonsense,
 Cynthia!
 I like beef better
then I like mutton or pork, but if I had to live on beef
alone I’d get tired of it.
 After a little mutton or pork
I can go back to the beef liking it all the better.”’
“Vou compare me to mutton or pork!
 Oh!”
“No, you're the beef.
 Surely you see, Cynthia?
The fact that I like to play round a bit doesn’t mean
that I don’t love you.
 If you'd only be reasonable
it'd probably make me love you more.
 If you only
knew it, you’re doing your best to kill my love for you
with your silly jealousy !"’
And then, as like as not, Cynthia would burst into
tears, crying :
“Oh,
 it’s not the same!
 It’s not the same !’’—and
her husband would swallow his rising irritation and
comfort her, telling her that she had got her idea of
love and marriage out of romantic novels, that she
thought of marriage as a sort of imprisonment instead
of a comradeship.
“Tf you were living with another girl instead of with
me,” he argued, “you wouldn't think she was injuring
you and humiliating you simply because she went out
with a man now and then.”’
9 UPSURGE
“But it’s different, it’s different !’’ Cynthia would
protest, still sobbing.
“It shouldn’t be, though.
 What difference does it
make that I’m a man instead of a woman?
 You've
been hypnotized by the romantic novels, darling.
They say that if you catch a hen and draw an imaginary
line from its beak to the ground and then release it, it
will stay put, believing itself to be tied to the ground.
That’s the way you want me to be, Cinny.
 But, dar-
ling, I escaped being hypnotized, so I can't believe it
myself.”’
So he would argue with her, and by and by she
would dry her eyes and confess to being foolish, feeling
for the moment indeed that she was foolish. They
would exchange kisses and become reconciled. Finally
she would ask him :
 .
“Peter, have you ever been unfaithful to me ?”
And he would reply with a laugh: “No, darling, I
haven't |”
. al
CHAPTER
 EIGHT
I
“@NO
 this is where you are!’’ exclaimed Groom.
From behind the counter Theodora smiled at
him in her serene way.
“This is where I am.”
“Selling stockings in Kronen’s !’’
A woman customer approached the counter and the
young idler kicked his heels while the girl attended to
her. When the woman had gone he said untruthfully :
“I’ve been trying to find you everywhere.”
‘“T’ve been here all the time,’ she assured him.
“Well, since I’ve found you at last, when are you
coming out with me again ?”
“Not again,” she answered gravely, shaking her
head.
 |
Another customer interrupted.
 Excited by the
memory of his first encounter with Theodora, Groom
waited patiently.
 He did not doubt that he could
persuade her if only he was not interrupted for a few
minutes.
 But customer after customer came to the
counter.
“Listen,” he said to her in a moment of respite.
“Where do you live ?”’
She smiled and shook her head.
 “I’m not going
to tell you.
 I don’t want to go out with you.”
“But why ? You didn’t mind before !”’
“T didn’t know your wife then.
 It wouldn’t be
fair.”
He was vexed.
gt
Q UPSURGE
“Oh,
 now,
 listen, Theodora!
 What
 harm
 would
 it
be doing Cynthia ?”’
“It would hurt her.”’
She left him to drag down more boxes of goods from
the shelves
 behind
 the counter,
 and
 spread
 out
 their
contents before yet another buyer.
At his next opportunity Groom asked her again for
her address, but again she refused.
“T’ll find it out for myself, then.”’
The girl glanced round quickly to see 1f she could be
overheard,
 then
 said:
“Oh, why must you be so persistent ? I liked you so
much before, but now...
 Don’t you see that it
wouldn’t be fair ?”’
He grinned and retorted : “No, I don’t.
 Won't you
change your mind ?”’
“No.”
“Tl find out where you live.”’
“Tf you can |”
She was thinking that she would have to get in
touch with Sylvia and Gwen and ask them to withhold
her address if Groom approached them.
 She could
think of no other friends that she and Groom had in
common, except perhaps James Riddle.
 But Groom
would not ask the magistrate.
She smiled confidently.
“Au revoir,” he said, grinning widely.
He doffed his hat and turned and walked away
without a backward glance, leaving his grin impressed
upon her mind lke a light that still lingers after a
room is plunged in darkness.
 His young charm was
doubly evident when he grinned.
 It was almost in her
to regret...
As Groom disappeared
 a shop-walker
 approached
and said coldly :
UPSURGE
 9“Tt’s against the rules to talk to customers.”’
“T’m
 sorry,’
 she
 answered.
 “But
 it
 wasn’t
 my
fault.
 I...”
“Vou know the rules and you know the penalty.
You'll find the fine deducted from your next pay.”
The shop-walker moved on. A customer rapped on
the counter for attention.
 Theodora’s wages were two
pounds and sevenpence a week, and the fine was five
shillings.
 Young
 Groom
 forgotten
 in
 the
 dull
 rage
that filled her, she turned to serve the customer.
When she returned to her room after work that day
she was puzzled to find the door ajar, though she had
left it locked.
 She pushed it open and entered, and
found Groom lying on her bed, grinning up at her
gaily.
 She emitted an exclamation of startled dis-
may.
“You!
 How did you get here ?”
“JT got your address from your union secretary ten
minutes after I left you,” he told her coolly, “and I
told your landlady that I was your brother from Collie,
so she let me in.”’
“Oh !”’ she cried.
 ‘“You’re impossible !”’
“Now yow’re not really annoyed,” he said getting up
from the bed. “Don’t pretend now! Theodora... .”
He took her shoulders and smiled into her face, and
though her annoyance was genuine she was impelled to
smile with him.
 He said:
“I know you're not. Confess now!
 You really
wanted to see me again, didn’t you ?”’
She answered: “No.
 I told you the truth.
 It’s
not fair to your wife’’—but she knew as she spoke what
the end would be. His smile turned her will to water.
9 UPSURGE
It was always the same: she could not resist.
 What
was the use of pretending ?
“At least,’ he said, “you'll let me take you to
dinner.”
What was the use of pretending, of resisting ? She
wanted to go.
 She laughed.
“You
 will, Theodora ?”
She nodded, saying helplessly: “It doesn’t seem
much use saying ‘no’, does it ?”
“Not a bit!’
She went behind the screen in the corner to change
the black frock that she wore during the working day—
that Kronen’s Limited required her to wear—for one
of green voile.
Groom lay back on the bed.
 He wondered whether
Cynthia would be very unpleasant as a consequence of
his failure to return to dinner.
 Just now he was feeling
too well pleased with himself to care very much.
 He
planned the evening after their dinner: a motor run
to one of the beaches, a bottle of wine in one of the sly-
grog shanties, then erotics on the beach.
 Though
summer was drawing to a close it was still warm enough
to lie on the beach at night....
As they sat at dinner Theodora shattered his hopes.
She said :
“I forgot to tell you before; I’ve got to go to a
meeting to-night.”’
She had herself forgotten until that moment.
“Oh, I say !’’ he protested.
 “You don’t have to go,
do you ?”
“Yes, I do.
 It’s a meeting of the union.
 There’s
talk of a strike.”
“A strike!
 Good Lord, why °”
“Some of the girls say they can’t live on their wages
since the last cut, and there’s going to be another.”
UPSURGE
 9“But to go on strike!
 With thousands out of work !
I say, don’t you be silly. I know Paul Kronen.
 If
you went on strike you'd never get your jobs back
again !"’
“T was fined five shillings for talking to you to-day,”
Theodora answered irrelevantly.
“What!
 Five shillings just for talking to me !’’—he
was genuinely indignant.
“Tt’s the rule.
 We're not allowed to talk to anyone
except the other assistants when it’s necessary, or to
customers.’
“Well, I say!
 If that’s the way you’re treated I
don’t wonder you want to go on strike !”’
She did not reply.
“But, I say, if you can’t come anywhere to-night,
you'll come out some other night, won't you?” he
asked her.
Theodora laughed.
 “I suppose it wouldn’t be any
use Saying ‘no’.
 a
 9“That’s the position,’ the secretary explained.
“The proprietors haven’t yet definitely decided whether
there’s to be another cut or not.
 To talk of threaten-
ing them with a strike is the height of stupidity!
Thirty-five per cent of our members are already out
of work.
 The proprietors would immediately call our
bluff and fill our jobs with scabs—and you know as
well as 1 do that most of the scabs would probably be
our own unemployed members.
 It’s no use deceiving
yourselves ; in times like this we can’t afford to talk
strikes.
 If there was a strike there'd be no strike pay ;
it’d be a case of everybody paddling their own canoe.
Our strike fund has been swallowed up by current
expenses since the depression began, and we haven't
9 UPSURGE
been able to collect subscriptions from everybody.
Still, you called this meeting, and called it for the
purpose of the motion, and you’ve got to decide for
yourselves.
 The motion is that the proprietors be
informed that any further reduction in the wages of
members of the Department Store Employees’ Indus-
trial Union of Workers will be opposed by direct action.
To adopt it as a resolution is simply asking for trouble,
but it’s up to you !”’
He sat down, mopping his face.
“Ts there any more discussion ?”’ the president of
the union asked from behind the table on the platform.
“Tf not, ’1l put the motion.
 You all know what it is.
Those in favour ?”’
With the memory
 of the fine still rankling in her
mind,
 Theodora
 raised
 her hand.
 Other
 hands
 went
up about her.
 Hands went up all over the hall.
 The
chairman did not trouble to count them.
“Those against ?”’
Other hands were raised.
“T declare the motion lost,’’ said the chairman,
 and
added: “I think you’re wise.
 We weren’t ready for
a strike which we should certainly have had on our
hands...”
He was interrupted by a big, raw-boned girl named
Olive Curnow, who worked in the haberdashery depart-
ment at Kronen’s Limited.
 In a loud, rough voice
that was heard clearly all over the hall, she said :
“The vote looked too close to me to say off-hand
whether the motion was lost or carried, Mr. President !”’
“Count the votes !”’ a voice cried.
The cry was taken up at several points: “Yes, count
the votes !”’
“There could be no purpose in counting the votes,”
said the chairman.
UPSURGE
 9“Defeatists !’’
 a
 girl’s
 voice
 screamed
 angrily.
“That’s what they are!
 I’ve told you our executive’s
no good!
 They’re working hand in hand with the
bosses!
 Take
 a count !”
A hundred voices cried : ““We want a count !’’—and
the chairman gave way.
The count took a long time.
“Three hundred and twenty-six in favour, and four
hundred and one against,’ the chairman announced
at last.
 “As I said before, the motion is lost !”’
Theodora walked home feeling queerly miserable.
She
 was
 wishing
 she
 had
 not
 attended
 the
 meeting,
wishing that she had gone out with young Groom.
When she got home she had a shower.
 She slipped
a kimono over her cool flesh and lay down on her bed.
A lethargy, an aftermath of resentment, settled on her.
There had been many such aftermaths since she began
working behind a counter at Kronen’s Limited.
CHAPTER
 NINE
N an intuitive way Cynthia Groom sensed that a new
and stronger interest had taken possession of her
husband, and a recklessness born of despair entered
into her.
 She threatened to pay him out in his own
coin, but he had laughed at her, and said :
“IT wish to God you would!
 Then you'd find out
that it doesn’t matter !”’
She had thought of doing so a score of times ; now
the thought was insistent.
 Paul Kronen was pestering
her in an unobtrusive way, whispering to her that her
husband’s indifference was a pose, that put to the test
he would prove as jealous as she. With a sure instinct
Kronen saw that the way to Cynthia lay through her
obsessing passion for her husband.
 In the past she
had always been deterred by her own uncertainty of
Groom’s reaction.
 She would no sooner make up her
mind to make the experiment than she would be
stricken with a fear that he would see in it only an
excuse for franker, more flagrant infidelities of his own.
Now she did not care.
The party on the beach was gayer than usual.
 It
was colder.
 The summer was drawing to an end;
there was a stimulating chill in the wind and a milder
sun shone down.
 Soon the season would be over for
all save the few who plunged into the surf each morn-
ing, Summer and winter.
 Coming out of the surf,
Cynthia towelled herself vigorously.
 Kronen, wrapped
in a towelling gown, lay on the sand at her feet,
upraised
 on
 one
 elbow,
 smiling
 at
 her.
 She
 smiled
back at him provocatively and continued so to smile
9UPSURGE
 9until he reached up and caught her hand and drew her
down
 beside him.
‘When are you going to come out and play,
Cynthia?’’ he asked her.
She answered recklessly : ‘““Any time you like. I’ve
made up my mind.”
In
 delight
 he
 exclaimed:
 “Cynthia!
 Do
 you
mean it ?”’
“Ves,
 I’ve decided it’s time Peter had a dose of his
own medicine.”
“You have!
 Cynthia, I never believed you'd have
the sense |"
“Well, I have,” said Cynthia.
He sat up and cried: “Splendid! Listen, I live with
my people, but I’ve got a little private flat in town where
we can go. What about Wednesday night?
 We'll
have dinner in town, and then maybe go for a spin, or to
a show, or anything we feel like. And we'll have
supper at the flat afterwards.
 I'll drive you home in
the early hours.
 What do you say ?”’
“All right,” said Cynthia, and turned away from him
abruptly.
 |
On Tuesday she told her husband that on the follow-
ing day she was going out in the afternoon and would
not be home till late at night.
“Where are you going ?”’ he asked her.
“You don’t tell me where you go,” she retorted.
“Why should I tell you ?”’
“Well... there’s no reason why you should if you
don’t want to,’’ Groom
 said, a little taken aback.
He was not displeased.
 It gave him an evening to
himself which would be free of all unpleasantness
when he returned.
 When an opportunity occurred,
he rang up Theodora, who, he discovered, had an
engagement for Wednesday night with a girl who
LOO
 UPSURGE
worked with her at Kronen’s Limited.
 They had
intended to go to a picture show.
 Groom said that
he would get another man and make a foursome of it.
They would pick up Theodora and her friend at her
room at seven-thirty.
“You won’t insist on going to the pictures, will
you ?”’ he asked her.
“Probably not,’’ she answered, laughing.
Noel Manning would come, Groom reflected.
 Man-
ning’s fiancée, Joyce Mealing, was a proprietorial little
bitch, like Cynthia; Manning should be glad of an
evening’s change.
 He dialled the number of the
journalist’s apartment, and for a few moments listened
to the burr-burr, burr-burr of the call signal.
 Manning
was out.
 He tried the office of the newspaper for
which Manning did most of his work, nor was the
journalist there, and he replaced the ear-piece of the
instrument with a mental resolve to ring up later.
 He
forgot about it till the following morning, however,
when he was on his way into town and his club.
 He
might as well call on Manning as ring him up from the
club, he thought.
Manning was at home, but he shook his head to
Groom ’s proposal.
“T’d like to, Peter, but I’ve got to do a job to-night.”
Whom else could he get, Groom wondered.
 He
thought of Paul Kronen and grinned.
 It would be a
lark to get Kronen out with a couple of his own shop
girls !
CHAPTER
 TEN
I
HE managing director of Kronen’s Limited dis-
missed his secretary and tilted back his comfort-
able office chair. The secretary was new.
 She had
not been in the employ of Kronen’s Limited for more
than two months.
 She was young and competent and
pretty, and had a good figure.
 Paul Kronen
 watched
her appreciatively as she went through the office door.
Her light dress moulded itself to her hips and thighs,
and clung cleanly to her legs behind the knees.
 He
would have liked to slip his hand up under her skirts
and pat her firm buttocks.
 But it would not do.
 It
did not pay to mix women with business, or to become
too familiar with employees.
 They talked.
 One lost
prestige and the power to make them cringe when the
need arose.
The managing director of Kronen’s Limited settled
himself in his tilted office chair and folded his hands
upon his stomach.
 He was only thirty-two but
already he was beginning to develop a paunch.
 He
would have to start going to the gymnasium of the
wrestler, Rieslinger, again, he thought.
 But he felt
fit. Business was good—considering the crisis.
His office was on a gallery overlooking the ground-
floor counters of the great shop.
 Through the glass
walls of the office he could see the counters stacked
with
 merchandise,
 with
 tweeds
 and
 calicos,
 silks and
cambrics, dress goods from every quarter of the earth.
The counters were arranged in pairs, and black-clad
IOI
I0 UPSURGE
girls hurried to and fro between them.
 There were
Over an acre of counters.
 Customers swarmed in the
wide aisles... .
That was what Paul Kronen liked to see: customers
Swarming in the wide aisles and the little black-clad
girls dodging to and fro behind the counters.
 And
there were three more floors like that above!
He
 smiled.
 Yes,
 business
 was
 good;
 the
 new
advertising was pulling.
 He loved his advertising: a
full page in the morning and a half-page in the evening
paper each day.
 He read every advertisement from
beginning to end, every word.
 He pored over them as
fondly and carefully as if he had written them himself,
as if they were great literature.
 The fame of Kronen’s
Limited leaped across the pages in great crescendos of
superlatives ... astounding...
 terrific ... stupendous,
and crawled down the sheets through the smaller type
in wild orgies of euphuism.
 Woe betide the adver-
tising writer who ran short of superlatives or euphuisms
with which to proclaim the magnificence of Kronen’s
Limited.
 In the year before the crisis began the turn-
over of Kronen’s Limited was little over a million, and
the advertising expenditure twenty-two thousand
pounds. But then old James Kronen had been in con-
trol. Last year the turnover was less than six hundred
thousand and the advertising had cost thirty thousand.
No outsiders knew the turnover was down.
 People
pointed to Kronen’s Limited as a rock against which
the seas of depression beat vainly.
 When the run on
the State Savings Bank began and the whole city was
whispering that the bank would close its doors, an old
woman withdrew her life’s savings from the head office
of the bank and within the hour re-deposited it at the
branch at Kronen’s Limited.
 The state bank might
fail,
 the
 Treasury
 itself
 might
 be
 engulfed,
 but
 the
UPSURGE
 10great retail firm whose
 fame was blazoned forth in
great black type from every news-sheet in the land,
Kronen’s Limited, would stand.
The
 advertising appropriation was greater still this
year.
 And it was pulling.
 Customers were swarming
in the wide aisles. . . . With a smile of self-satisfaction
on his lips, Paul Kronen gazed out from his office on
- the gallery over
 the odd
 acre of counters within his
field of vision.
 He was
 Kronen’s Limited.
 It was
his fame the advertisements trumpeted.
 The swarming
customers and the little black-clad girls behind the
counters made obeisance to him; the young Napoleon
of commerce !
He might have to put off some girls at the end of
the week.
 The money the firm would save in wages
would help to offset the increased advertising expendi-
ture. One had to look after the pennies!
 The rest of
the staff would manage all right. It would be girls
who had to go, of course.
 There weren't any more
men employed now than were strictly necessary ; men
had to be paid higher wages than girls. The rest of
the girls would have less time for polishing their nails
and giggling.
 It would do them good.
 They worked
better when they had to work hard.
 It kept their
minds on their jobs.
This talk of a strike—piffe!..wind!
 There
would have been a strike after the last wage-cut if
there was going to be one.
It was rather remarkable, when he came to think
of it, how little trouble there had been over the several
cuts that had been made under the Financial Emer-
gency Act.
 Unemployment had taken the fight out
of the unions.
 Union secretaries weren’t cheeky any
longer ; they didn’t stalk into employers’ offices with
their hats on these days, and they didn’t have to be
10 UPSURGE
bribed
 to
 avoid
 trouble.
 Anyway,
 the
 only
 union
secretary
 with
 whom
 he,
 Kronen,
 was
 concerned,
 the
secretary of the Department Store Employees’ Union,
Jim Creighton—Creighton knew where he _ stood.
Still, the crisis had come at the nght time if you looked
at it from that angle... .
The little black-clad girls scurried to and fro between
the counters and Paul Kronen smiled in his office on
the gallery.
The night before he had been re-elected to the
presidency of the Dramatic
 Society despite the
machinations of his enemy, Ringer—Herbert Ringer,
the estate-agent, who had begun life as a grease-boy
in a garage, and now wore spats and played the gentle-
man.
 Ringer had accused him of using the Dramatic
Society for his own ends, accused him of staging plays
which required elaborate dressing and settings so that
Kronen’s Limited could dispose of some of their
surplus stocks. As if the petty business of the Dramatic
Society mattered twopence to Kronen’s Limited!
Ringer had come to the general meeting armed with
statements setting forth amounts and details of the
society’s
 purchases
 from
 Kronen’s
 Limited,
 and
 had
read them out in his pseudo-cultured voice, item by
item, price by price.
 The prices charged were cut
rates, were they not ?—made available to the society
in a spirit of disinterested generosity by the president,
Mr. Kronen ?
 That was the case, wasit not ? Kronen,
from his seat by the chairman, nodded curtly.
 Then
Ringer produced other sheets and began to read
quotations from one of Kronen’s Limited’s com-
petitors for similar quantities of similar goods, the
prices of which were all ten per cent to forty per cent
lower than those charged by Kronen’s Limited.
 Could
the president explain that?
UPSURGE
 10Certainly the president could explain!
 Paul Kronen
rose to his feet. His eyes swept the assembly with
 a
flashing, contemptuo
us
 glance
 and
 he
 spoke
 on
 a
 note
of controlled indignation and passion.
 It went against
the grain, he said,
 to
 remind
 the
 societ
y of the time
and energy and
 enthu
siasm
 he
 had
 put
 into his work
as president, but in face of the contemptible
 and
malicious attack
 which
 had
 been
 made
 upon
 him
 that
evening it had become necessary.
 Furthermore, it
was necessary to make himself intelligible to Mr. Ringer
who could not be expected to understand the usages
of polite society... .
 |
He chuckled now as he thought of it. The cur,
Ringer,
 had
 gone
 red, then white!
 So much
 for the
grease-boy who aped the gentleman!
 The meeting
would
 have
 been
 carrie
d
 away
 even
 if
 it
 had
 not been
stacke
d
 with
 his
 friend
s
 in
 antici
pation
 of
 Ringer's
attack.
 . . Yes, he had overplayed his hand, had
Ringer ; and it was Ringer, not he, Paul Kronen, who
had left with his tail between his legs !
The managing director of Kronen’s Limited took a
cigarette from the brass box on his desk, lit it with a
jewelled lighter and inhaled luxuriously.
Fanchon Follower was beginning to worry him a
little. She was becoming possessive in her attitude,
jealous. That was the worst of women in love with
one; they became as observant as the devil, their
senses all keyed up!
 The unobtrusive attentions he
had been paying Cynthia Groom had escaped her
husband,
 but
 Fanchon
 had
 noticed,
 the jealous
 little
bitch!
 She seemed to imagine that she had estab-
lished some sort of claim upon him by sleeping with
him!
 He would have to take care that she did not
manceuvre him into an ambiguous position ; Fanchon
was far from being simple.
 She was dangerous, that
10 UPSURGE
girl; he ought to drop her.
 It was not as if he had
seduced her; she’d lost her virginity before she left
her
 convent,
 the
 little
 wanton!
 Yes,
 he
 ought
 to
drop her, but . . . something impelling exuded from
her slim, boy-girl’s body, something that laid an
aphrodisiacal spell upon him.
 He didn’t want to drop
her—not yet, at all events.
 But he wanted Cynthia.
. . . Cynthia was sweet!
 Groom had noticed nothing.
Anyway, Groom deserved it, playing round with other
women the way he did !—neglecting a nice little wife
like Cynthia!
 Mentally he conned over the arrange-
ments he had made for Cynthia’s entertainment that
night.
 He’d make her promise to tell her husband
nothing, make her see that the best way to play Groom
was to get home in the early hours and say nothing,
let him come to his own conclusions.
 Fanchon...
A tap sounded on the office door.
“Come in!’ cried Kronen.
His pretty secretary entered and said: ‘‘There’s a
Mr. Groom waiting to see you, Mr. Kronen.”
Groom ! The managing director of Kronen’s Limited
was assailed by a premonition of evil! What did
Groom want with him?
 Was it possible that he had
misjudged Groom’s temper?
 Did Groom know about
his arrangements for to-night ? Why was he here if
he did not know ?
“Show him in,”’ he said, licking his lips.
Groom came in grinning in a sly way that intensified
Kronen’s suspicions.
 He said:
“What are you doing to-night, Paul?
 I want some-
body to make up a foursome.
 If you’ve got anything
else on you'd better put it off and come along. They're
a couple of peaches.”
Kronen’s suspicions hardened into certainty. Groom
knew that he had arranged to take Cynthia out!
 She
UPSURGE
 10must have told him!
 The swine was making this
proposal to him by way of offering him a graceful way
out!
 He forced a smile to his lips.
“O.K., Peter.
 You can count me in.”’
When Groom had
 gone he sat
 behind his desk
scowling.
 Customers
 swarmed in
 the wide aisles
below,
 and
 the
 little
 black-clad
 girls
 scurried
 hither
and thither, but he had no eyes for them.
 By and
by he took up
 the
 teleph
one
 and
 called
 Cynthi
a.
“That arran
gemen
t
 of
 ours
 for
 to-nig
ht
 is off,
Cynthi
a.”’
“Off >?” she said.
 “Why?”
“I’m sorry.
 Some
 important business has cropped
a
 aHe banged down the receiver.
Presently his pretty secretary came in to remind
him that he was to attend a luncheon of the Rotary
Club
 at one
 o’clock.
 He
 contemplated
 the
 prospect
glumly : the meaningless clap-trap of “‘service” bored
him to tears.
 It was useful and necessary as propa-
ganda,
 of course;
 but
 it shouldn’t
 be necessary.
 It
wouldn't be necessary if it wasn’t for the flood of
damned subversive literature which came into the
country unchecked, and the pusillanimous attitude of
the government towards the Communists and the rest
of the militant rabble!
 In New South Wales the big
business interests were subsidizing a man who had
organized an Australian fascisti under the name of the
New Guard.
 It was time something of the sort was
done in Western Australia.
 Then they could do
without Rotary Clubs...
 .
He looked at the thin gold watch on his plump
wrist ! five minutes
 to one.
 Scowling,
 he put on his
hat and went out to the Rotary Club luncheon.
10 UPSURGE
Groom brought the car to a halt outside the house
in which Theodora lived.
“You'd
 better
 wait,’
 he
 said
 to Kronen.
 “Till
 Zup and fetch ’em.”
He ran upstairs and knocked on Theodora’s door.
In a moment she opened it to him, smiling faintly.
He squeezed her arm by way of greeting, then looked
for her companion. A pretty fair girl with a powder-
puff in her hand gazed at him from before the dressing-
table.
“This
 is Ethel
 Rumble,”
 said
 Theodora.
Groom smiled at the girl. “‘Your playmate for the
evening’s waiting for us down in the car,” he said.
“Are you ready ?”’
“Where are we going ?”’ she asked.
He waved his arm.
 “Anywhere.
 Anywhere you
like. Anywhere the wine runs !”
In a sprightly way the girl said to Theodora : “Can
we trust them ?”’
Theodora shook her head.
The fair girl wiped the puff quickly over her face,
smiled brightly at Groom, and said she was ready.
They went downstairs and across the footpath to the
car. Groom looked about and failed to see Kronen.
‘Where are you, Paul?” he called.
““Here,’’ answered
 Kronen
 from the darkness
 of the
rear seat beneath the hood of the car.
The young idler effected introductions.
The girl, Ethel Rumble, gasped in a fish-like way,
exclaiming: “Oh! Oh!’
 Theodora said nothing.
“How do you do ?” said Kronen.
Ethel Rumble suddenly overcame her embarrass-
ment and gushed over.
UPSURGE
 10g
“Oh,
 how
 do
 you
 do,
 Mr.
 Kronen!
 How
 do
 you
ttconen
 was
 wondering
 where
 he
 had
 seen
 these
girls
 before.
 The
 faces
 of
 both
 of
 them
 seemed
familiar,
 but
 he
 could
 not
 place
 them.
 They
 were
pretty enough: peaches, indeed, as Groom
 had
 said.
But where had he seen them before ?
“Come
 on in,” he said pleasantly to
 the
 girl,
Ethel.
As she obeyed him Groom resumed his place behind
the
 wheel
 of the
 car.
 Theodora
 got
 in beside
 him,
and they drove off.
‘What did Peter say your name was?” Kronen
asked his companion.
“Ethel Rumble,” she answered happily.
“Ethel Rumble?
 Ethel Rumble?
 What’s your
friend’s name ?”’
“Theodora Luddon.”
Kronen shook his head; the names meant nothing
to him.
 There were nearly a thousand names on the
pay-roll of Kronen’s Limited.
 He slipped his arm
round Ethel Rumble’s waist, and drew her closer to
him.
“Well, let’s get together, kiddie.”’
“Oh, Mr. Kronen!”
 she said coyly.
‘“‘Paul,’”’ he corrected her.
“Oh! ... Shall I call you Paul ?”
“But why not ?”’ he demanded in astonishment.
‘Paul,
 then,’’ she said.
“That’s right!
 We're going to be pals, aren't
we?”
 With his free hand he tilted up her chin.
“Pals ?”
She nodded, smiling.
“Then pucker up your lips, sweetness !”’
Her lips were warm and soft.
IIo
 UPSURGE
'
After a while he slipped his hand in at the neck of
her frock and began to fondle her breasts.
 She did
not object.
 Groom was driving with one hand, with
the other wrapped round Theodora.
Crossing the river by the long causeway, they drove
through
 the southern
 suburbs,
 emerging
 upon
 a road
that ran like a broad black ribbon through spaces of
bushland.
 Blackboys, gum-saplings, banksias, and
tall eucalypts loomed strangely distorted in the glare
of the headlights.
 The black ribbon of the road rolled
up beneath
 the wheels ; white-painted posts, marking
bends and culverts, flickered past eerily.
“Where are we going ?”’ asked Kronen.
“Rockingham.”’
Aiter a drive of an hour and a half they arrived at
the Rockingham Hotel.
 For an hour they sat round
a table in the lounge, drinking sparkling burgundy and
becoming merry.
 Kronen had forgotten that he had
intended this evening for the seduction of his friend’s
wife, and that he owed his friend a grudge.
 He jumped
up suddenly, crying :
“Come on!
 I’m tired of this place.
 Let’s take
some bottles and go down on the beach.”’
They piled into the car again and drove back along
the road towards Perth.
 Soon they came to the place
where the hulk of the Kwinana loomed above the
sand-dunes, in the light of the moon.
Groom laughed a little drunkenly and stopped the
car.
“The old Kwinana |”
Kronen was whispering to Ethel Rumble, whose
arms were wound tightly round his neck.
“Let’s go down on the beach,” said Groom to
Theodora.
With a laugh she got out of the car, and arm in
UPSURGE
 TIr
arm they wandered down to the sands
 above
 which
the bulk of the old iron vessel towere
d.
In the light of the moon, flakes of rust upon the
plates, seen near at hand, were grey and luminous.
The shadow of the wreck was spread upon the calm
water, black streaked with silver.
 Groom paused,
gazing
 up
 at
 the
 old
 Kwinana,
 and
 laughed
 again.
Theodora asked him why he laughed.
 He said:
“Nothing!
 Just thinking of a time I made a fool
of myself.
 I
 thought
 I’d turn that old wreck into a
cabaret.”
 .
After a moment the girl replied:
 “Why, that was
a good idea !”’
“Noo it wasn’t.
 It cost me a thousand pounds.
 If
it had been any other time, perhaps... . But not
with this depression. ...”
She was curious; she made him tell her the whole
of his vision of a pirate cabaret.
 When he had finished
she repeated :
“You shouldn’t have given it up.
 It was a good
idea.”
“T didn’t bring you down here to talk about the
Kwinana,’
 he
 informed
 her.
He drew her to a spot where a sand-hummock cast
a shadow and pulled her down beside him on the sand.
Her low, contralto laugh made him feel self-conscious,
and he bent kisses on her to stifle it, demanding
whether
 she loved
 him.
 She
 would
 not
 answer
 him,
and he forced her back on the sand and began to kiss
her with passion.
 She laughed and sighed and sub-
mitted.
 Even if she had not wanted to she would
have had to submit, she thought.
In the car Paul Kronen released the straps that
held the squab of the front seat in position and lowered
the squab back till it touched the rear seat and formed a
II UPSURGE
couch.
 As she allowed herself to be drawn back on
the improvized couch, Ethel Rumble whispered :
“I’m
 afraid.
 They
 might
 come
 back,
 and
 what’ll
they think ?”
“They won’t come back.
 What do you think
they’ve gone down on the beach for °?”’
She made the protestations and struggle that the
conventions demanded of her.
Afterwards, as they lay quietly together, he began
to question her, for the familiarity of her face still
tantalized him.
 He said that he was sure he had met
her somewhere before.
 Where was it ?
She asked with a giggle: “Don’t you know ?”
“T can’t think, but I know your face as well as.
 .
And your friend’s, too. Where was it ?”’
In an intuitive way the girl felt that he would not
be pleased to learn just now that she was an assistant
at Kronen’s Limited.
 She giggled again and said:
‘Perhaps you’ve just seen me somewhere.”
“Just
 seen you
 and
 wanted
 to know
 you,
 eh ?” he
queried thoughtfully.
 “Well, that’s not impossible.”
“Anyway, you know me now,’ she said in a low
voice.
 ““You know me as well as a man can know a
girl !”’
Sentimental bitch! he thought.
 But she slipped
her hand inside his shirt and stirred a new ardour in
him, and he forgot that he disliked that kind of senti-
ment.
With passionless kisses they dropped
 the two girls
at their respective doors, and Kronen climbed into the
front seat of the car with Groom.
“Well ?’?
 inquired
 the
 latter
 as
 they
 moved
 off
again.
UPSURGE
 11“Well 2”? rejoined Kronen.
“How
 did you get on >”
“O.K.
 But I’ve met those girls somewhere before
 |’?
Groom chuckled.
 “I shouldn't be surprised if you
had. They
 work
 in
 your
 shop !”
One
 of the
 things
 most
 dear
 to
 Paul
 Kronen
 was
his
 personal
 prestige
 within
 the
 great
 business
 of
which
 he was
 the head.
 He
 stood
 above
 and
 apart.
He
 held
 himself
 aloof
 even
 from
 his
 most
 trusted
lieutenants.
 He
 identified his aloofness
 with
 his
power to command.
 To learn now that he had
unwittingly embarked upon a casual love affair with
an employee of so little consequence that he had failed
to recognize her, filled him not only with anger, but
with mortification too deep for utterance.
 For a
moment his mind refused to accept Groom’s state-
ment: then he was overwhelmed by cold rage.
 His
voice vibrant
 with
 his effort at control,
 he said:
“Stop the car !”
“What for ?” inquired Groom in surprise.
“T’m getting out.”
“But I’m driving you home!’ his companion pro-
tested.
“T’ll walk, thanks.
 Stop the car!”
“But ... Lord, man, what’s come over you ?”’
Kronen leaned forward and switched off the engine,
and in astonishment Groom swung the vehicle in to
the kerb.
“Now, what in hell? .. .” he began.
Kronen got out of the car.
 “Maybe this seems a
joke to you,” he said grimly,
 “but it isn’t tome.
 Get
that straight, Peter; it isn’t to me.
 If it had been
anyone but you who did this to me I’d have punched
him on the bloody nose.
 And now I’m going before
I slug you !”
H
11 UPSURGE
  id
 =
He stalked away.
Groom gazed after him from the stationary car, and
his astonishment changed to anger.
 The humour of
the situation had gone.
 How the devil could he have
known
 the fellow would
 take it like that?
 Well,
 be
damned to him!
 He set his foot down viciously on
the starter-switch.
 Eaten up by his blasted vanity,
damn him!
 He let in the clutch with a jerk and the
rear wheels squealed and spun on the bitumen.
So he drove home.
There were lights in the flat as he drove past to the
garage and he went inside to discover Cynthia sitting
in the living-room reading a magazine.
He said: “Hullo!
 I thought you were going to
be out till late.”
“T didn’t go out,” she said in a flat voice.
 ‘Where
have you been ?”’
“You told me this morning you were going out,” he
retorted defensively.
 “And you said you wouldn't
be back till late.
 I’ve been out with Paul Kronen.”
Cynthia whispered: “With Paul Kronen °”
“Yes,” answered Groom; then, noting something
queer in her expression, demanded:
 “Is there any-
thing strange about that?
 What are you looking so
queer about?
 What the devil’s the matter with
everybody to-night, anyway?
 Paul Kronen behaves
like a lunatic, and you look as if you’ve seen a ghost
when I tell you I’ve been out with him!
 What’s the
matter with you ?”’
“You’ve been out with Paul Kronen!” she whis-
pered again.
So Kronen had not had business, she was telling
herself.
 He had put her off to go out with Peter—
and with some
 other woman!
 Yes,
 some
 other
woman!
 Ah, this was the last, the
 culminating
UPSURGE
 11!
insult!
 It magnified her husband’s offence a hundred-
fold.
 She was outraged.
 Men .. . beasts! .
beasts! ... with their lusts!
 Oh!...
“I suppose you don’t believe me?” said Groom
resentfully.
 “I’m damn’ well fed up with trying to
make you believe things ! If you want the whole of
it, I’ve been out with Paul Kronen and a couple of
girls! Now, whether you believe it or not your bloody
jealousy’ll have
 something
 to feed on !”’
Cynthia said dully : “Oh, I believe you.
 It’s about
the first time
 I’ve been able to believe you.”
She stared at him in a hard, unwinking way for a
moment, then dropped her eyes and a dry sob escaped
her. Groom grunted angrily.
“Vou're going tocry,eh?
 Well, cry and be damned
to you!
 You always did turn on the tears before you
were through !”’
 |
“I’m not going to cry,” she returned, raising her
head.
 Her eyes were dry.
 She stood up, and the
magazine dropped from her lap to the floor.
 “This
is the end,
 Peter,”
 she said
 quietly.
 “I’ve
 stood
 all
I can stand of this. I’m going to leave you.”
He laughed derisively.
 ‘Let me see ?—will this be
the fourth or the fifth time you’ve left me ?”’
“T mean it.”
“You always mean it!”
“Can I take the car ?”’
“No, you can't!”
He felt in his pocket to make sure he had taken the
ignition key from the car. He hadn’t; it wasnot in
his pocket.
 He hurried out to the garage to get it.
Once before, when Cynthia had left him, she had taken
the car. The memory of the inconvenience he had
suffered still lingered with him.
 He had been without
the car for three days.
11 UPSURGE
When
 he returned
 to the flat she was in their bed-
room, packing suit-cases on her bed.
He was less angry now.
 He said:
“Oh, Lord, Cynthia, what’s the use of playing the
fool °”’
She retorted: “I’m going, Peter.
 I’ve rung up for
a taxi since you won't let me take the car.”
He swallowed the last of his anger and made a con-
ciliatory gesture: “Don’t be silly, Cynthia.
 Listen,
darling...”
“Don’t darling me!
 Don’t you dare darling me!”
Her reply made his anger flare up again.
“All right, damn you!’ he answered.
 “Play the
fool if you want to. You'll be back inside a week,
and in the meantime I'll have a holiday from your
tantrums !’’
He got undressed angrily, flinging his clothes into
the open wardrobe.
 When he had donned his pyjamas
he got into bed and watched Cynthia complete her
packing.
 There was a ring at the front door, and she
took her cases and went out without a backward
glance.
 Groom heard her speaking to the taxi-driver
at the door, and then the sound of the taxi moving off.
Well, that was that! he thought.
 Once more!...
‘Thank Heaven !”’ he exclaimed.
He reached up and gave an angry tug to the cord
which switched off the light.
CHAPTER
 ELEVEN
I
URING
 the
 middle
 decades
 of
 the
 nineteenth
D
 century England
 was
 convulsed by a
 series of
over-production crises.
 From time to time the stores
of the wealth in the land became so great that they
could
 not
 be
 consumed.
 Handicapped
 by
 their
inability to eat more than one meal, wear more than
one costume, or sleep in more than one bed at a time,
the rich could make little impression on the abundance,
and the poor were debarred by their poverty.
 Even
the Army, ushering the British peace
 into
 a
 dozen
savage lands, could not open up new markets as fast
as the workers of England could produce wealth with
which to glut them.
 The captains of industry were
compelled to close down their factories lest the
accumulating stores of wealth burst the walls of the
warehouses and spill out into the streets.
 Hundreds
of thousands were thrown out of work.
Soon starvation was rife in the land, and agitators
and revolutionaries were inciting the workers to
revolt.
 Through
 thestarving
 multitudes
 the doctrine
of Socialism spread like a plague.
 Sabotage and
rioting began.
 Food shops were raided.
 Not even the
rabbits running on the estates of the rich, though they
were guarded with man-traps and spring-guns, were
safe from the depredations of the poor.
In the cities the starving hordes gathered about the
houses of the rich like packs of wolves, and captains
of industry trembled in their beds for fear of the angry
11Ir UPSURGE
workers.
 The forces of the State worked day and
night suppressing the riots; and to make room in its
prisons, the British government began again to send
convicts overseas.
 From the year 1850 to the year
1868 it poured convicts into the Swan Settlement in
Western
 Australia,
 and
 followed
 the
 convict
 ships
with cargoes of unemployed women and girls to breed
with the convicts and populate the vast empty spaces
of the new land, and thus provide another market for
the products of British industry.
James Kronen, the founder of the firm of Kronen’s
Limited,
 was
 the
 son
 of a convict
 and
 one
 of these
half-starved
 immigrant
 girls.
 Before
 he was
 out of
his
 childhood,
 his
 father,
 whose
 health,
 like
 that
 of
most convicts, was broken by the rigours of imprison-
ment, contracted pneumonia from a chill and died,
and his mother lived only long enough to see him
placed, at the age of twelve, in apprenticeship to a
merchant in the town of Perth.
The lad early revealed a flair for business.
 Before
he was out of his ’teens he had resolved
 his
 experience
into two principles.
 The first of these was that the
interests of employer and employee are always opposed,
and the second that no man achieves commercial
success save at the expense of his fellows.
 He there-
after seemed to serve his employer’s
 interests
 while in
reality serving his own, and
 since
 he
 was
 sharper
 than
his employer, in the course
 of
 a
 few
 years
 he
 succeeded
in gathering together sufficient capital to start in busi-
ness on his own account.
The discovery of gold in the interior of the state
assisted him.
 He opened a store on the goldfields,
and by dint of selling goods at four and five and six
hundred per cent profit, and by carrying on a furtive
side-business in illicit gold-buying, he soon turned his
UPSURGE
 IIQ
hundreds into thousands.
 When the activity on the
goldfields began
 to
 slacken
 he returned to Perth, and
in a new
 brick
 shop
 in
 the
 young city, founded the
House
 of
 Kronen.
The
 business
 grew
 with
 the
 city.
 When
 he
 was
thirty-one, James Kronen was worth
 fifty thousand
ounds and was able to acquire the
 daughter of a
proud squatting family as a wife.
 Over a period of
ten years his wife bore him two sons and two daughte
rs,
of whom
 the
 eldest
 was
 Paul;
 and
 over
 the
 same
period he became vastly richer.
 Realizing the com-
mercial advant
ages
 of
 civic
 respons
ibility
 and religious
conformity,
 he
 became
 a
 city
 council
lor
 and a pillar
of the
 church.
 But
 he
 never
 attempted
 to
 deceive
himself as so many of his confréres did, and this became
the source of a certain perverse pride in him.
 With
the acquisi
tion
 of
 wealth
 he
 had
 acquire
d
 suavity
 and
aplomb,
 and
 at
 Chamber
 of
 Commerce
 dinners
 and
similar functions he was wont to voice the sentiments
of business, patriotism, and Empire with a suave irony
that revealed their emptiness.
 He took pleasure in
the discom
fortur
e
 of
 his
 audienc
e,
 chuckling inwardly
at their
 furtive
 glances
 at
 the
 newspa
per reporters
who scribbl
ed
 gleefull
y.
 The
 newspa
pers,
 he knew
well enough,
 would
 serve
 up
 the
 sentiments
 without
the irony... .
When he was sixty he had amassed more than a
million pounds.
 This was invested in land, city
property, industrial stocks, bank shares, and govern-
ment bonds.
 His ambition was satisfied.
 He felt
that he had earned a rest from strife and a right at
last to the pleasures he had abjured during his struggle
to power.
 He turned the management of the great
department store over to his son Paul, who had entered
the business when he was eighteen and had since
I2 UPSURGE
longed
 to control
 it, and
 proceeded
 to live
 what
 he
regarded as a rational life.
He
 took
 a mistress,
 installed
 her
 in
 a flat in
 the
city, and visited her openly.
 He refused to accompany
his wife and daughters
 to
 church
 any longer, declaring
blandly
 that
 since
 he
 had
 retired
 he
 had
 no
 further
interests that could be served by Christianity.
 The
suave perversity
 that
 had
 previously
 led
 him
 to
 dis-
comfort his confréres
 at
 Chamber
 of
 Commerce
 dinners
now prompted him to remember that he was the son
of a convict.
 Many
 of the convicts were transported
for poaching rabbits; James Kronen therefore pro-
posed that the House of Kronen should adopt as a
coat-of-arms a rabbit morte on a field of broad-arrows.
In this he was guilty of plagiary ; such a device had
been proposed for half the great commercial families
of Australia.
 But his family was none the less out-
raged.
In these and other ways James Kronen asserted the
ego that he had for so long suppressed in the interests
of riches
 and
 power.
 When,
 within
 a month
 or two
of the time he relinquished control of the business he
had built up to his son, the depression fell upon the
land, he paid no heed to it.
 If his securities dwindled
in value it did not matter;
 he still had more than he
could conceivably spend in the years that were left to
him.
 Ifthe crisis, coupled with his son’s incompetence,
brought Kronen’s Limited down in ruins, still it did
not
 matter.
 Unlike
 so
 many
 business
 men,
 he
 was
not sentimental.
 He had no affection for his business.
It had never
 been
 more to him that a means to an
end, and he
 had
 already
 achieved his end.
Nevertheless
 he
 watched
 the effect of his son’s
management
 with interest, and if he had been a
 lesser
man
 he
 would
 have
 known
 qualms.
 In
 the
 years
UPSURGE
 I2I
during which his son had had control the business of
Kronen’s
 Limited
 had
 fallen off by nearly
 fifty per
cent.
 The crisis which had the whole world in its
grip accounted for much of that, but not all. In the
ast Kronen’s Limited had made as much as a hundred
and twenty thousand pounds profit in a year;
 the
profits now were negligible.
 Next year, unless James
Kronen
 was mistaken,
 there would
 be a loss.
 There
was too much stock, and too much money was being
spent on advertising.
 James Kronen had never per-
mitted more than three per cent of turnover to be
spent on advertising ; Paul was spending five and six
per cent, spending more as the volume of business
declined.
 No business could stand that for long.
Nor
 would
 the banks
 if they
 knew
 it!
 A call for a
reduction in the overdraft of the firm would be made
before long, James Kronen thought.
 Then Paul would
have to show what he was made of.
 The banks had
millions in idle money on their hands;
 one-third of
the workers of the country were idle, and, as a direct
consequence,
 one-third
 of
 the
 normal
 avenues
 of
investment were closed; but idle funds or no idle
funds, no bank would continue to finance a business
after it was clear that that business was buying its
trade.
But James Kronen could smile contentedly, reflecting
that
 it was
 none
 of his business,
 and
 wander
 off to
the river foreshore where his four hundred ton Deisel
yacht was building.
From the days when, as an apprentice lad, he had
watched the clipper ships sail into Fremantle harbour,
he had always wanted a yacht.
 When the vessel was
finished he proposed to take a few cronies and a cargo
of young girls and set off on a prolonged cruise of the
East Indies and the China Seas. Or, if the need
I2 UPSURGE
 )
arose, he thought secretly, one might take refuge from
a revolution
 on a yacht....
Paul Kronen sat in his glass-walled office on the
gallery overlooking the ground-floor counters and
watched the customers swarming in the wide aisles
and the little black-clad girls scurrying to and fro with-
out his usual satisfaction in the sight.
 The humiliation
of his excursion with Peter Groom on the previous
night ate into his vanity like a wound.
 Some day, he
told himself, he would get even with Groom.
 In the
meantime...
On the desk before him was a list of names:
employees selected by the various departmental
managers for dismissal.
 Each month such a list was
presented to him.
 The malcontents and inefficient
workers were weeded out and replaced by others.
This month the list contained twenty-nine names.
Kronen glanced over them, then took up a pen and
added two more: Ethel Rumble and Theodora Luddon
. and scrawled his bold signature underneath.
At the end of the week all those whose names were
on the list would find notices of dismissal in their pay
envelopes ; until then they would go in ignorance.
It was part of the policy of Kronen’s Limited to keep
them in ignorance as long as possible.
 Employees
under notice did not work well, but a law required that
notice be given.
 Kronen ground his teeth.
 For a
week,
 owing
 to
 that
 pusillanimous
 law,
 thirty-one
employees would be impudent and careless, waiting
upon customers with condescension and impatience,
telling them that certain goods were not worth the
UPSURGE
 12prices
 asked,
 undermining
 generally
 the goodwill
 of
the firm...
 -
But
 the
 greater
 part of Kronen’s anger was due
 to
a sense of
 impoten
ce
 that was like a knife turned
 in
his
 wounded
 vanity;
 he
 was
 unable
 to
 find
 any
plausible
 excuse
 for
 summarily
 dismissing
 two
 girls
who had seen him with the
 authority and
 dignity of
the employer laid aside.
|
CHAPTER
 TWELVE
HEN
 for
 the second time within a month
Theodora
 returned to her room to find her
door unlocked, she thought to find the magistrate,
James Riddle, ensconced within. She had not expected
Riddle till about eight o’clock, but she had given him
a key and thought he might have come early and let
himself in with the intention of surprising her. Smiling,
she flung open the door.
 But it was not the magistrate
but
 the
 Communist,
 Steven
 Riley,
 whom
 she
 saw
waiting for her.
 He was seated in her armchair facing
the door with a book in his hand, and his appearance
made her cry out in distress.
 Never fleshy, he had
become thin.
 His clothes hung upon him as though
made for a larger man.
 Beneath his prison-cropped
blond hair his face was worn and his fierce eyes were
dull and tired.
 He did not rise but his thin lips
twitched into a smile.
“Steven !’” she cried.
 “When did they let you
out ?”
“Yesterday.”
“L didn’t know.
 Oh!
 You look terrible!
 Was it
very bad ?”
“They don’t intend it to be a pleasure,’ Riley
answered grimly.
 “‘The food’s not exactly plentiful
for short-term prisoners, and the bugs . . . they come
out at night, Theo, as soon as the lights are out.
Thousands of them, millions of them. . . . They come
out of every crack and cranny in the walls, and they
crawl over you and suck your blood.
 You kill them,
you kill them in hundreds, but that doesn’t make any
I2|
 UPSURGE
 12difference; there are always more
 of them.
 Your
cell is filled with the stench of them.
 By and by you
t
 tired of killing them
 and just brush them
 off, °
 but
*
 no
 matter
 what
 you
 do
 they
 keep
 on
 sucking
 at
"T heodora listened to him with lips parted in horror,
and into the room there seemed to creep the sickly,
filthy stench of bugs ! Riley broke off, grinning in a
twisted
 way.
Ef How horrible !’’ Theodora whispered.
 ‘“‘How hor-
rible !”"
 .
 .
“Tt
 wasn’t
 pleasant,”
 said
 Riley,
 “but
 it
 hasn’t
killed me.
 I can stand
 it—and
 that’s just as well,
because
 I'll get a longer stretch next time !”
For an instant his eyes flashed as they were used to
flash.
 Theodora felt her own eves fill with tears, as
pity for him, and a deep resentment against those who
had sent him to prison, against James Riddle, welled
up in her. Then, as she remembered that the magis-
trate himself was coming to see her that evening, came
an inclination to weep. She turned away that Riley
might not see the moisture in her eyes, and crossed the
room to her bed, throwing down her handbag and
hat.
Riley stood up.
 “I suppose you haven't had any-
thing to eat yet?”
She shook her head.
“Come on out with me, then.”
“All right,’’ she answered, still
 with
 her
 back
 to
him.
 ‘I'll change my frock first.
 Sit...
 sit down
till I’m ready,. Steve.”
He dropped back into the armchair wearily. Though
he had been released from prison only the previous
day, he was already back at his work gathering up the
threads that had passed into other hands at his arrest.
strength.
 I2 He was tired.
 He would His UPSURGE
 imprisonment have to regain had it sapped as best his
 he
 al
 ,
 was was still content on her to pick companion, at UPSURGE
 it. and But he theate hunger wolfishly.
 of prison
 His
 12could, he told himself. Recently a number of workers’
 tiredness
 abated
 a
 little
 as
 he
 filled
 his
 belly,
 and
 at
study classes had been formed, and to-night he was
 length he leaned back in his chair and grinned at
required to take one of these.
 It did not matter that
Theodora.
his weakened body ached with fatigue.
 Sometimes,
 “Not hungry ?”’
when the burden of the Party work lay too heavily
 She made a grimace that he understood.
upon him, he would regret that he had ever joined
 “Don’t like the taste of it, or the atmosphere, eh?
the Party, doubt the value of its work. Despite the
 Over ninety per cent of mankind have to feed like
crisis and the increasing pressure upon the proletariat,
 this, and most of them have never known
 anything
their emancipation loomed as a task so colossal that
 better. The expropriated!
 I belong to the expro-
all that had been done in the past seemed insignificant,
 priated class and so do you.
 I brought you here in
His work, the work of the Party itself, dwindled into
 case you should forget it.”
insignificance, into futility, beside the overwhelming
 Theodora lowered her eyes and replied in a low
forces of oppression.
 Marx became a dreamer, Lenin
 voice:
 ‘‘Since I’ve been working at Kronen’s I haven’t
a myth, the U.S.S.R. a fabled land.
 “A Communist
 forgotten it.”
must hate,” he would tell himself.
 “Only hate can
 “Becoming class-conscious,
 eh ?”
sustain him !’’ But in these moments the fires of his
 The
 waitress
 came
 and
 set before
 each
 of them
 a
hate burned low beneath the ashes of exhaustion.
 portion of sodden suet pudding.
 Riley fell to eating
The vast human pageant of pain was obscured by the
 again. When he had finished they separated, Riley
grey ashes, the groans of a world in labour muted by
 going to the Communist headquarters to prepare for
the choking dust... .
 his study-class, and Theodora back to her room.
Theodora said she was ready.
 When the magistrate arrived he found an intangible
They went to a little eating-house which smelled
 barrier erected against him, which, strive as he would,
stalely of grease and cabbage-water.
 Many of the
 he could not break down.
 Not daring to make love
tables were occupied by unemployed, for the place
 to her he left early, puzzled and a little perturbed.
accepted relief tickets in payment.
 Theodora and the
Communist found places at a table just vacated.
 The
table was littered with
 dirty plates,
 cups,
 knives
 and
forks, and scraps of food.
 On the week-old cloth were
stains of tea and liquid condiments.
 A tired-looking
waitress came and thrust a grubby menu-card into
Theodora’s hand, and began clearing away the litter
while the girl scanned it.
Theodora lost appetite.
 When the food arrived she
CHAPTER
 THIRTEEN
URING
 the period she had worked as secretary
to
 the
 Brazilian
 consul,
 Theodora
 had
 saved
money.
 Naturally thrifty, her tastes were simple,
and each week there had been a surplus.
 When she
lost her post at the consulate she had what was for
her a considerable sum to her credit at the Savings
Bank: some forty pounds. Since then the sum had
dwindled.
 Her room, for which she paid a pound a
week and which had been well within her resources
while she worked at the Consulate, was too expensive
for her on wages of two pounds and sevenpence a week
at Kronen’s Limited.
 The sum would not suffice to
pay the rent of her room and feed and clothe her with
any comfort, and each week she was compelled to draw
a little from the bank.
She had often thought of getting cheaper lodgings ;
but she liked her room; it was shabby but spacious
and comfortable, and she was loath to leave it.
 When
the time came, she thought, she might be able to
persuade the landlady to reduce the rent a little.
That she might lose her job at Kronen’s Limited
had never occurred to her.
 More often than not her
sales topped the departmental list. The manager of the
department regarded her with approval ; never by so
much as a frown had he intimated that her work was
unsatisfactory ; and she had suffered only one fine
in the period she had worked in the shop.
Why then? ... She gazed at the notice of dis-
missal in bewilderment and dismay.
 Every month,
she knew, a few girls received such notices.
 Their
12:
 UPSURGE
 12names were sent
 into the office
 by the departmental
managers.
 Any
 girl who
 was
 careless
 or slipshod,
who fell down on her sales, or against whom
 a manager
conceived a grudge—a girl who invited
 amorous
advances, perhap
s,
 and
 then
 repell
ed
 them
—any
 such
girl might fnd
 her
 name
 on
 the
 black
 list.
 But
 she
There
 was
 no reason...
 . She bit her lip in
7 erplexity and chagrin, and moved on to let the
assistants behind her through to the pay-window.
After standing hesitantly for a moment she went
back to her department.
 More than an hour had yet
to pass before the shop closed for the day.
 Customers
took
 her mind
 off her
 dismissal
 to some
 extent,
 but
she felt
 deeply depressed.
 When an opportunity
occurred
 she spoke to the
 departmental manager,
asking him why she was dismissed.
 He was surprised.
“Dismissed !’”’ he exclaimed.
 ‘You ?”
She showed him her notice.
“Tt must be a mistake,” he said.
 “‘You’re one of
the
 best
 girls
 in
 the
 depar
tment
!
 Don’t
 worry about
it. I’ll see the chief’—and he went away forthwith.
In ten minutes he was back, his face twisted into a
grimace that expressed both irritation and sympathy.
“Vour notice came direct from His Royal Highness,”
he told Theodora.
 “Have you any idea why Kronen
should sack you ?”
“No.
 |
 ;
 ;
 2?
“Neither have I. But you must have rubbed him
up the wrong way in some way or other.
 Anyway,
the notice’ll have to stand.
 There’s no appeal from
him \”
 |
 At six o’clock the shops closed in the city of Perth.
For ten minutes after six the time-clocks in Kronen’s
Limited were ringing as hand after hand punched
them.
 The assistants poured out into the street.
I
13 UPSURGE
Nearly a thousand men and girls worked behind the
counters of Kronen’s Limited and they crowded the
narrow footpaths as they swarmed out, mingling with
others of their kind from other shops whose day was
also done.
 By ten minutes past six as a rule the store
was empty, and the cleaners had slammed shut the
doors and had commenced their work.
 But to-day
the crowd flowed sluggishly.
 The employees showed
a tendency to hang about the doorways in groups.
They blocked the way for others who, being unable
to proceed, joined the groups and swelled their size.
Within the groups there were complaints and angry
mutterings.
 The “black list’’ had been unusually
long.
 A man or girl had been dismissed from one in
every
 four
 departments,
 and
 there
 was
 a rumour
 in
the air of the imminence of the long expected wage
cut. A girl from the office staff who was amongst
those who had received notice had spread the rumour.
The cut was to be announced on Monday; she had
overheard the Crown Prince telling the manager.
There were cries of: “I told you so!”
 “It was
only a matter of time !”’
Someone asked angrily: “Is he going to cut his
own bloody screw ?”’
In the centre of one group Ethel Rumble
 angrily
waved her notice of dismissal.
“Why was I sacked?
 I asked the manager what
he had against me and he said he hadn't anything to
do with it, the lying hound !”
“Why should he say he hadn’t if he had °”
“T don’t know!
 How should I know?
 But only
those sent in by the department heads are put on the
black list.”
Theodora
 said:
 “I
 got
 notice,
 too,
 but
 my
 name
 —
 —wasn’t sent in by the department.
 The head inquired
 UPSURGE
 13about it. It was Paul Kronen who put me down.
 I
don’t know why.
 Perhaps...”
“Kronen !’’
 exclaimed
 Ethel
 Rumble
 in
 bewilder-
ment.
 .
“That’s
 what
 the head
 said.”’
“But he couldn’t have put me down,” the girl said,
her voice little above a whisper. ““Why!...”
 She
broke off.
 .
The cleaners were getting impatient.
 They wanted
to shut the doors.
“Are you so fond of this place that you want to
spend all night here as well as all day ?” they asked,
or: ‘‘Haven’t you got any homes to go to?”
The
 groups
 broke
 up
 and
 the
 assistants,
 men
 and
girls, went out to swell the crowds on the footpaths.
For some of the girls, young men belonging to a dilf-
ferent stratum of
 society were waiting with cars.
The girls entered
 the cars ostentatiously, bidding
good-bye to their less fortunate comrades in self-
conscious, affected tones.
 Other girls paired with
men from the shop.
 The bulk of them hurried away
alone to board the clanging, grey-green trams which
would
 carry
 them
 to the
 suburbs.
Many of them had to stand in the trams, clinging
to overhead straps or to metal hand-holds on the
backs of the seats.
 They smiled fixedly beneath their
powd
er
 and roug
e
 while the muscles of their legs
ached
 and knot
ted
 into hard lumps on their calves.
|
CHAPTER
 FOURTEEN
I
HE girl, Ethel Rumble, clung to a strap and
gave herself up toan angry misery.
 She dreaded
her return home.
 She could see in anticipation the
frightened
 dismay
 on the face of her mother,
 and the
resigned despair with which these days her father
always received bad news.
 She could hear the cries
with which her news would be greeted.
She was the mainstay of her family.
 Her father, a
bricklayer’s labourer, had not worked save at occasional
odd jobs for over three years.
 He drew sustenance for
himself and his wife and his younger daughter, Clarice,
who was thirteen and had still to attend school. Twice
he had been sent to relief works in the country where
the men lived under canvas and their earnings were
limited to a pound a week over the amount they would
otherwise draw in sustenance.
 Tradesmen-contractors
battened on them, charging them for food and tobacco
and odd articles of clothing twice and thrice the prices
they would have had to pay in town.
 The married
men could never send enough from their earnings to
keep their families in the city, and there were periods
of bitter destitution for many families when their men
were sent to relief works.
 For the Rumbles the pinch
was sharp.
 The girl, Ethel, earned two pounds, seven
shillings, and fivepence a week at Kronen’s Limited
—more than Theodora Luddon, for she was over
twenty-one years of age—and there was her brother
George who worked on a stud farm for ten shillings a
13UPSURGE
 13week
 and
 his keep.
 Sometimes
 he was
 able
 to send
a postal note for five shillings to his parents.
 For the
main part, however, Ethel kept
 the
 family
 going.
Her wages, and the twenty-one
 shillin
gs’
 worth
 of
provisions they received weekly as
 susten
ance,
 suffic
ed
to buy food and clothing and pay the instalments
 on
their house as they fell
 due.
They thought of it as their own house... .
The clamorous, crowded tram carried Ethel Rumble
through the northern environs of the city; throu
gh
streets lined with cheap lodgin
g-hous
es,
 past
 dusty,
green, tree-grown squares where, despite the hour,
scores of unemployed still lounged ; through the high
and airy suburb of Mt. Lawley where, from the
yerandas and porches of their comfortable homes,
people of wealth and substance looked across their
well-kept gardens to the city.
 Beyond Mt. Lawley
were districts where thous
ands
 of
 little
 brick or wooden
cottages faced one anoth
er
 across
 wide,
 dusty streets.
The streets were narro
w
 ribbon
s
 of
 gravel
 or bitumen
running through wastes
 of
 grey
 sand.
 The
 occupants
of some of the cottag
es
 had
 plante
d
 grass
 in
 the sand-
waste
 between
 their
 front
 fences
 and
 the
 roads,
 but
the grass grew reluctantly for few of them could afford
to lavish water on it.
In this and in similar suburbs lived the workers of
Perth, each in his own neat brick or wooden cottage.
Before the crisis began enterprising house and land
speculators had made fortunes by selling homes to the
workers of Perth.
 It was more profitable to sell
houses on small deposits and long terms and charge
high interest on the outstanding balance of the price,
than to let them.
 Now many of them were empty,
their ‘“owners’” having been ejected for failure to meet
instalments.
13 UPSURGE
Ethel Rumble got down from the tram.
 There was
a damp chill in the air, a promise of winter, and dark-
ness had fallen. At long intervals along her street
were electric lights, and lights glowed in the windows
of
 the
 houses
 on
 either
 side.
 In
 the
 glow
 of
 the
street-lights the green of wild grass springing in the
sand could be seen.
 That meant the water was rising.
... Every winter the water rose and a hundred
acres of the district which had been a sand-waste
became a swamp.
 In wet years the water sometimes
flowed over the floors of the more low-lying houses.
Her father had not known that when he bought the
house—a time when she had been yet at school.
They had been able to keep up the instalments so
far. Ethel estimated that they had paid four hundred
and twenty pounds in instalments, though only about
a hundred and thirty pounds of that had been in
reduction of their actual indebtedness;
 the rest
represented interest.
 It would be another twenty
years before the house really belonged to them.
 Still,
the instalments were no more difficult to pay than
rent.
 Now,
 perhaps,
 she
 thought
 miserably,
 they
would not be able to pay... .
“You're late,” her mother said querulously.
In the little living-room her parents and sister sat
at table, their evening meal already begun.
“T’ve lost my job.”
“Ethel !’? her mother whispered fearfully, looking
as though someone had struck her.
 “You've...
Ethel |”
The girl said desperately : “For God’s sake, mother,
don’t say anything about it now!
 I’ve lost my job.
I know everything you can say.”
‘What are we going to do!"
“Please,
 mother !”’
UPSURGE
 13She looked at her father.
 Colin Rumble sat at the
head of the table with his knif
e and fork poised in the
air,
 and
 that
 look
 she
 had
 expected
 on
 his
 grey,
unshaven face.
 He licked his lips.
Her sister, Clarice, cried suddenly in her shril
l,
childish voice : “And only
 the
 othe
r
 day
 you
 went
out with Mr. Kronen |”?
“Shut
 up,
 you
 |?
“T was
 only...”
 the child began on a note of
rotest, but the fierce bright look in her sister's eyes
checked her.
Dropping her eyes to her plate she attackea her
food.
Resisting
 an
 impulse
 to
 speak,
 Mrs.
 Rumble
 sud-
denly clutched her apron to her face and rose hurriedly
and went out of the room.
 When five minutes later
she returned she
 was
 red-eyed.
The meal went on in silence save for the small
sounds of knives and forks on plates, the creaking of
chairs, the hoarse breathing of Colin.
 But the silence
was charged and oppressive.
Ethel
 cried
 suddenly:
 ‘‘Oh,
 mother,
 I’m
 sorry !
 aD
Her voice sounded harsh and shrill in the silence.
 “I
don’t know why
 it
 happened.
 I
 didn’t
 do
 anything.
I’ve always done my work.”
“It’s happened,” the mother returned.
 “Oh, Ethel !
How could it have happened if you’d been doing your
work properly °”
“I did my work.
 I did!
 I did!” the girl cried.
“T tell you I don’t know why it happened !”
She broke down and began to cry. Her mother
got up from her seat and went round to her, trying
to comfort
 her.
 ‘“‘There,
 there!
 Don’t
 take
 it
 too
hardly.
 I didn’t
 mean
 to be
 cruel.
 We'll
 manage
somehow. ”’
13 UPSURGE
“Leave me alone,” the girl said chokingly.
 She got
up and glared round
 at them,
 her mother,
 her father,
her sister.
 “I hate you!
 I hate you all!” she cried,
stamping her foot.
 “You think it’s my fault,
To-morrow I’ll see Mr. Kronen... .”
She fled to her bedroom to fling herself on the bed
and smother her tears and mortification in her pillow.
To-morrow she would see Paul Kronen.
 She would
force her way in to him if necessary!
 He could not
be responsible—not
 after what
 had
 passed
 between
them.
 If she could see him he would set things right.
At eight o’clock the young plumber, Gerald Halsted,
who hoped to marry her some day, called to take her
to a shilling dance.
 She sent him away, and had no
sooner done so than she wished him back again.
Her father and mother could not refrain from
discussing her dismissal, reiterating in whispers the
question: “‘What are we going to do ?”’
She could not endure it; she thought she would go
mad.
 She dragged her sister’s bed out of the room
and locked the door, refusing to answer the family’s
knocks and beseechings.
 They desisted at last. Then
she undressed and went to bed and cried herself to
sleep.
 :
Recollection of her troubles did not immediately
assail her when she woke in the morning.
 She lay for
a moment on the edge of sleep, recapturing a dream.
Then she remembered and was overwhelmed by despair.
She could see Paul Kronen, but she could no longer
feel confident that what had passed between them
would make any difference.
 She felt sick and weak.
At the breakfast-table the faces of her mother and
father looked old and tired, but they said nothing.
UPSURGE
 13Only when she was on the point of leaving for the
shop did her mother voice the fear that hung over
them, and then it was indirectly
 :
“You'll
 see
 Mr.
 Kronen,
 dear ?”’
“Yes,” she answered.
 “I'll see him.”
It was not easy for assistants to see Paul Kronen.
There was a wall between them and the man who sat
in the glass-walled office on the gallery.
 There was a
form
 to
 be
 filled
 in.
 The
 form
 was
 passed
 on by an
inquiry clerk to an office boy, who took it to Paul
Kronen’s secretary, who took it in to the presence.
Ethel Rumble waited.
 The office boy came back.
“Mr. Kronen says he can’t see you,’ said the inquiry
clerk.
“But I must see him,’
 the girl protested.
 “There's
been a mistake.”
“Well, he says he can’t.
 He can, of course, but he
likes to feel his importance, our Paul.
 Maybe if you
come back later...”
“Tisten,’ said Ethel.
 “Let me through.
 You
don’t know howimportant itis.
 Ill take therisk...”
The inquiry clerk cut her short with a shake of the
head.
 |
“Thanks,
 but
 I’m
 not
 anxious
 to lose my
 job!
Try him after lunch—about ten past two.
 He mightn’t
feel so important then.”’
The girl went back to her department.
 He wouldn’t
see her, either now
 or after lunch.
 He would let any
sort of injustice be done to preserve his sense of impor-
tance. Well, he would see her, she resolved angrily.
He would see her if she had to waylay him... .
She took her time off for lunch between twelve and
one. At a quarter to one she took up a station past
which Kronen had to pass as he came out of his office
for lunch, and waited patiently.
 At one o’clock the
13 UPSURGE
door of his office opened and he came out.
 He looked
pleased with himself.
 His grey lounge suit was
immaculate.
 In
 one
 hand
 he
 carried
 his
 hat,
 stick,
and gloves.
 The girl smiled timidly at him.
 He
recognized her, and immediately his face became
expressionless.
 He made to walk past, but she boldly
laid a hand on his arm.
“Mr. Kronen...”
“What do you want?”
 he asked coldly.
“I tried to see you
 this morning,”
 she said,
 trying
to keep her voice from trembling.
 “I’ve been given
notice.
 I know
 it’s
 a mistake,
 but
 no
 one
 can
 do
anything about it but you.
 I had tosee you..
 .”
“What do you expect me to do ?”’
“You could make it all right.
 Oh, you don’t know
what it means to me to lose my job!
 My father’s out
of work, and there’s my mother and young sister who’s
got to go to school... .”
“That’s got nothing to do with me.
 If you've
received notice you must have been neglecting your
work.”’
“But I haven’t!’’ she cried.
 “I haven’t!
 I’ve
always done my work.
 I’ve been working here for
seven months now, and my figures have always been
good.
 The manager of the department says he’s
satisfied with my work.
 He said he didn’t know why
I’d
 been
 given
 notice.
 Oh,
 please,
 Mr.
 Kronen.
 I
thought . . . after the other night .. .”
 |
“The other night ?’”’ Kronen repeated in the same
cold voice.
 “What do you mean?
 I don’t know
what you’re talking about.”
“Oh!” cried the girl.
 “Oh!”
“I can’t interfere,’’ said Kronen,
 and made
 to move
on.
It was
 then
 that
 Ethel
 Rumble
 realized
 that
 no
UPSURGE
 13appeal to Paul Kronen would be of any use, and her
fear of him left him with her hope. She stood squarely
in front of him
 and stared into his face in a
 sullen,
threatening
 way.
“You know what I’m talking about!
 I’m talking
about Rockingham.
 I gave you alla
 girl
 can give a
man, and now I’m
 to
 be
 sacked
 !”
“T don’t know what you're talking about,” Kronen
said again.
 ‘‘If it’s your notice, I’m afraid your notice
will have to stand.
 That’s
 all
 I have
 to say.
 Now
stand aside, please !”’
“Tt’s not all J have to say!’ cried Ethel Rumble.
Her voice was shrill and her eyes glowered at him, on
fire with a sudden vicious inspiration.
 “I know why
I’m being sacked!
 It’s because I wouldn't let you
seduce
 me!
 That’s
 why!’
 She
 lowered
 her
 voice.
“That’s what I’m going to say if I’m sacked, Mr. Paul
Kronen.
 Am [I still going to be sacked ?”
Kronen glared back at her, speechless with rage.
For a moment he forgot his dignity, forgot his pre-
tence.
“So that’s it, is it!’’
 he exclaimed when he could
speak.
 ‘So that’s it!
 Blackmail, eh?
 You think
you can get away with that, do you!
 Now you under-
stand this: you’re not getting any notice; youre
sacked
 now!
 Now,
 do
 you
 understand!
 You'd
 try
blackmail, would you!
 You needn’t bother to go
back to work.
 You get out of this shop now!”
He turned and dashed back into his office. The
slut! The bitch!
 The bloody little whore!
 She'd
tell that story would she!
 MHe shouted for his secre-
tary while he scribbled a note at his desk to the manager
of the haberdashery department...
 .
14 UPSURGE
In a rage as blind and insensate as that of Kronen
himself, Ethel Rumble hurried back to her department.
“Do you know why I got notice ?”’ she said to the
manager.
 “It was because I wouldn’t let Paul Kronen
seduce me !”’
Her voice was audible for several yards around.
 A
few customers pricked up their ears and listened. A
shop-walker came hurrying forward with a frown on
his face. The other girls in the department gazed at
her in a startled, uncomprehending way.
“The other night I went to Rockingham with him,
Theo Luddon was with us—she’ll tell you !’”
“Be quiet !’’ the manager hissed.
 “Be quiet!
 Are
you mad ?”
“Mad?
 No, I’m not mad.
 It wasn’t your fault I
got notice, I know that!
 It was Paul Kronen...
 .
because I wouldn’t let him use my body when he
wanted to...”
“For Heaven's sake! .. .’° began the shop-walker.
“Keep quiet, you!’’ she snapped at him.
 “I’ve
been sacked.
 I don’t work here now.
 You can’t
order me around any more.
 I'll say what I’ve got
to say...”
After another ineffective protest the shop-walker
hurried away to the office to throw responsibility for
this unprecedented occurrence on the shoulders of
somebody else.
“Shut up!’ said the manager between his teeth.
He seized the girl by the shoulder and clapped one
hand over her mouth.
Filled
 with
 excitement
 and
 consternation,
 other
assistants crowded round.
 The business in several
nearby departments had
 stopped.
 Ethel Rumble
UPSURGE
 IAI
struggled manager, fu and, riously freeing in
 the
 herself, grip
 burst
 of
 the
 into departmental
 tears.
 A
yoice cried: “Shame ’ then a
 numbe
r
 of
 girls
 were
clustering about her, comforting
 her.
After a brief lapse of time the floor-walker
 returned
with the shop-manager and the
 shop-d
etecti
ve.
 They
ushed
 their
 way
 through
 the
 crowd. . The
 shop-
detective began to break up the crowd, saying
 suavely :
“Move
 on, please!
 Ladies
 and gentlemen,
 tf you
please !
 The
 girl’s
 only
 hysterical.
 Move
 on,
lease !”"
“What's all this nonsense ?”” demanded the manager.
He had learned the tenor of the enraged girl’s
 accusa-
tions from the floor-walker.
 “She's hysterical!” he
said positively, and added
 in
 a low voice to Ethel
Rumble: “Unless I’m
 mistak
en,
 young lady, you'll
find yourself in ser1ous trouble over this !”’
The sobbing girl took no notice.
The manager and shop-walker took her between
them and led her away to the dressing-room, where
they waited for her to recover her self-possession.
“Now,” said the manager sternly, “get your hat if
you have one and clear out ”"
Drained of her strength by her rage and tears, and
sick with hopelessness, Ethel Rumble obeyed.
 On
her way home in the rattling tramcar she kept repeating
mentally to herself: “What will they say?
 What
will they say?”
 Yet she felt too miserable and weak
really to care.
But this time her parents did not behave as she
expected.
 When
 she
 had
 told
 them,
 she
 began
 to
weep silently. Her mother took her
 in
 her
 arms,
saying:
“Never mind, dear.
 We'll manage.”
Colin Rumble
 smiled in a queer,
 resolute way,
 and
14 UPSURGE
said : “Well,
 life’s not
 worth
 living,
 anyway !’’"—ang
throughout the afternoon and evening and the follow.
ing day was unusually serene.
When
 his wife
 rose
 from
 her
 chair
 in the
 sitting-
room on Sunday night, saying that she was going to
bed, and started to walk out of the room, Colin calle
her back, and to her surprise, kissed her!
 There were
not many kisses between this ageing couple ; that was
a habit that had passed with their youth.
 She
exclaimed in astonishment and pleasure :
“Well,
 I must
 say
 bad
 luck
 takes
 you
 in a queer
way, dad !”’
“T reckon I’m still fond of you. ..in away,” he said,
“T declare!
 You'll be wanting to come to bed with
me next |”
Colin smiled greyly.
 ‘“‘It’s a long time since we did
that,
 old
 girl,
 isn’t
 it?
 D’you
 reckon
 you
 could
stand me ?”
‘“‘What nonsense !’’ she cried mantling, and left him
lest he should persist to her greater embarrassment.
Ethel and Clarice were already in bed.
Colin Rumble sat on in the sitting-room.
 The queer,
resolute smile was on his face, and his eyes shone
strangely.
 When the house was quiet he took a
writing-pad and envelopes and a stub of pencil from
a drawer in the cheap sideboard, and, seating himself
at the table, began
 to write.
When a man’s got no hope left [Colin Rumble wrote],
u's no good him going on living, and 1l’s no good to my
 —
wife and girls to go on living either, so they are going with
me. I don’t want people to think I was mad.
 Ths
UPSURGE
 14—— gsn’t the first t me I’ve thought about tt, and
 I’ve had a sort
eace since I made up my mind.
 If my daughter
hadn't lost her job I mighin’t
 have
 woke
 up
 to what a fool
a man 1s to go On living when he’s certain his
 life’s going
to be just like tt was before.
 People
 make
 martyrs of
themselves hoping.
 Weli,
 I
 ‘mM
 not
 making
 a
 martyr of
myself any more, and I don’t luke to think of my
 wife and
the girls gelting desperate—E
 thel
 going
 on
 the
 streets
 or
into a brothel because she can't get a job, and Clarry,
 I
suppose, on the state.
 I've
 ined
 to
 be
 a
 good
 father
 to
them, but I reckon this 1s the most sensible thing
 I ever
done.
Colin Rumble signed this note, put it in an envelope,
sealed it, addressed it to the Coroner or whoever it may
concern, and slipped it into his pocket.
 Then he
tiptoed to the
 room
 in
 which
 Ethel
 and
 Clarice
 slept,
opened
 the door gently,
 and
 listened.
 When
 he was
satisfied that they were asleep he closed the door and
moved softly across the passage to his own and his
wife’s room.
 As he moved
 he took
 a razor
 from
 his
pocket and
 opened
 it.
 |
His wife, too, was asleep.
 He switched on the light
and
 went
 quickly
 to
 the
 bed
 and,
 covering her mouth
with his left hand, cut her throat with the razor.
 She
sat up, uttering a horrible, gurgling cry.
 But he
dropped the razor on the bed, and seized her by the
head and shoulders, and broke her neck as he had been
used to break the necks of sheep after he had cut their
throats when,
 as a boy, he had worked
 for a butcher.
The body kicked convulsively beneath the bedclothes,
while the blood ran from the great gash in the throat.
The razor clattered to the floor.
Colin Rumble wiped his hands on the bedclothes,
picked up the razor, and went to the room where his
14 UPSURGE
daughters
 slept.
 On
 the threshold
 he listened
 again,
then
 switched
 on
 the
 light
 and
 entered.
 Ethel
 lay
on her side.
 He had to twist back her head and slash
half a dozen times before he felt the edge touch the
vertebrae.
 She made no cry, but her eyes seemed to
regard him with blank bewilderment as he broke her
neck, and her body kicked more than his wife’s.
 The
bed squeaked wildly, and woke up the younger girl,
who sat up and stared in horror, and opened her mouth
to scream.
 But he sprang upon her and clapped his
hand over her mouth, and the scream he had obstructed
seemed to escape from the severed windpipe as he cut
her throat. ...
Looking upon what
 he had done, Colin Rumble
 felt.
no horror.
 He wiped the razor carefully and put it
back in his pocket.
 Then he went out into the back
yard, and cut a length from a wire clothes-line, and
brought it in and fastened it to one of the rafters on
the back veranda, and hanged himself !
About ten o’clock on the following morning a neigh-
bour, a kindly soul who knew that the Rumble family
was impoverished, went round to the back door with a
bowl of soup she had brought as a gift. She screamed
at the sight of the dead man hanging, and fell in a
faint amid the shattered fragments of the bowl.
 By
and by she recovered and went for the police.
CHAPTER
 FIFTEEN
HE afternoon
 newspaper-posters
 proclaimed
 a
sensation :
TRIPLE
 MURDER
AND
SUICIDE
 !
« *Orrible tragedy !’’ shouted the newsvendors, wavin
g
their papers under the noses of people
 in the streets.
People bought papers and stopped to scan the
 head-
lines, to savour vicariously
 the
 smell
 of
 blood
 and
death.
 The pockets
 of
 the
 newsboys
 were
 loaded
down with pennies.
;
 A
 shocking
 tragedy,
 involving
 the
 murder
 of
 a
middle-aged
 woman
 and her two daughters
 aged
 23 years and
1 years,
 and
 the
 subsequent
 suicide
 of
 her
 husband
 who
perpetrated the crime, occurred
 late last
 night at
 137 —th-
avenue, Maylands. .. .
But there had been many such happenings since the
crisis began. ...
Behind the counters of the great department store
of Kronen’s Limited the assistants whispered together
in frightened, excited tones.
 Not one of them but
knew
 of Ethel Rumble’s charges against Paul Kronen.
They connected her dismissal and the tragedy : If my
daughter hadn’t lost hey job . . . Colin Rumble had
written. The papers had reproduced the letter.
 Ii
it hadn’t been
 for Paul
 Kronen,
 it was
 whispered,
 it
wouldn’t have happened. ...
The tale escaped from the store with its customers,
and was whispered abroad by women returning home
14K
14 UPSURGE
in the trams
 from
 their afternoon’s
 shopping : Pay] |
Kronen was responsible for the Maylands tragedy, . The whisper reached James Kronen through hig
mistress whom he was visiting that night.
 When he
returned home he went to his son’s room and informed
him.
 Paul sprang to his feet.
“They’re saying that !’’ he exclaimed.
 :
“Yes.
 How much truth in it is there?” his father
demanded.
 !
“None!
 Not a word!
 Not an iota
 [??
 |
“H’m.
 Well, it doesn’t matter whether
 it’s true or
not.
 That's the story.
 It must be all over Perth!
And it’s not the sort of thing that can be stopped,
You'll have to arrange a counterblast.
 Drownit.
 It’s
impossible to say what harm a story like that might do,
See to it, Paul.”
“Dll see to it. Dll think of something.
 Great
Scot !”’
 )
‘Thought I’d give you the tip, that’s all.”
“Thanks !’? Paul whispered.
 ‘‘Thanks !’”
 |
In the morning he sent his secretary with a cheque
for a thousand pounds to the Council for the Relief of -
Unemployment.
‘
 ... I would ask you to treat this contribution to”
the solution of the most pressing Social evil of our day
as anonymous tf I did not feel that much of its value
would be lost if tt were not accorded the fullest
publicity.
 Men of substance and standing in the
community have responsibilities towards their less
fortunate fellows
 which
 they
 must
 be induced
 to recognize, and I trust the publicity attaching to this
gift will have that effect. My personal feelings are
of no consequence... .”’ So wrote Kronen in a _
covering note.
 UPSURGE
 14e secretary of the Council for the Relief of Unem-
yment
 ment
 i immediately rang up the newspapers, and
porters
 were
 interviewing
 the
 managing
ctor of Kronen’s
 Limited
 in his office
 on
 the
i
 ‘
 {1000 TO UNEMPLOYED |
-
 cITy MAGNATE’S MAGNIFICENT GIFT !
By four in the afternoon the papers were on the
‘sets, The streamer headings shouted the praises of
am Kronen.
 His photo appeared on the front page
ica photo of the cheque for a thousand pounds,
id the cries of the newsboys
 were in praise of the
nilar thropy of Paul Kronen.
But on the front page, too, was a further report of
e Maylands tragedy, so that the tragedy and the
hilanthropy of Paul Kronen were together on the
ips of many, and those who had heard the whisper of
Sthel
 Rumble’s charges discounted the philanthropy
and found
 ulterior motives for Paul Kronen’s gift.
Tr the
 shop the assistants and some
 of the depart-
ental managers
 spoke
 his name
 as though
 it were
‘ omething evil.
CHAPTER
 SIXTEEN
HE magistrate James Riddle knocked gently op |
Theodora’s
 door
 and
 waited.
 He
 was
 not
 ex.
pected, and he waited a little diffidently because of the
constraint that had been between them when he last
visited her.
 Presently she opened the door.
“You !’’ she exclaimed in a low voice.
“May I come in ?”
He
 had
 an
 impression
 that
 she
 hesitated
 before
coming to a decision.
 But she said: “Yes, come in,’
and stood aside, and he entered to behold the man_
Steven Riley rising slowly from a chair.
 In
 a flash
 the
 memories
 in which
 this man
 had qa)
place passed before him.
 He felt again the sense of.
shock,
 the sense
 of subtle
 danger
 with
 which
 he had
reacted the fellow’s outburst in court, the unanalysable
pain he had felt when he discovered Theodora in tears
because
 he had
 sent the fellow to gaol.
 Why
 hadn’t
she let him know Riley was here?
 Was he fated to be.
for ever meeting those who came before him in court ?
—first Theodora, though that, he confessed, had been
worth while, now
 a man
 who
 had
 threatened to turn
him into a living bomb!
 It was in his mind to make
some excuse and go, but some quality of his ego fought
against it. Riley had risen fully to his feet. For a
moment he stood gazing at the magistrate in a wolfish
way, then he grinned, ran his fingers through his blond
hair, and bowed ironically.
 |
“My Lord of the Urinal !”’
“Steven !’’ cried Theodora.
 Riddle
 reassured
 her with
 a gesture.
 ‘“‘Good even-
14UPSURGE
 14Pine Maid, and, handing the girl his hat and stick,
Died himself into a chair.
“Damn it? snarled the Communist.
 ‘“‘Are you his
rvant as well as his mistress
 that
 he
 should hand
| a
 and stick over to you as if you were his house-
aid ?”
|
 I
 took your hat you wouldn’t object,’’ Theodora
id.
 “Sometimes
 you're silly, Steven !”
ut the hat and stick on her bed, then came
ac Send sat on the arm of Riddle’s chair.
 The fire
+ out of Riley’s eyes.
“Yes sometimes I am,”’ he said gloomily.
he sight of the girl sitting on the arm of the other's
3 r
 distressed him.
 He was not her lover.
 He took
, a in the fact that of all men who had enjoyed
: itimacy with T heodora, he alone had never been her
yer.
 He
 was
 a
 Communist,
 and
 the
 Communist
arty imposed discipline upon its members.
 A Com-
qunist had
 no surplus
 energies
 to vitiate on women.
f{ he burned he went to a brothel.
 There was no
softening influence in that.
 But to love was to become
reak.
 He
 steeled
 himself
 against
 love.
 Riley
 told
self that the distress he felt at the sight of Theodora
y0ised on the arm of Riddle’s chair arose from the
hatred he felt for the class the magistrate stood for.
Theodora
 belonged
 to the
 proletariat,
 Riddle
 to
 the
Dou geoisie.
 The girl betrayed herself and her class
y accepting the magistrate as a friend.
te inquired offensively : ““How 1s the Urinal ; 2”
“Tf you refer to the Police Court, my friend,’’ answered
Riddle, “it’s functioning very smoothly.”
“That! sa pity,’ said the other.
_Ican understand your point of view.’
ey laughed harshly.
 “You understand?
 That’s
od!
 That zs good !”
15 UPSURGE
“Up to a certain point I can even sympathize with
it,” the magistrate added.
It was fortunate, he thought, that his dignity was }
not of the order that was easily upset.
 Most of hig —
colleagues would have been outraged by the fellow’s
impudence.
 ;
“How
 can a man
 like you sympathize
 with us” _
demanded Riley, ‘‘when your point of view is as remote
 _
from ours as the earth is from the last star?
 In any
case, we judge a man’s sympathies by his actions,”
“So mine stand condemned
 ?”’
“Of course.”’
 t
“Which simply means,” said Riddle, “that you |
resent being sent to prison.”’
“Do you expect us to like it ?”
 F
The magistrate shrugged.
 “You're under no obliga- —
tion to break the law, you know.”
“A
 long
 way
 wed
 get
 if we
 didn’t!”
 the
 other
 —
sneered.
 }
“You
 don’t
 seem
 to be getting
 very
 far as it
is.
 aRiley
 seemed
 to
 lose
 his resentment.
 For
 several
seconds he stared at the magistrate as though weighing —
him up.
“You're blind,” he said at last. ‘“You’ve got eyes —
but you can’t see. On every side of you there are
signs of change, but you can’t see them.
 Lenin once —
said of the old Russia that it was pregnant with the ©
revolution.
 So’s this country.
 The revolution’s kick- —
ing in the womb, and you think there’s nothing there
but wind !”
 Riddle said : ‘“‘Perhaps there isn’t,” and the other
seemed to fly into a rage.
 He leaned forward in his
 —
chair and snarled :
 j
“Then it’s the sort
 of wind
 that
 blew
 through
 —
UPSURGE
 r5r
4a!
 The world to-day is in the state of final
5 that Marx predicted for it
 !?
arx!
 Marx!’’
 jeered
 the
 magistrate.
 “You
smunists are like Scots theologians. For an explana-
Bof any sort of phenomenon they refer to the Scrip-
<
 You refer to Marx.
 Vox Karl Marx vox Dei!
- Communism has ceased to be a political
 philo-
‘hy and become a religion |”
te
 ne Communist
 was taken aback.
 Biting his lip,
glared at the other.
 “‘A religion,” he repeated as
Sch
 to himself.
 “A
 religion.
 Yes...
 perhaps
vre right.
 But
 if Communism’s
 a
 religion
 it’s
7 _ wage-slaves
 something no other religion ever
re them.
 It’s given them hope.
 Christianity
mised
 them
 redress
 in
 the
 hereaft
er.
 God, and
.y believe
d
 it!
 Redress
 in
 the
 hereaft
er!
 The
eek shall inherit the earth!
 The colossal impudence
that piece of humbug!
 Oh, I'll hand it to the
neces for that!
 MRedress in the hereafter.
 For
arly two thousand years they humbugged us with
at! Pie in the sky when you die!
 In the mean-
me: God bless the squire and his relations, and keep
s in our proper stations.
 We believed it, I suppose,
cause we had
 to have
 some
 sort of hope
 to enable
s to endure.
 Without
 hope
 we’d
 have
 committed
suicide like that poor devil Rumble who murdered his
mily and killed himself.
 But now it’s over.
 Karl
Marx gave us a hope to be realized on earth, not in
heaven. Yes, Communism’s a religion and Karl
flarx is its prophet.
 We don’t mind the sneers of the
cribes and pharisees !”
“Neither did the early Christians,’
 said Riddle.
And yet, you say, for nearly two thousand years
Christianity has been used as a vehicle of oppression !””
“What do you mean ?”
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| |
| | i
| |
|
i
il
|
AM
|
15 UPSURGE
“Can you be sure, my friend, that your oppres. af
won’t
 adapt
 your
 new
 religion
 to their needs
 as Vor
say they adapted Christianity 2”
 ;
Riley said surlily : “If you mean they’ll try and tw:
Marx as they twisted Jesus: they've already trial
But
 the Communist
 religion
 doesn’t
 depend
 on fait) '
so the twisting hasn’t been much of a success.”
 i
Theodora got up from the arm of the magistrate
chair.
 “Oh, please don’t argue!’ she pleaded.
 ‘Wha
good does it do?
 It only makes you mote bitt :
against each other.
 And you're both my friends. .
“Tut, tut!’ said Riddle gently.
 “We're ju
beginning to enjoy it, my dear.”
Riley grinned suddenly, and the girl perceived th:
it was true. They were beginning to enjoy it: "
Communist fresh from prison and the magistrate wh
had sent him there.
 As they argued, their coy
sciousness of enmity, of their positions in the oppose
forces of the class-war, seemed to fall from them.
They argued as equals.
 The girl sensed a rising impuls
of respect, of liking, in each for the other.
 At lengt
she went behind the screen and made
 coffee for ther
They continued to dispute as they drank it.
 At
 eleven
 o’clock
 Riley
 rose
 abruptly.
 He
 ga
at the magistrate, but his ferocity was only half real.
“Well,” he remarked, “I must say I never expelll e
to meet you outside a court.”
 d
Riddle laughed.
 “Not even in a nypothetic r
future °”’
 i
“What do you mean ?”
“You promised to turn me into a living bomb !
 ("*
 fl
The Communist frowned.
 “I meant it!” he sai
grimly, compressing his thin lips. He seemed abot
to say more, but changed his mind.
 “Good night
UPSURGE
 15a ery
 “Good
 night,
 Theo !’’—and
 went
» Jooked thoughtfully at Theodora.
 “There
-a good many
 like
 your
 friend
,
 my
 dear,
” he
lowly
 “A
 good
 many
 who
 wish
 me
 no good.
, were a revolution . . . if I escaped being blown
agments
 I should probably
 be used to decorate
Bisol
 5 e.
 It’s not a pleasant thought. .
-
CHAPTER
 SEVENTEEN
HE club letter-rack was crowded with members’ —
monthly accounts. Peter Groom took the enve.
lope upon which his name was endorsed, and extracted —
the account: £7 4s. 3d. for a month’s drinks. Re.
placing it in its envelope, he stuffed it into a pocket. |
The account reminded him that he needed money,
He would have to cash a cheque at his bank.
 He had
gone through over ten pounds since Cynthia left.
 Not |
that it mattered....
 :
It was great: being a bachelor again—no
 sense of '
restriction and confinement, no thought of a jealous
wife at home to spoil the fun. What a fool a man was
to get married!
 Why
 the devil had he ever got
married ? He
 had
 got
 married,
 really,
 because
 he
knew
 Cynthia
 expected
 it of him
 and he had not
wanted
 to hurt her
 feelings.
 Funny!
 It did seem
funny that a man should get married for a reason like
that, yet probably lots married for the same reason.
He’d been fond of Cynthia, of ccurse.
 And he'd
warned her beforehand that he wasn’t
 the
 domesticated
type. She’d gone to the altar with him knowing he
regarded marriage vows as so much humbug. She'd.
said she didn’t mind, but she hadn’t really believed
him.
 Thought he’d settle down, resign himself to
the yoke.
 Well, he couldn’t.
 He didn’t want to and
he wasn’t going to try. Women thought that when
they married a man they acquired his soul. Hell!
And he and Cynthia might have been happy if only
she’d been
 reasonable.
 Jealousy
 was responsible for
a lot of misery.
13UPSURGE
 |
 15Groom knew better than anyone else the spirit
 of
snerosity which infused his young wife. He
 had a
sion of her charming, sun-tinted face in its frame
 of
sown
 hair.
 But
 for him
 her
 generosity
 and
 charm
Sere spoiled by her jealousy.
 The generosity which
auld normally have shrunken from any kind of
| Bick to beat him with.
 The cocktail warmed him.
‘9 Cynthia, he thought, that barbaric jealousy was
not only justified by her love, but ennobled by it.
D,
Sa
—-
xissing her, and the thought of her jealousy, which
| sually sufficed to anger him, now made him feel
render. It was not unlikely that when he returned
9 the flat he would find her back, he thought. She
sad never stayed away for more than four or five days.
The cocktail warmed the young idler.
 When his wife
same back he would treat her more kindly than of yore
s a consequence
 of this brief
 spell of freedom.
 He
ordered another cocktail.
Well, he would have to go to the bank to get that
noney. Had he his cheque-book?
 May as well give
the steward a cheque for his
 chit
 account
 while he
hought of it. Calling for a pen and ink, he wrote a
heque and gave it to the steward, then wrote another
to cash at his bank.
His bank was only a few paces from his club.
 He
said: “Good day” to the teller as he tendered
 the
heque. The teller smiled obsequiously and said:
Good morning, Mr. Groom,” and passed the cheque
nrough a grille behind him for initialling by the ledger-
ceper.
Wh ile he waited Groom chatted with the teller.
 He
15 UPSURGE
had
 to wait
 longer
 than
 usual.
 At
 last
 a youth
appeared at the grille behind the teller and whispered ©
something to him.
 “The
 manager
 wants
 to see you,
 Mr.
 Groom,”
 the -
teller said.
“Good Lord, what for ?”’
 q
“Don’t
 know,
 Mr.
 Groom.
 Just
 said he’d like to
see you.”
A clerk conducted him to the office of the Manager,
On the official’s desk was his cheque.
 |
‘“What’s the trouble ?’’ he inquired.
 |
“This cheque,” said the manager.
 “Don’t you
know your wife’s withdrawn your power of attorney,
Mr. Groom °”’
“What !’’
 i
“T
 see
 you
 don’t.
 I’m
 afraid
 we
 can’t
 cash
 this
cheque, Mr. Groom.”
 .
“But... Great Scot, man!
 Do you mean to say ]
can’t operate on my own account ?”’
 :
“Vour wife’s account, Mr. Groom.
 You have been
operating in the past under a power of attorney which
has now been withdrawn.”
 ;
The banker proceeded to explain the bank's obliga-
tions and responsibilities to its clients.
 He was sorry,
very sorry, but he could not cash the cheque.
 No, he
did not know why Mrs. Groom had withdrawn the ©
power of attorney.
 Perhaps if Groom asked his wife
he would be able to find out.
“She’s cleared out!’ said Groom.
 ‘“‘She’s cleared
out and left me five days ago !”’
 The banker smiled tolerantly.
 A
 young couples—
quarrel,
 eh?
 Well,
 it would
 seem
 to be in Groom's
interests to effect a reconciliation.
 And if friction
were developing between his wife and himself it might
be as well, when
 the present little trouble was settled,
ae
UPSURGE
 15ake provision for the future. With his wife’s
sent, the banker pointed out, the deed of gift might
annulled.
J just gave a cheque for seven pounds odd to my
,”? said Groom.
 What about that ?”
rhe bank-manager raised his hands in a deprecating
“ure. “If it’s presented we'll have to return it
arked ‘no authority’,
 Mr.
 Groom,
 that’s all.
 You’d
ter see your club secretary and get it back.”
*he young idler sprang to his feet in anger.
 “Damn
he
 exclaim
ed.
 “I
 though
t
 I’d
 been
 a
 custom
er
this bank long enough to receive better treatment
van this! When this business is fixed up I guess my
count’ go to some other bank.”’
The manager shrugged.
 ‘‘That’s a matter for your
mm determi
nation,
 Mr.
 Groom.
 Now, if you will
a)
ycuse
 me....-
“Groom
 went
 hurriedly back
 to his club.
 Cynthia
 !
9 do a thing like that tohim!
 He would never have
lieved her
 capable!
 He
 was
 almost broke. He
yould have to borrow
 some
 money
 from
 one of his
tiends.
 Noel Manning?
 Noel mightn’t have it: he
vad only what
 he earned
 as a journalist,
 and
 that
frequently
 wasn’t
 much.
 One
 of
 the
 chaps
 at
 the
ub there.
 But first that cheque.
The steward looked at him curiously, but gave him
yack the cheque.
He couldn’t find anyone he knew very well in the
Jub, and thought
 of Paul
 Kronen.
 He got his car
from the street where he had parked it and drove round
to the great department store.
 The kerb outside the
store was lined with cars ; there was no room to park.
He found a space at last, but it was almost as far from
he store as the place from which he had driven.
 He
alked back in a bad
 temper,
 but there was
 a hotel
15 UPSURGE
close
 to
 Kronen’s
 Limited,
 so
 he
 went
 into
 the bar
and
 had
 another
 cocktail,
 then
 sought
 out
 Paul
Kronen.
The managing director of Kronen’s Limited gazeg impassively at the young idler as the latter recounteg —
his tale.
“I didn’t think Cynthia had it in her,” he remarked, ;
when Groom had finished.
“Neither did I,” said Groom
 ruefully.
“And you’re broke, eh ?”’
“Yes.
 Let’s have a tenner, will you, Paul.”
Paul Kronen licked
 his lips.
 “I wouldn’t lend
you a tenner if it was
 to save your life !’’ he saiq
slowly.
The young idler looked at his friend in astonishment, |
“What ?...’’ hebegan.
 Then he became angry and got —
abruptly to his feet.
 It had not occurred to him that
Kronen
 would
 refuse or he would
 never have asked —
him.
 It had certainly not occurred to him that Kronen —
would still bear him a grudge from the other night as
apparently he did. But Kronen was always carrying ~
a grudge against someone. That was his damned
vanity.
“T suppose
 that
 thousand
 to the unemployed
 ran —
you
 a bit short,”
 he said ironically,
 and took his
departure.
As he made his way back to his car the young idler —
reflected that he had not even enough money
 in his
pocket
 to buy
 another
 cocktail.
 Well,
 he'd
 have
something to say to Cynthia when she got back!
 He
 ~
began to wonder how many of the people he passed in
the street had as little money in their pockets as he.
He could not remember ever having been broke before.
He laughed suddenly.
 It was rather funny when you |
came to think of it !
UPSURGE
 15a ing his car, he drove round to the office of the
paper for which Noel Manning did most of his
The journalist was
 there and proved
 to be
3 athetic.
 Groom
 borrowed
 five
 pounds
 from
|!)
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a
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Hi
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CHAPTER
 EIGHTEEN
I
N
 Tuesday
 a reduction of a further five per cent
in the wages of the employees of Kronen’s Limited _
was announced.
 This action was in accordance with
the law of the State, being sanctioned by the Financial _
Emergency Act, and was expected in all shops ; but
other proprietors had refrained, fearing the temper of
their employees.
 Kronen’s Limited acted alone.
 ;
Coming at this juncture, the announcement produced _
an emotional reaction of unexpected intensity.
 During
the lunch-hour, indignation meetings were held in the —
men’s
 and
 girls’
 luncheon-rooms,
 lavatories,
 and |
dressing-rooms.
 Many of the assistants were late in
returning to their work, an offence punishable by fine. .
Such was their temper, however, that the departmental-_
managers and floor-walkers did not dare take action.
 —
During
 the afternoon
 the secretary of the union
appeared and wandered through the shop, talking here
and there with those who were known to have influence -
with
 their
 fellows.
 The
 secretary
 urged
 them
 to do-
nothing precipitate.
 If any action were to be taken, »
he insisted, it could only be effective if it were taken
by the union itself, and had the support of other
organizations.
 Most of the men, many of whom had
families to support on their small wages, and some of -
the girls, displayed a disposition to agree with him ;_
but others laughed, and some were angry.
 The big,
raw-boned girl in the haberdashery
 department,
 Olive”
16UPSURGE
 16sow,
 who
 was
 bitter
 with
 hate
 of Paul
 Kronen,
smanded :
“Fave you come from His Royal Highness ? How
much did he pay you ””
On the following evening a meeting of the employees
f Kronen’s Limited was held in the Trades Hall, and
their
 temper
 was
 angry
 and
 reckless.
 They
 were
‘ncensed
 by
 the
 wage-cut,
 but
 at
 the
 back
 of their
ainds was a picture of Ethel Rumble with her throat
“ut, and a shadow
 of a man
 hanging
 from a
 rope.
There were few who did not believe that Paul Kronen
had painted
 that
 picture
 and
 cast
 that
 shadow,
 and
few in whose hearts there was not hate.
 The big room
buzzed with angry chatter.
A
 little, middle-aged man moved unobtrusively into
the big chair behind the table on the platform. By
tacit consent the oldest employee always took the chair
when officials of the union executive were absent, and
James Johnston’s twenty-nine years in the service of
Kronen’s Limited for him were a matter of pride.
He
 did not want trouble ; he would use what influence
he possessed to prevent trouble.
 The secretary of the
Department Store
 Employee
s’
 Union
 mounted the
‘platform
 and
 placed
 a
 bundle
 of
 books
 and
 papers on
the table by the
 chairman.
 He
 looked
 apprehen
sive
and harassed.
_ “You'd better tell em this isn’t a properly constituted
meeting,” he said to the chairman.
 “Nothing they do
at this meeting can have any effect.”
_ The chairman licked his lips and tapped gently on
the table with a gavel.
 Only those close to the plat-
form could hear him. The chattering went on.
Johnston looked at the secretary in a helpless way.
“Order !’’ cried the secretary loudly.
 “Order !"
‘Ina
 little he secured attention.
L
16 UPSURGE
The chairman began : ‘‘Ladies and gentlemen .. .”
“Tadies and gentlemen, hell !’’ a girl’s voice cried in
 —
anger, and added on a note of bitter sarcasm ; “Ladies
 —
and gentlemen !.. . on two quid a week !”’
 d
“Er... fellow-employees of Kronen’s Limited, then,”
 —
said the chairman doubtfully.
 “Fellow-employees, I
have to warn you—before we start any discussion, I ~
have to warn you that this meeting to-night is uncon-
 —
stitutional.
 My friend the secretary informs me that
even if we do anything to-night it can’t have any effect.
 —
It will have to be confirmed at a properly called meet-
 —
ing.
 This meeting’s informal. . . -
 |
He paused, licking his lips, at a loss
 for
 further
 —
words.
For a moment there was silence while the import of
 ~
his statement sank into the understa
nding
 of
 his
hearers.
 angry, excited Then voices uproar of broke girls.
 out, Thesecretary dominated snatched by the —
 —
the gavel from the hands of the chairman and pounded
 ©
on the table.
 |
“Order!
 Order!
 What the chairman has told you
 —
is right !”
 His voice rang out above the hubbub,
 but he was_
answered
 by
 angry
 shouts.
‘“What’s wrong with the meeting ?”’
‘What does it matter ?”
“Elect another chair !’’
The girl Olive Curnow thrust her way to the front, —
shouting: “I move a vote of no confidence in the —
chair !”’
 :
“No confidence!
 No confidence |’?
 Her words were
taken up.
 She climbed on to the platform and help —
up her hand.
 “Those in favour ? Those in favour -_
“Aye!” they shouted, and a forest of hands was
raised.
 j
UPSURGE
 16The chairman was on his feet, licking his lips and
1 ”
 ing
 afraid.
«J’ye been in the service of Kronen’s Limited for
wenty-nine years,” he began.
 ‘For twenty-nine
years, and I’ve never. . .”
" “And you’ve never done anything but crawl to the
hoss ” the girl said viciously.
 “Get out!
 You're
out !”
“This girl’s simply a trouble-maker . . .
 a“Get
 out !’’ she screamed,
 shaking
 a fist under
 his
nose, and he vacated the chair hastily.
- “Nominations for a new chair !’”’ the girl cried.
“You!
 You!”
 they shouted back.
 “Olly
 Cur-
now “Those !”
 in favour of me taking the chair ?”
Again there was a shout of: “Aye!” and a raising
aloft of hands.
 The voices of those who objected
were lost in the clamour.
“Well, then,” said Olive Curnow, “we'll get down to
business,” and she seated herself behind the table.
The
 secretary looked wary,
 but ventured
 a civil
protest.
 “You know all this is unconstitutional, don’t
you ?”
The girl answered him with a long, sustained glare of
contempt.
“We've paid attention to you and others like you
too long. Unconstitutional!
 What do we care if it’s
unconstitutional
 ?
 You
 take
 a record. That’s all
you've got to do.”
4 “T'll do nothing of the kind,” retorted the secretary.
“The minute-books of the union aren’t kept to record
this sort of thing !”
“Do you hear that ?” Olive Curnow demanded of
he assemblage below her.
 “We pay this man, but
1e won't take orders from us.
 I don’t mind saying
16 UPSURGE
 UPSURGE
 16I think he prefers to take them from Paul Kronen. ,. .»
 : if
 st:
 she had told him that her wages :
 |
 were all that
“Now
 that’s more than I'll stand!’
 exclaimed the
 ie
 oo
 between
 her
 family
 and
 destitution; she had
secretary.
 pleaded
 with
 him.
 ...
 Paul
 Kronen! ...
 Olive
But another babel broke out in the hall. There
  Curnow’s voice quivered with hatred and rage.
 Ethel
were shouts of :
 Rumble
 had
 not
 neglected
 her
 work.
 The
 head
 of
‘““Get someone else !”’
 her department said that he had no complaint to find
“Pull him down !”’
 with her—though he had recanted after he had seen
“I’m wiping my hands of the whole business,” said
 his master, the bloody crawler!
 Ethel Rumble had
the secretary angrily.
 “I’m secretary of the Depart-
 done her work as well as any girl in the shop, but she
ment Store Employees’ Industrial Union of Workers,
 had refused to submit to being made
 Kronen’s play-
not Kronen’s employees.
 Do you think I’m going to
 thing, so Kronen
 had
 condemned
 her to death.
 Yes,
take orders from a lot of hysterical girls ?”’
 Paul Kronen, their Paul, had the power of life and
“Then get out!’’ exclaimed Olive Curnow.
 ‘Get
 death in his hands like any medieval tyrant!...
 It
out, and take
 your bloody books with you!
 We don’t
 might have been
 any
 other
 girl
 as
 easily
 as
 Ethel
need you.”
 Rumble—any girl who had happened to excite his lust.
The secretary took his books and papers under his
 It had
 been
 Ethel
 Rumble,
 however,
 so
 the
 rest
 of
arm and left.
 Girls and men gave him passage, avert-
 them were permitted to live. Paul Kronen had been
ing their faces, or gazing at him sullenly or angrily,
 content to leave them their lives and cut their wages
Then a temporary secretary was appointed, a quiet
 down.
 Generous of him.
 Yes!
 He was a philan-
fell on the hall, and the girl Olive Curnow began a
 thropist. Hadn’t they all
 read
 of
 his
 magnificent gift
passionate address.
 She had no gift of rhetoric, but
 e r
 tothe unemployed ?
 A
 thousand
 pounds.
 The public
she had no self-consciousness.
 She talked to the
 s would flock
 to
 buy
 things
 at
 the
 shop
 of
 a philan-
assemblage as she might have talked to individual
 a l thropist, and he
 would
 soon
 get
 his
 thousand
 pounds
girls in her department at Kronen’s Limited, her voice
 p s e r a back, of course, and another thousand withit.
 And no
hot with indignation and vibrant with anger, and her
 one would believe that a great philanthropist had
words were weighted with sincerity.
 She carried her
 anything to do with the deaths of Ethel Rumble and
listeners with her.
 her mother and sister and father.
 No one would
She spoke of Ethel Rumble,
 and the thoughts of her
 = i
=
 a
 believe that a man who would give a thousand pounds
audience flew to the girl in visions of her body lying
 s
 L to the unemployed would try to seduce one of his
on a slab at the morgue.
 She cursed Paul Kronen, his
 a
 employees, and sack her because she wouldn't let him.
arrogance, his overweaning vanity.
 And her audience
 _ —
 Nor had any of these considerations been in Paul
cursed with her silently.
 She cursed the state of
 Kronen’s mind when he suddenly decided to become
society which put into Kronen’s hands the power of
 a philanthropist.
 The irony in Olive Curnow’s voice
life and death over his employees.
 Ethel Rumble had
 was like a corrosive acid.
 No, it was simple generosity.
been dismissed because she would not yield to Kronen’s
 And to make sure that his employees appreciated it,
16 UPSURGE
he had made them share it.
 He had cut their wages
so that in a few weeks he would have his thousang
pounds back from them as well as from the public.
And they—his employees—they'd have a warm feeling
in their hearts at the thought
 that it was really they
who had given a thousand pounds to the unemployed :
and if they had to scratch a little harder to make ends
meet, and go without a few more of the little amenities
of civilization they’d heard so much about—well, there
was the warm feeling in their hearts as compensa-
tion.
“Like hell a compensation !”’ the girl cried.
 ‘What
are you going to do about it?
 It that wage-cut
comes into operation we ought to strike!
 That’s what
we ought to do: strike!
 That’s the only thing our
philanthropist will understand.
 And we ought to
demand
 the reinstatement
 of the girls and
 men
 who
were sacked on Friday while we're about it !”’
In a moment babel had broken out again.
 There
were
 shouts and cries, and disputes began
 in a dozen
places at once.
 But there was a note of purpose in
both the cries and disputes.
 The girl had raised them
to a state of excitement bordering on hysteria, but she
had also infected them with some of her own reckless
determination.
 The issue before them had become
clear where before it had been confused, and the minds
of most of them were already made up.
 Others, how-
ever, hesitated : chiefly the men, who could bear the
cut better than the girls, and were less willing to
gamble.
 In a vague way, too, many of the men
resented the domination
 of the meeting
 by a
girl.
“How can we afford a strike ?’’ one demanded.
“We know how the union’s placed.
 The strike fund
has been used for current expenses.”
—
UPSURGE
 16“A
 " wyy
 nd
 hat can
 the we uni do
 on on
 won our
 't recognize own ? There us,’  oug
 said ht another.
 to be a
"full meeting of the union—of all shops.”
“Fools !’’ cried Olive Curnow.
 “Don’t you see that
if we strike while the other shops are still at work we
have a better chance than if they all came out?
Kronen will see himself losing money, see it going to
other shops, see his thousand pounds’
 worth of philan-
thropy wasted.
 And
 those
 who
 are
 still
 at work will
help us.
 It's not the union that will oppose us, it’s
the
 executive—the
 officials
 we
 pay
 to
 protect
 us.
What have they done for us?
 We’ve had cut after
cut, and they’ve done nothing but tell us to wait, wait
 !
Their wages haven't been
 cut,
 though
 they’v
e
 used
our strike fund to pay them.
 They've sold us!
We've got to fight our
 own
 battles
, and fight them
against our own official
s
 as
 well
 as
 the bosses.
 But
the rank and file will be with us!...”
She stood before them with her strong, uncomely
face flushed and her breast heaving.
 And they
acclaimed her!
 She
 waited
 till
 the
 cheeri
ng
 had died
down, then
 addres
sed
 them
 again.
 They
 needed
 a
commit
tee
 of
 action
 appoin
ted
 from
 among
 them-
selves. They needed volunteers to place their demands
before Kronen, and whoever undertook that task would
run a risk of victimization. ...
There were volunteers at once.
 They came forward
and began to scramble on to the platform.
 Amongst
them was Theodora Luddon.
 She cried:
“Wait!
 Wait!’
 Her usually serene face was anl-
mated and her eyes sparkled with excitement.
 “Why
should anyone whose job is still secure be victimized ?
Over thirty were sacked on Friday.
 I’m one, and there
are others here.
 Some of us should see Paul Kronen.
We've already lost our jobs.
 We’ve nothing to lose,
16 UPSURGE
but you’re going to try and have
 us reinstated ang
we've everything to gain... .”’
“Good girl !’”’ exclaimed Olive Curnow.
 “You’ve got
brains !’’—and Thecdora felt a thrill of pleasure at the
big girl’s praise.
A deputation of four of the dismissed employees was
chosen: Theodora and two other girls, Susan
 Cripps
and Jane Marshall, and a youth, Peter Smith.
The cheering broke out anew. ...
Theodora was tired when she came away from the
meeting, but she was filled with a sense of elation she
could
 not
 remember
 having
 experienced
 before.
 : A
warm glow of emotion suffused her. Crying a score
of good nights to girls who, in the course of an hour
had become her friends, she started to walk home.
The moon rode high in the pale sky above the city,
and the only street lights were the standards
 at main
intersections.
 The polished bitumen of the street
reflected the moonlight in a soft glow of silver, which
changed transiently to gold as cars passed with their
electric blaze.
 The trees at the edge of the footpath
grew from pools of black shadow.
Hurrying footsteps came up behind her and she
turned her head to see Steven Riley.
 She stopped and
waited for him, greeting him with some surprise. He
took her arm and urged her on, grinning in his wolfish
way.
 His grin was sharp in the moonlight, a grimace
in shadows and highlights.
He said : “Good work, Theo!
 I’m proud of you !”
“You weren’t at the meeting, were you?” she
exclaimed in surprise.
“No, but I heard about it.”
UPSURGE
 16She was pleased.
 She said : “Were you waiting for
"me, He Steve?”
 nodded.
 “I wanted to hear about it.
 I heard
sly the outline.”
 .
Be iiny didn’t you go to my room and wait there °?”’
“And run into your magistrate lover as he ran into
me?” answered Riley, frowning.
 “No, thank you 1”?
“Oh, Steve!” the girl protested.
Suddenly the emotional glow that still suffused
 her
seemed to reach out and embrace
 the
 man
 who
 walked
beside her.
 .
 |
“Oh, Steve,” she said
 unsteadily,
 “don’t you know
vou can always go there when
 you want
 to?
 Youre
;
my friend.
 He...”
He squeezed her hand and answered gruffly :
 “Thanks,
Theo. But I prefer not to run any risk of meeting him
again.’ He’sno good to you, Theo.
 You're on different
sides, you and he.
 You should see that now—after
to-night’s business.”’
“T know,” she said quietly.
She felt an irrational desire to weep.
 She
 took his
arm and held it close against her side, and for a while
they walked on in silence.
“Tell me about the meeting,” the man said at last.
She told him, speaking with an animation that was
the greater for being false.
“Good work, Theo.”’
“Olive Curnow... she was splendid.
 She just
carried me away |”
“Were you carried away ?”’ asked Riley in a queer
tone.
“Yes,”’ she admitted frankly.
“You're different,’ the Communist
 said gloomily.
“None
 of
 the
 others
 would
 have
 admitted
 that.
Sometimes I think they’re not worth bothering about.
17 UPSURGE
They’ll only act when they’re carried away.
 They
don’t think ; they don’t even try tothink.
 Oh, Marx
realized that!
 But they haven’t even any imagina-
tion.
 Half of them can’t visualize anything better
than they have now.
 ‘Workers of the world, unite!’ ”
he quoted ironically.
 ‘‘ “You’ve nothing to lose but
your chains... .’ Half of them don’t know they're
wearing chains till somebody jerks them!
 Then they —
forget again.
 Like cattle ina branding yard!
 They —
bellow and struggle while they’re being branded, then
they forget.”’
He fell moodily silent.
“Poor
 Steve,”
 said Theodora,
 and
 after a moment
added: “I think [ll get Olive Curnow to come up so
that you can meet her.
 I think she feels like that.
She was... splendid.”
“T know her,” said Riley, harshly.
 “She’s a member
of the Party.
 This was her first job.
 She did it well.”
“Olive Curnow !”’
“Why does that surprise you?” he demanded.
“Do you think we’re idle?
 I shouldn’t have told you.
You must say nothing about it.”
“T...Tlsay nothing.
 But... I didn’t know.”
They reached their destination and stopped, facing
each other.
 Riley’s eyes shone in the moonlight.
Theodora felt her own gaze soften as she looked at him.
She slipped a hand into one of his and squeezed it
gently.
“Vou like me, don’t you, Steve ?”
The brightness faded from his eyes as he answered
abruptly : “Yes.”
“And I like you, Steve.”
‘What’s the matter with you to-night, Theo?” he
demanded.
 ‘‘You’re... all worked up about some-
thing.”
UPSURGE
 I7I
“Tt was the meeting,” she said in alow voice.
 “I’m
‘stil
 “Y l ou
 full mus
 of emo t be. tion.” You look as though
 you didn’t know
to
 laugh
 or
 cry.”
: whether
“T don’t,” she replied,
 and both laughter
 and tears
were in her voice.
 “Come
 up,
 Steve.
 Don’t
 let’s
stand here.”
He dropped her hand.
 “No.”
She made a helpless gesture.
“All right, if you won't.”’
“Tt’s late,’’ he said in an embarrassed way.
“Steve, dear... listen... when you want to
come, don’t... stay away... because you think
he might be there.
 Promise me, Steve.
 Any time
you come and he’s here I'll send him away.”’
Riley caught her by the shoulders and stood gazing
at her for a moment.
 He seemed to fight a battle
with himself.
 Then he swept her into his arms and
kissed her once savagely before he released her.
“Steven . . .”’ she whispered weakly.
“You wanted me to do that !’’ he exclaimed.
She said simply: “I’ve wanted you to for months.”
“Well, you've got what you wanted.
 Now I’m
going |”
He turned on his heel and walked rapidly away.
For a little while Theodora stood watching him.
 He
did not look back.
 Yes, she had got what she wanted.
As she mounted the wide stairs to her room she still
did not know whether she wanted to laugh or cry.
CHAPTER
 NINETEEN
I
“
 OU can go in,” said the inquiry-clerk, holding
open the polished jarrah gate.
 “‘His high-and-
mightiness has graciously condescended to see you !”’
The man and three girls comprising the deputation
from the shop employees passed through the gate,
through the outer office into the ante-room where
Kronen’s pretty secretary sat, and so to the holy-of-
holies of Paul Kronen himself.
 He regarded them
coldly from behind his great desk, his gaze flickering
from face to face.
He said: “I understand that this is a deputation
from the employees of Kronen’s Limited.
 Well, come
to the point.
 What is it °”
The four looked at each other.
 All were under
notice of dismissal; they had no reason to fear the
man who regarded them so coldly from behind his
great desk; but the habit of fear was strong upon
them ; they were nervous in the presence of power ;
they hesitated to say what they had come to say.
Theodora felt an impulse of shame.
 They had become
cowards!
 She swallowed once, then said calmly:
“We've come to ask you to reconsider the wage-
cut,
 Mr.
 Kronen.”’
“Is that all you’ve come for ?’’ demanded Kronen
angrily.
 ‘‘Then let me tell you this: you're guilty of
a piece of gross impertinence!
 The management of
this business decided to reduce wages only when it
became urgently necessary, but that decision has been
17UPSURGE
 17reached and it is not permissible for any employee to
question it. If that is all you’ve come to say you’d
better get back to your work.”
A piece of impertinence!
 Theodora regarded him
contemptuously.
 He was only a fool after all!
“That’s all we came
 about,”
 she said.
“Well, you have my answer.
 Before you go back
to your work, give me your names.”
He poised a pencil over a scribbling-pad and waited.
“All our names
 are
 on
 the last list of dismissals,’’
said Theodora.
 ‘““You won’t need them.
 We have to
tell you that if that wage-cut comes into operation
were going to strike.”’
Kronen breathed heavily and the mask that sheathed
his deeper angers settled over his face.
“T’vesaid alll havetosay.
 Get back to your work.”’
“If we strike,’ said Theodora, “‘we’re not going to
let you get others in to fill our jobs.
 We’re going to
picket. You'd better think it over, Mr. Kronen.”
“T’ve heard all I want
 to hear,’’ answered
 Kronen.
“For the last time, get back to your work.”
The deputation departed.
The
 man,
 Smith,
 whispered
 to
 Theodora:
 “You
didn’t say anything about our being reinstated ?”
“I forgot,” she returned.
 “It
 doesn’t
 matter.
There’s going to be a strike.”’
In the afternoon the departmental managers were
called to a conference.
 On their return they briefly
informed their staffs that the managing director
wished to see all assistants at a meeting in the shop
cafeteria on the top floor at five minutes past six.
There was some grumbling at this. Why couldn’t he
17 UP SURGE
hold the meeting in his own time?
 Many of them
would miss trams end trains
 in
 conse
quenc
e.
 Their
resentment
 against
 Paul
 Krone
n
 deepe
ned,
 but
immediately after six they
 began
 to
 gathe
r
 in
 “
cafeteria, pushing aside the
 chairs
 and
 tables
 an
palms to make room for themselves.
 |
 |
Kronen kept them waiti
ng
 for
 five
 minut
es.
 His
face was pale and impassive.
 Without a glance _
right or left he made
 his
 way
 to
 the dais upon iM “in more prosperous times,
 an
 orche
stra had p ayed.
He was followed by the
 staff
-mana
ger,
 the business-
manager, and two others
 of
 his
 execu
tive
 officer
s. They
grouped themselves about
 him
 on
 the
 dais.
 a
The rays of the settin
g
 sun
 struc
k
 throu
g
 e
hundred windows of the cafeteria and
 into the eyes
of the men on the dais,
 dazzl
ing
 them.
 Paul Kronen
|
ink
 d frowned.
sane of you draw
 the
 blinds
 on
 that
 side,”
 he
 —
curtly, and a middle-aged man hastened
 to do
 his
epee stood negligently while the blinds
 were being
drawn, one hand in
 a
 pocke
t
 of
 his
 trouse
rs.
 i
elegance of dress and
 his
 air
 of
 passi
ve
 alooin
ess
 Place
him apart even from those who stood with
 him on t ;
dais. When he spoke his voice was cold
 and withou
e weakness he felt.
a
 on
 elven
 to understand,’
 he said,
 “that
 unless
Kronen’s Limited intimates its intention
 of not putting
into effect a decision to reduce te wages
 of employees,
ees propose to strike... .
cand coiem vou reinstate those who
 were sacked
with Ethel Rumble on Friday !"’ a voice
 cried.
With
 a
 plain
 effort
 at
 control,
 Kronen
 went
 ignoring the interjection : “This was
 the a9 : 1-
matum ... delivered to me this morni
ng by four
UPSURGE
 17employees purporting to speak on your behalf.
 Those
four, I have since discovered,
 were all under notice of
dismissal.
 If they had not been they would be now.
Their mission was a piece of gross impertinence in
which, in so far as they were your representatives, you
shared. But that may be passed over.
 I have called
you together to tell you that the management of this
firm is not to be intimidated by any threats of a strike.
The
 wage
 reduction
 which
 has
 been
 announced
 will
take effect from next
 week.
 It has been imposed
legally and of necessity.
 Kronen’s Limited, in common
with
 all other
 businesses,
 must
 economize
 if it is to
weather the present storm.
 The reduction is as much
in your interests as in ours.
 It is better that you
should earn reduced wages than none at all. If you
paid less attention to the malcontents and trouble-
makers in your ranks you’d realize that for yourselves.
It is those malcontents who are spreading false state-
ments about me.
 I know the story you’ve heard .. .”
—the pitch of Kronen’s voice altered, became shrill—
“It’s false, every word of it! .. .”
Those near the dais saw his lips quiver.
 The shop-
Manager touched his sleeve, but he went on with his
voice under control: “I and my lieutenants are entitled
to your trust. In the ordinary way you do trust us.
You don’t worry about your jobs petering out; it
never occurs to you to think that Kronen’s Limited
could fail; that’s proof of your trust.
 You give us
your trust until it becomes necessary to do something
you don't like, then the fact that for years past your
jobs have been dependent upon our brains and ability
counts for nothing ; you want to go on strike.
 Very
well, if you can’t understand that your wages are
being reduced only because it’s urgently necessary to
ensure the continuance of your jobs—strike!
 There
17 UPSURGE
are thousands out of work who would be glad of your
jobs at the wages which are not good enough for you.
It makes no difference to me whether we employ
them or you.
 But bear this in mind ; no employee
who goes on strike will ever again get a job at Kronen s.
This firm has no use for fair weather hands... .”
He was silent at last, and his little eyes behind the
pale lashes began to move rapidly to and fro in their
sockets as his gaze roved his assembled employees.
And for a long moment they, too, were silent. Then,
from several places at once, came a sound such as a
man makes when he breaks wind.
 Kronen turned
pale. As though he struggled for breath he said: .
“Very well. That’s all have tosay.
 You can go.
A girl’s laugh rang out, mocking and contemptuous.
“T want that girl’s name!’ cried Kronen, his face
suddenly contorted.
“Olive Curnow’s my name,” she replied. |
“Vou can report for your pay in the morning |" |
A murmur ran through the crowd in the cafeteria.
The girl laughed again.
 With another effort Kronen
controlled himself.
 He made a gesture of dismissal,
spoke a word to those on the dais with him, and with
wooden dignity made his way out of the already
emptying room.
 He was close to tears.
The policeman on point duty at the intersection
recognized the car of the managing director of Kronen s
Limited, and held up the cross-traffic to let the young
magnate pass, touching his cap and smiling obsequiously
as the long, blue car accelerated by.
 Kronen acknow-
ledged the courtesy with a brief gesture. The morti-
fcation that filled him made him reckless.
 Sure of
ae
 UPSURGE
 17his skill, he always drove fast, but rarely so fast as
he did now through the thinning city traffic. People
on the footpaths turned to stare at the long, low
vehicle as it hurtled past through the blur of the late
evening.
Reaching his home he garaged the car and, entering
the house, went at once to the telephone in the wide
entrance hall and called the number of the secretary
of the Department Store Employees’ Industrial Union
of Workers.
 He said:
“I want to see you, Creighton. . .. No, I can’t
talk over the telephone.
 Come round here at eight
o'clock.”
He banged the receiver down on to its hook, and
went up to his room to wash and shave before dinner.
Both his parents and his sister Mavis were home
for the meal.
 They talked idly across the white
expanse of cloth while a maid brought them food and
carried away their empty plates. The son alone was
silent. When his mother addressed a remark to him
he said :
“Don’t talk to me.
 I’ve had a bad day at the shop.
I’m in a bad temper.’
 J
She gazed at him for a moment then shrugged her
shoulders lightly and addressed her daughter.
 James
Kronen
 looked
 at
 his
 son
 with
 his
 ironical,
 world-
weary eyes, smiled, and turned his attention again to
his plate.
 He had been thinking of his auxiliary
yacht which was almost finished, and the cruise which
awaited him.
 Now his thoughts dwelt for a moment
on his son. The whelp did not- know how to meet
trouble. He, James, had never deluded himself with
the belief that the means were the end.
 Paul did.
That was his trouble.
 The shop was an end in itself,
had become identified with his ego, and he saw every
M
UPSURGE
17business he
 modern self.
 i * Paul seemed hisky
 ae
 Retiri
 Kronen business-men—se
 hurdle iY]to ng and in lack to to ate as sat
 him.
 his real
 a his
 :
 smo
 per
 study,
 food ntimental busine
 kin
 The sonal g
 i quickly
 he union ss cig slight. | poure
 sar
 ate a bility... ettes ! secretary
 t
 .,.
 tis o
 till ims
 |
 e
 e
 An
 -
 Creigh an
 was
 ae
 ah aa
 ill | ton
 _
 n
 it
 at
|
ease.
 coming “T say, to Mr. your Kronen,
 house.
 > You he began, sent
 for
 “1 me
 should
 so
 I
 n’t came,
 be
>)
 ;
° yeWell
 “There’s sharply.
 few got ut...
 und
 not present
 doesn’t
 vet “sit “There’s ers
 thin
 to hould ‘rea the
 tane down of kee
 e the trouble juncture,
 it’s men.
 suit “That’s p sha
 > or >
 tro
 !” other not tho
 reholder those uble shouldn’t said ‘It’s us.
 in We
 t good off
 why the
 the 4 to the nd Bear sluts: in icials—and don’t
 say  union, enough,
 women 1n other. you my I be
 sent 0 Kronen
 to that { want
 doing business
 cant you, yours
 and ‘
 who
 for
 | ho’
 What in doubt Creighton 're
 * ’s s any
 }??
 Creigh
 _ you.
 afford in
 Limi
 |
 mind,
 !
 j
 ma
 do if
 ! trouble
 ord
 ton.
 ted—you said
 your kin
 There I er,
 tro
 protested.
 care g
 Creighton.
 uble members
 Kronen
 tro
 do
 You've
 at
 what
 are ubl
 you
 that
 an
 the
 e,
 would
 Do haven’t trouble “What «7you don’t understand
 to think in done, can run the know Iup
 I but do?
 haven’
 bud against itwhat
 I
 if or
 t know Do it done you you've you were
 troub you're and what think les disclosed.
 done your of
 | going I’m can your or executive
 respon
 ”
 to
 what
 own.”
 nip
 sible yon
 a
 ‘s
 ?
Be there’s eWhat “Listen, a do strike Creighton.
 you itmean
 will
 ?” We be the
 because don
’t
 sec
ret
 wan
 ary
 you t
 demanded.
 a and sinks
 the
 re
 17UPSURGE
have
 lost
 control.
 Well,
 if you
 can’t
 control
 the
union there’ll be a new
 executive,
 that’s all.
 You've
done pretty well for yourself out of being secretary
of the union, haven’t you, Creighton ? So have the
others. Even since this depression set in you haven't
done so badly.
 Well, if there’s a strike your members
will learn exactly how well you've done, do you under-
stand ?”’
“Tf it hadn’t been for that girl, Rumble, there'd
never've been any talk of a strike,’’ Creighton said
sullenly.
Kronen glared at him.
 “We won't talk about the
Rumble girl, if you please !”’
The union secretary shrugged.
 “She’s as much the
cause as the wage-cut.”
“Nevertheless,
 we
 won’t
 talk
 about
 her.
 There’s
no trouble in any of the other shops.
 There ought
to be a majority of your members opposed to trouble
at Kronen’s.
 They won't like strike levies.’
“There is. But your people won't listen. They've
chucked all the rules overboard and elected a com-
mittee from among themselves.
 They won't listen
to anyone but that girl Curnow.
 There’s a meeting
called for Friday night, and they’ll vote against a
strike. I know.
 But I don’t think your people'll
take any notice.
 They can’t think of anything but
that girl, Ethel Rumble, who they say you...”
“Didn’t I tell you to leave her out of it?” said
Kronen through his clenched teeth.
 “She’s got
nothing to do with it! You've got to make them
realize she’s got nothing to do with it! You've got
to put a stop
 to it, d’you
 hear!’
 He
 sprang
 to his
feet.
 ‘I’ve said all I’ve got to say.
 You've got to
stop that tale and you've got to stop that strike, or
your members’ll learn the sort of secretary you are |”
18 UPSURGE
‘Now listen, Mr. Kronen
 . . .” began the secretary,
lac
 rr
 to nothing!’ cried Kronen funious'y-
“Tye told you where you stand.
 Now go home ane
get on with the job. Call a committee meetin
g. >
any damned thing you please, but stop
 that
 strike
 } ;
 _
 _The union secretary left angrily.
 Krone
n
 pours
himsel
f
 anothe
r
 whisk
y
 and
 dropp
ed
 back Into Ms
chair. The glass chattered against
 his
 teeth
 as
“om the table beside him the evening paper lay
 eS
 O
 PHe caught sight of the headlines:
 ee
e
GENEROSITY. CHURCH LEADERS VIEW
 - ,
The church leaders regarded him as
 a
 shinin
g
 mam
 e
of Christian charity.
 The Moderator
 of
 the
 Presby
-
terian church said that the employees of Paul Krone
n
must feel proud to be working for
 such
 a
 man.
..
T S
E
N”TNe
fr
egCHAPTER
 TWENTY
I
EFORE Olive Curnow had ceased speaking at
B the extraordinary meeting of the union she knew
she had failed. The meeting accepted the advice of
the executive and refused to sanction the strike.
some of the employees of Kronen’s Limited were
secretly glad, thinking that now there was no question
of a strike, but the majority were incensed and bitter
against the executive, and resolved upon a struggle.
On Monday morning they came to work as usual,
but instead of punching the time-clocks and proceeding
in to their various departments, they gathered in a
crowd in the street outside the shop.
 Olive Curnow
and other members of the committee made speeches
from the kerbs.
 They were cheered.
 Groups of men
and girls formed themselves into pickets, glaring
fiercely at any of their fellows who would have entered
the shop to work.
 The crowd in the street held up
the traffic, and soon the police were at work clearing
a way for vehicles.
The police were courteous.
 These strikers were
normally the supporters of the government in power.
The pickets were permitted to patrol the footpaths
unhindered when the crowd had dissipated and had
drifted home.
Within the great shop the wide aisles were empty.
The departmental managers and office staff flew from
counter to counter to supply the wants of the few
customers who passed the pickets and entered.
1818 UPSURGE
During the morning typed notices addressed to
 the
strikers and offering immunity to those
 who
 return
ed
+o their work before midday were pasted in the
 windo
ws.
The pickets forced their way into the shop and
 tore
them down.
 In a rage, Paul Kronen
 rang
 up
 the
Commissioner of Police, demanding protec
tion,
 and
an extra squad of police was sent to guard the
 doors.
The notices appeared again.
 When the
 picket
s
 sought
to enter and tear them down they were stopp
ed by
the police. The notices were theref
ore
 suffer
ed to
remain
 for a while, but anon
 someone
 suggested
 that
they might be hidden by sheets of newspaper
 pasted
on the outside of the windows, and
 they
 disap
peare
d
again.
Olive Curnow went from picket to picket, encour
-
aging and cheering them, and all
 day
 long
 the
 police
were kept busy moving on the people who tended
 to
collect outside the shop in the hope
 of
 troubl
e.
The evening paper announced the strike in head-
lines. A leading article charged the strikers with
folly and ingratitude to a man who, only a few days
since, had given a thousand pounds for the relief
 of
the unemployed.
 Kronen’s Limit
ed
 advert
ised
 as
vacant the posts of their striking employees.
 The
pickets read the reports and
 laugh
ed
 or
 cursed
,
 felt
angry or miserable and discouraged.
In his office on the gallery Paul Kronen glanced
over the transcripts of certain years’-old letters which
had accompanied the applications for shares in
 the
company that Creighton and
 others
 of
 the
 Depar
tment
Store Employees’ Union executive had been invite
d
to make.
 ..
 . Creighton
 had
 rung
 him up during the
day protesting that he had done all he could.
 The
fear in the man’s voice had
 given
 Krone
n
 a
 savage
pleasure.
 If Creighton couldn’t control his sluts he
n
awould have to give way to a man who could!
 He
put the transcripts into an envelope and addressed it
to the secretary of the Australian Labour Party.
 In
due course
 they
 would
 be
 the
 subject
 of an inquiry,
and in due
 course
 there
 would
 be
 a change
 in the
union
 executive
 unless
 Creighton
 was
 cleverer
 than
Kronen believed.
Hours before the opening time in the morning
men and girls were forming in queues at the doors of
Kronen’s Limited in quest of the jobs of the strikers.
Anticipating this, the departmental managers arrived
al seven and began to engage assistants.
 When, a
little before eight o’clock, the strikers’ pickets arrived
it was to find that already over three hundred new-
comers had been engaged.
 Others, in steady streams
poured through the doors.
 The pickets began to plead
and
 remonstrate,
 but
 most
 of
 the
 new-comers
 were
desperate from long unemployment, and could not be
deterred. A few turned away but there were others
to take their places.
 Finding their pleas and remon-
strations of no avail the pickets became angry and
began to spit threats and abuse at the strike-breakers
but they did not dare offer violence because of the
presence of the police.
 By nine o'clock, when the
shop was opened to the public, seven hundred hands
had been engaged and every department in the great
store, though short of its usual numbers, was staffed.
Olive Curnow and others attempted to re-hearten
the pickets who showed signs of giving way to dis-
couragement.
“Not one in ten of them has had any experience.
They don’t know the work and by the time they’ve
learnt we'll have won.
 Keep the public out. Tell
them the sort of philanthropist Paul Kronen is. Tell
them about Ethel Rumble.
 And if that won’t stop
ell
18 UPSURGE
them make it so unpleasant for them that theyd
rather shop anywhere than at Kronen’s Limited !""
Nevertheless some of the strikers slipped surrepti-
tiously into the store and applied for their jobs. They
were curtly informed that they should have applied
before noon on the previous day ; they were no longer
wanted.
 This intelligence rallied them more effectively
than the eloquence and example of Olive Curnow and
the other leaders.
 They no longer had anything to
lose. Customers entering the store were subjected to
ridicule and abuse, and others approaching, intending
to enter, were
 deterred.
The evening
 press contained
 articles
 attacking
 the
government for its apathy and demanding protection
for the public and action against the strikers . . .
Steven Riley left the meeting of the council of the
Communist Party with the intention of going straight
to his room
 and
 to bed,
 but
 when
 he had
 walked
 a
hundred yards or so through the cold night air he
changed his mind.
 Theodora would be interested to
hear what
 had
 transpire
d at the meeting, he told
himself, veiling
 his
 longing
 to see her with the thought,
and forgettin
g
 his
 fatigue
 in
 the longing.
Reaching
 her
 lodgings
 he
 crept
 quietly up the stairs.
He was afraid
 that
 she
 would
 be
 asleep,
 but there was
a line
 of
 light
 under
 her
 door.
 All
 his
 fatigue left
him.
 As
 she
 opened
 the
 door
 the
 light
 behind her
shone
 through
 the
 thin
 kimono
 and
 pyjamas
 she wore,
dimly
 outlining
 her
 young
 body;
 and
 Kiley
 felt a
constrict
ion
 of
 his
 throat
 and
 a
 swelling
 of
 his
 genitals
 as
he looked
 at
 her.
 He
 entered
 the
 room
 quickly
 lest
he yield to the temptation to take her in his arms
UPSURGE
 18there and then, and offer up his Communist austerity
on the white and golden altar of her flesh. She read
both the desire and the abjuration on his face, and
smiled a little sadly.
 |
‘Still afraid of me,
 Steve ?”
“I came to talk to you about the strike,” he said
roughly.
“Oh.”
In the silence that followed he went to the chair by
the fireplace : the chair that Theodora always thought
of as his. An electric radiator was glowing in the
fireplace and the room was pleasantly warm.
 The
girl dropped down on a cushion by the chair.
“Someone distributed a lot of Communist leaflets
to-day,’’ she said, and made a helpless gesture.
 “‘Oh
Steve, it all seems so useless.
 They’ve replaced over
half of us already.
 To-morrow...”
“A strike’s never
 useless,’”’ he said.
“But they’re going to break it! We’ve no money
—only last week’s pay.
 In a day or two that’ll be
gone. Jhe union won’t support us... .”
“Yes it will,’ he said gently.
 ‘Look at this
Theo.”’
 |
As he spoke he drew some papers from his pocket
and leaning forward spread them out on the floor in
front of her. They were copies of the transcribed
letters Paul Kronen had sent to the secretary of the
Australian Labour Party.
 Theodora read them won-
deringly. She gathered that Creighton and others held
in wos
 Limited under other names.
a “How she dida you g get these , Steve? ? How do they
Riley ran his fingers through his tousled, blond hair.
One of our people is in the A.L.P. office. These
arrived there anonymously it seems—just before the
18 UPSURGE
>"
office closed to-night.
 He got hold of them and made
copies. To-night we’re making three thousand copies
on the multigraph, and to-morrow every worker in
every department store in town will get one. Then,
maybe, they'll understand what actuated their officials
in advising them to have nothing to do with a strike.
Maybe they’ll ask themselves whether their officials
haven’t got shares in other shops, and what they’ve
been paying union fees for. Maybe they'll ask them-
selves quite a lot of things.”
Theodora handed the papers back to him.
 She felt
depressed.
 She had felt depressed ever since reading
the letter from her mother that she had found awaiting
her on her return home that day.
 The coal-owners
had put off a hundred men, and amongst them was
her father.
 Her mother seemed to think that she
would be able to assist... .
She could not but feel that the strike was already
broken.
 Perhaps Riley was right, perhaps the exposure
of the union executive would result in support being
forthcoming for the strike.
 But it would be too late,
too late. It would only postpone the inevitable end.
She tried to see the strike through Riley’s eyes: not
merely as a fight against a reduction in wages and
for the reinstatement of those who had been dismissed,
but as a battle in the long war of the classes.
 She
tried to forget the individuality of the strikers: that
did not matter in the Communist view.
 “The indi-
vidual is only a cell in the larger organism of society,’’
Riley had said to her once.
 She was acquainted with
the elements of physiology, but it was not easy for
her, unversed in the subtleties of the Marxist philo-
sophy, to grasp all the implications of that statement.
Individuals—cells in the larger organism of society ;
in
 their
 freedom
 of
 will,
 in
 their
 thoughts,
 their
 a
 i nae
ecUPSURGE
 18emotions, their actions as circumscribed by the needs
of society as cells by the metabolism of the human
body. . . . If she looked at it like that, in the travail
of society the fate of a few strikers mattered no more
than a scratch to a man who fought his way through
a jungle. . . . But she could not look at it like that.
A sense of comradeship with the men and girls with
whom she had worked had grown out of the events of
the last few days, and it was too deep for her to look
at it like that... .
She smiled up at Riley in a wan way.
“Things’ll begin
 to move
 in a day
 or two,”
 he
assured her.
“Yes.”
He continued to talk.
 She responded with mono-
syllables.
 But that was her habit and he did not
notice.
Presently, however, he found his thoughts no longer
on the
 strike
 of which
 he
 talked,
 but
 on
 Theodora,
and he fell silent, watching her. The red glow of the
radiator bathed her, and again his throat constricted
and the blood ran to his loins.
“Have you seen your friend, Riddle, again ?”
She shook her head.
“Getting tired of you, is he ?”’ he sneered, and since
she did not reply immediately, added : “They always
do—his kind.’’
The girl was irritated.
 ‘‘Steve,” she said in protest,
“why is it you can never mention him without being
unpleasant ?”’
Why?
 Riley did not know himself.
 The thought
of the magistrate and Theodora seemed to inject
venom into his blood and he said whatever came to
his mind,
 and
 then,
 a moment
 later, was
 ashamed.
“Sorry,” he said, avoiding her eyes.
T8 UPSURGE
“One would almost think you were jealous !”
“Jealous !’’ For an instant he glared at her angrily.
Then he looked away and his face became gloomy.
“He’s not your sort. You belong to the proletariat,
not the bourgeoisie.
 That’s all it is.”
She mocked
 him
 gently:
 “To be jealous would be
bourgeois,
 wouldn’t
 it,
 Steve >”?
He retorted obscurely: “Maybe you’ve got fewer
bourgeois vices than I have, at that!
 In spite of
Riddle and the capitalist pig who seduced you |"
“Oh,
 Steven !’’ she said impatiently.
“T hate the class,” he told her.
“I know you do, but there’s no need to hate every
member of it. Charles Amison was no more a pig
than James.
 I liked him.
 He was kind and con-
siderate.
 And
 he
 didn’t
 seduce
 me;
 I’d had
 lovers
before I met Charles Amison !”’
‘T hate the class and every member of it,” Riley
said.
 “I know what’s happening to you, Theo.
 It's
happened a
 million
 times
 to
 a
 million
 working
 girls.
You meet wealthy men—men who have money to
spend, and manners, and charm—I know—everything
the men of your own class haven’t got. And you
forget that men are only wealthy and gay and charming
at the cost of the misery of your own class. They
win you away from your class. A million working
girls turned into a million complacent little snobs !””
“That’s just silly, Steve,” she said, and she thought :
yes, it was silly.
 Of other girls it might be true.
 It
was true.
 She had seen them, complacent little snobs,
climbing ostentatiously into the cars of men like Peter
Groom, like Paul Kronen. But of herself it was silly. .. .
“Vou’re the daughter of a coal miner,” she heard
Riley saying.
 ‘Why don’t you choose your lovers
from your own class ?”’
UPSURGE
 18“It takes . . . two to make a bargain of that sort,”
she answered in a voice that was little more than a
whisper.
 Then she looked up at him steadily and
added: “‘I’d rather have you as a lover than either
Charles or James, Steve.”’
Watching him, she saw him swallow, and saw the
expression of fanatical renunciation she had seen so
often before come over his face.
“Oh!”
 she
 exclaimed.
 ‘“‘You’re
 not
 bourgeois,
youre... medieval !”
Riley got up.
 ,
“I’ve known for months that I could be your lover
any time I wanted to,” he said harshly.
 ‘But I’ve
got work to do; I’ve got no time for that sort of
thing.
 I’m going!”
‘I interfere with your work as it is,’ Theodora said.
“Oh, Steve, in some ways you’re such a fool !”
But already he had turned and was walking towards
the door, and he went out without answering.
 Theo-
dora sighed.
 What could one do with a man like
that? A monk!
 An ascetic!
 She rose, and began
to prepare for bed.
 One could do nothing...
Riley made his way to the nearest brothel.
A tiny shutter in the door swung back.
 He was
scrutinized then admitted.
 It was not a brothel to
which he had ever been before.
 The grossly fat
madam smiled at him, wrinkling her raddled cheeks,
and showed him to a room in which two women sat
at a table, playing cards.
“This is Rose, and this is Yvonne,”
 said the madam.
“You can take your choice.’’
Riley regarded the women indifferently.
 They had
19 UPSURGE
risen at his entrance and were sens wt
 Niet heeled
raddled like the
 mada
m.
 ey
 W
ved shoes and black stockings and dresses
 that reached
only half-way down their thighs.
 He indicated the
younger, who came forward and slipped
 her arm round
his
 waist.
‘Do you want to love
 me,
 darling ?”’ she
 said
mechanically.
 ee
om she e
 m to
 | make 7 sure | that
cctend from no disease, ru
e
 with a
smear of ointment, then extended
 ner
 on
 ,
“You'll give me some money first,
 dar ; g i out
He dropped five shillings into her nan
 ea
it away in a drawer,
 then went
 to the
 bed, p
her short dress and smiling fixedly.
|
s over in a moment.
Tea minutes after he had entered the
 brot
hel
 Riley
as out in
 the
 stree
t
 again
.
 Fatig
ue
 oppr
essec nm
put the fever was out of his blood
,
 and even oO
dora he could for the nonce think calml
y.
CHAPTER
 TWENTY-ONE
I
HE following day, the 25th of April, was Anzac
Day.
 At dawn on April 25, 1915, in the course
of the Imperialist war of 1914-1918, Australians and
New Zealanders on one side and Turks on the other
had turned a beach at Gallipoli into a bloody shambles.
Anzac Day was the holy anniversary of that event.
Dawn broke upon a concourse of ten thousand
people gathered with bared heads before a memorial
on the river heights overlooking the city. Some
wreaths were placed against the memorial.
 There
was a long, solemn roll of muffled drums, and on a
great hush a bugler blew the Last Post.
 For two
minutes
 the
 concourse
 held
 silence
 and,
 willy-nilly,
their thoughts dwelt on Gallipoli, and it seemed
 to
them that it was an apotheosis, not a shambles, that
had taken place on the Anzac beach.
 Women who
had lost husbands or sons or lovers wept silently, and
men swallowed the lumps that rose in their throats.
Then the bugler blew Reveille, another bugle echoed
the call, there was a stirring and sighing in the ranks
of the concourse,
 and
 the dawn
 celebration
 was
 over.
As the crowd streamed away, people paused to place
wreaths against the memorial until the granite base
was buried under the flowers.
In the mid-morning there was another ceremony on
the green reserve on the river-front, and over forty
thousand people attended.
From a flag-draped dais the governor of the State,
Ig
19 UPSURGE
officers of the military forces, and priests and prelates
of Christ and Jewry exhorted the people to remember
the spirit of the days of carnage, and called aloud
upon their God to keep that spirit alive so that when
the time came the people might again plunge willingly
into an orgy of blood.
 The drums rumbled, the
bugles blew the symbolic notes, and again there was
silence while men swallowed and women wept.
 The
men upon the dais looked down upon the multitude
with pleased, rapt faces, beholding in the despair and
misery they saw only a holy memory of the shambles
at Anzac and an answer to their prayers.
When the ceremony was over a procession of
ex-soldiers
 in
 civilian
 clothes
 re-formed,
 and
 behind
their bands and the flying colours of their battalions,
marched
 again
 through the city.
 Their clothes were
shabby,
 dirty,
 torn.
 Their faces were drawn and
furtive from want and hopelessness, yet they wore
bravely on their threadbare coats the medals they
had won in the carnage.
 Half of them were unem-
ployed, but the crowds which lined the footpaths of
the streets through which they passed did not notice.
The crowds cheered the workless, homeless heroes of
Anzac, and the smiling, prosperous-looking officers
who led the battalions raised their hands in salute.
 . . .
On
 Anzac Day a fortnight had elapsed without
word
 from or news of Cynthia.
 The young idler,
Peter
 Groom,
 became
 anxious.
 He
 drove
 from
 one
to another of the houses of her friends.
 None of them
had either seen her or heard from her.
 He came to
the conclusion that she had gone to stay with her
parents at York, and reluctantly put through a long-
UPSURGE
 19distance telephone call: he did not like referring to
her parents, but he had to find Cynthia, for the neces-
sity of borrowing money from his friends was troubling
him. Members of his club were beginning to display
a disposition to avoid him.
 The secretary had asked
him when he proposed to redeem his chits, and had
reminded him that members were expected to settle
their bar-accounts promptly.
The phone was answered by Cynthia’s mother,
whom he disliked, and who disliked him.
“Yes, Peter,’ she said in answer to his question,
“Cynthia has been here, but she’s not here now, and
she made me promise not to tell you where she’s gone.
If you like to write a letter to her and address it here
Pll send it on.”
“But I’m penniless !’’ he protested.
“You might go to work,” she suggested.
 ‘“‘Perhaps
to have to do some work would bring you to a realiza-
tion of your responsibilities, Peter.”
The young idler was too worried to feel angry with
her.
 “Listen,
 Mrs.
 Blundel,’’
 he
 said,
 “I’m
 coming
out to see you.”
“It would be no use, Peter.
 I shan’t tell you where
Cynthia is. If she returns to you it will be of her
own free will. She told me what occurred and I don’t
blame her in the least.
 In the same circumstances I
should have done the same thing myself.
 You have
humiliated her beyond endurance.”
“I’m coming to see you,” he said again.
“Very well,’ she replied, and rang off.
York was sixty miles away on the other side of the
ranges, but Groom drove fast and reached the town
in an hour and a half. Mrs. Blundel received him
coldly.
“IT warned you that you were wasting your time
N
19 UPSURGE
in driving out here, Peter.
 I’m not going to inter-
fere.”’
He pleaded with her but was unable to move her.
She said :
 |
“Cynthia is not here and she’s not in the State.
 I
advised her to go on holiday long enough to forget you,
or to give you a chance of coming to your senses.
“Did you also advise her to cancel my power of
attorney and leave me penniless?’ Groom asked
angrily.
“I did,” she replied coldly.
 |
“T thought someone had.
 Cynthia would never
have thought of a dirty trick like that herself.
 What
am I going to do?”
 ;
“I’m quite indifferent to what you do, Peter.
 |
As
 he
 drove
 back
 to
 town,
 for
 the
 first
 time
 it
occurred to him that Cynthia might not come back.
A cold sweat of fear broke out on him as he realized
what it would mean.
 He had never worked in his
life. What work could he do in an age when one in
three of all who normally worked were unemployed ?
As the fear passed and the sweat upon his face dried
in the wind, he reflected that he might be able to get
a job as a motor-car salesman.
 He determined to go
and see his friends in the motor-car trade on the
following day.
 To-day it was impossible;
 to-day
every shop and business in the city was
 closed
 because
it was Anzac Day.
 He had foregone his lunch in order
 to
 see
 Cynthia's
mother, and he was hungry when, in the mid-afternoon,
he got back to the city.
 He went to a restaurant and
ordered a grilled steak and mashed potatoes, and while
he ate it made a mental list of those he knew in the
motor trade.
 When he had paid for the meal he had
twopence left in his pocket, and he noted with chagrin
UPSURGE
 19that there were only half a dozen cigarettes left in
his case.
He had to get a job. Now that he realized that
Cynthia might not return he could not continue to
borrow from his friends.
 The thought of what he had
already borrowed troubled him.
 He consoled himself
with the reflection that he would be able to pay it
back when he found a job.
He drove home gloomily with one hand in his pocket
most of the way, rubbing together the two pennies
that were all the money he had left... .
When the evening drew in he began to think again
of a meal.
 There was food in the flat. The vendors
of fish and meat, milk, ice, bread, fruit and vegetables
who called at the flat each day continued to supply
him on credit.
 But the prospect of a lonely meal in
the empty flat of a sudden filled him with dismay.
On impulse he locked up the flat, retrieved his car
from the garage, and drove out to see John Graham
and Gerda.
He had not been very popular with Gerda lately.
He had been neglecting her and she resented it. But
he wanted to see Gerda less than her husband at the
present moment.
 He recognized the quality of John
Graham.
 The keen faculties of the bulky chemist
and the wide sympathy of his mind seemed to offer
the chance of a solution to his dilemma.
Gerda opened the door to him.
“I’ve come to dinner,” he said, grinning at her.
“You don’t really deserve to be let in.”
“T know 1 don’t,” he said, “but youll let me
 in all
the same.”’
ag
19 UPSURGE
“Give me a kiss, then!’’ she commanded, holding
up her face that with its yellow-ivory whiteness in its
frame of black hair made him think of Babylonian
temples.
He slipped an arm behind her shoulders and kissed
her.
 ‘Now I’ve paid the price of admission . . .”’ he
suggested.
“Oh, damn you, Peter !”’
“Cynthia’s beaten you to it,” he said.
She stood aside to let him enter.
 “Cynthia ?”’
“She hasn’t come back yet,’’ he told her.
“Well, does that worry you ?”’
“It mightn’t if she hadn’t left me without a cent
and instructed the bank not to pay my cheques.
 I’m
broke, Gerda.
 I’ll have to go to work.”
She gasped: “Peter!” .«
“That was her mother’s doing,” Groom said.
 “The
old bitch never did like me.”
“Oh, Peter! You fool! You awful fool! Didn't I
tell you you should never have made your money over
to Cynthia?
 I knew this would happen !”’
When John Graham was acquainted with the young
idler’s troubles he laughed and remarked:
 ‘“‘So it’s
happened at last, has it °”
Groom said ruefully: “I seem to be the only one
who didn’t expect it to happen.”
But the chemist was not unsympathetic.
 He asked
a few questions: had Groom seen a lawyer to find
out whether there was any flaw in the deed of gift °
There probably wasn’t but it should be worth while
to find out.
 Had he written to Cynthia?
 No?
Then write to her to-night and see a lawyer to-morrow.
Better not mention to Cynthia that he was going to
see one, though.
“In any case, you'll only have to endure a
UPSURGE
 19little temporary discomfort.
 She’ll come
 back
 to
you.”
“Are you sure ?”’ Groom pleaded.
Graham shrugged.
 “Barring a malevolent act of
God!"
 He regarded the young man in an amused
way.
 “‘She’s in love with you.
 If she wasn’t she’d
never have been so spiteful.”
“That was her bloody mother . . .”” Groom began.
Graham interrupted him: “Nonsense!
 Her mother
had to have something to work on. Like a social
agitator.
 Agitators
 don’t
 create
 social
 unrest;
 they
simply direct it. Her mother may have directed
Cynthia's spite against you, but she didn’t put it
there.” The big man became thoughtful. But Cynthia
will realize sooner or later that leaving you penniless
hasn't secured you to her, and if only because of that
she'll come back.”
 |
Groom said hopefully: “She couldn’t see that my
playing around with other women occasionally didn’t
do her any harm.”’
“She was afraid of losing you, Peter.
 That’s the
basis of all jealousy.
 But it’s possible that she’ll be
more amenable to reason when she comes back.”
Groom grunted.
 ‘Something will have to happen
to change her a lot!”
“Something is happening to change most things,”
Graham observed.
 ‘‘The fundamental structure of
society is about to change, and with it all the moral
and intellectual and emotional values that are based
upon it. Individual men and women are cells in the
larger organism of society, Peter, and they are under-
going psychological modification preparatory to the
change.
 Cynthia’s modification is progressing along
with other things.
 This modern decay of manners
and morals, and the crisis with its train of bankruptcies
19 UPSURGE
and unemployment and social unrest, are simply
different phases of the same process. Have a whisky ?”’
“Yes,
 thanks.
 That’s anovel idea, isn’t it, John ?”’
“It’s an idea that must have occurred to many
people,” said the chemist, pouring out whisky for
himself.
 “It’s possible that the relationship of the
individual to society is literally that of the cell to the
higher organism.
 Society appears to be about to
emerge from a pupa stage of development, and cellular
modifications are taking place preparatory toit breaking
through the cocoon.”
At midnight Groom rose to go, grinning.
 He had
drunk a lot of whisky and had forgotten about
Cynthia.
 A warm glow pervaded him, and he no
longer seemed to have anything to worry about.
“Have another drink before you go?” the chemist
suggested.
He refused.
 ‘“‘Had quite enough !”
“Yes,” said Graham, “perhaps you have.”’
Gerda accompanied him to the door.
 He kissed
her perfunctorily and walked unsteadily out to his
car.
CHAPTER
 TWENTY-TWO
I
N
 the morning the police warned the strikers that
no further heckling of the public would be per-
mitted.
 The protests of the press had taken effect.
Feeling secure in the knowledge that the government
had been elected by the votes of trades-unionists the
strikers
 ignored
 the
 warning.
 A
 sergeant
 barked
 a
few sharp orders.
 Almost before they were aware of
what threatened several girls and a man were arrested.
The abuse and heckling stopped abruptly and the
strikers looked blankly at one another.
 There were
angry murmurs but no resumption of the heckling.
A raised voice anywhere brought a blue cap and a
silver-buttoned blue tunic in view.
Olive Curnow, accompanied by two men carrying
bundles of leaflets, appeared late. She found the
pickets looking scared and resentful, talking together
in whispers.
“What’s happened ?” she demanded.
They told her.
“And you let them be taken !’”’ she cried furiously.
A policeman thrust forward, gripped her shoulder
roughly, and said: “Come on, you!”
She wrenched herself from his grasp and flung about,
crying: “Take your hands off me!
 What have I
done ?”’
“Come on !” he said, lunging forward and clutching
her again.
Other police pressed forward.
1920 UPSURGE
“Are you going to let them take me, comrades ?”’
the girl screamed.
 ‘“‘Are you going to let them get
away with it ?”’
“You bet they are!” her captor said grimly.
 .
His fingers dug into her flesh. She struggled vainly.
Her eyes flashed from face to face like the eyes of a
cornered animal.
 She saw anguish on their faces,
fear, misery, hopelessness.
 But no one raised a voice,
no one made a move.
 The pickets were cowed.
 She
noticed that the men she had brought with her from
the Communist Party rooms were moving about
quietly, distributing the pamphlets:
 multigraphed
copies of the letters sent by Kronen to the secretary
of the Australian Labour Party.
“All right,’ she said.
 “T’ll go quietly.”
 |
She ceased struggling, but her captor maintained
his savage grip on her arm and hustled her along
roughly.
When
 he had
 breakfasted
 the
 young
 idler,
 Peter
Groom,
 drove into town to see his friends in the motor
trade.
 They were not encouraging.
 If anything
turned up they would let him know.
 Or there were
a hundred competent and experienced car-salesmen
out of jobs.
 Or in normal times it was sometimes
possible to make a job for a friend, but in a time like
the present it was all they could do to keep their own
heads above water.
 One of them would not believe
that he was in difficulties and tried to sell him a new
car.
 He found that any of them would pay him a
commission if he could introduce anyone who would
buy a car, and he secured the name of a firm of financiers
which,
 he was
 assured,
 would
 lend him
 money
 on his
own car.
 He went
 to see this firm.
UPSURGE
 20The manager was a dapper little Jew who came out
with him and examined the car and then insisted
upon being driven round to a garage where a further
examination was conducted.
 The Jew had a whis-
pered conversation with a mechanic and the manager
of the garage, then asked Groom how much he wanted
to borrow.
“As much as I can damn well get,” the young idler
answered.
“We might be able to lend you fifty pounds,” said
the Jew.
“Why, the car cost me four hundred and fifty
pounds less than fifteen months ago !””
The Jew explained that second-hand cars were a
glut on the market, and in the event of Groom
defaulting—that,
 of course,
 he
 interpolated
 suavely,
was unlikely, but anything might happen, anything at
all—then a long time would elapse before the car
could
 be
 sold,
 and
 all
 the
 time
 interest
 would
 be
mounting up. There would be incidental expenses
and commission to the man who sold it. It might be
necessary to get as much as a hundred pounds for it
to recoup a loan of fifty.
Groom finally accepted.
 He returned with the Jew
to the latter’s office, and the Jew placed a hire-purchase
agreement before him to sign.
 He sold the car for
seventy-five pounds and bought it back for a hundred.
The Jew gave him two cheques, one for fifty pounds
and one for twenty-five.
 He endorsed the latter
and handed it back as a deposit on the purchase of
his own car. The balance of seventy-five pounds and
interest he was to pay by twelve monthly instalments,
and should he fail to meet any one instalment he
would lose the car. But the Jew was so suave and
pleasant that Groom liked him. . . .
20 UPSURGE
He cashed the cheque at his bank and
 looked up
the friends from whom he had borrowed
 mone
y.
 When
he had paid Noel Manning, his last debt,
 he
 had
 twent
y-
o pounds leit.
he
 journalist was working upon a one-a
ct pay
script, and was not pleased at being
 distu
rbed.
 o e
play was being produced by the
 Dram
atic
 ocre!
 y.
After seeing a rehearsal Manning
 was
 modi
fyin
g
 the
text.
 He was angry with the
 amat
eurs
 who
 were
casti
ng
 the play because they spoke their lines
 in a
manner which obscured their
 signi
fican
ce.
 —
 He
 poc-
keted the five pounds Groom tendered
 to him with a
eruff “Thanks !”’ and spoke of
 his
 diffic
ulty :
 _
“Tt’s an allegorical satire but
 they
 play
 it
 as
 if
 it
were a farce!
 I’ve got to under
line
 every
 point
 by
re-ph
rasin
g
 it.
 If the actors can’t see the ee
in the lines as they are its a blood
y certainty the
i
won't !""
Grows sympathized with him
 but,
 perce
iving
 that
he wished
 to continue
 his work,
 did not stay.
 |
It was nearly one o'clock and he was
 beginning ‘e
feel hungry.
 With money in
 his
 pocke
t
 he did not
relish the idea of lunching alone
.
 He
 decid
ed to pic
up Theodora at Kronen’s Limit
ed
 and
 take
 her re
lunch if she would come, but
 as
 he
 appr
oach
ed
 t ‘
shop he saw the pickets patro
lling
 the
 footp
aths
 anc
the police standing about watchfully,
 and remembere
that there was a strike at Kron
en’s
 Limit
ed.
 He drove
ora’s lodgings.
a ° a wes stationary nt the kerb
 outside the house,
with a uniformed constable
 at
 the
 wheel.
 Groom
parked his car behind the
 other
 and
 ran
 up
 the
 stairs
to find an agitated landlady
 stand
ing
 on
 the
 rea
l
outside Theodora’s room.
 The
 landl
ady
 recog
nize
him :
UPSURGE
 20“Oh, you’re her brother !’”’ she exclaimed.
 ‘I don’t
know what your sister’s been doing, I’m sure I don’t !
They came here with a warrant .. .”
“My sister !’”’ he echoed in surptise.
“You're her brother, aren’t you ?”
Groom
 remembered
 then
 that
 he
 had
 once
 gained
entrance to Theodora’s room in her absence by repre-
senting himself as her brother.
 He gazed into the
room in astonishment.
 Two men in plain clothes were
making a thorough-going search.
 One of them was
transferring books from the mantelpiece to a suitcase.
The girl herself was not there.
 Seeing him, one of
the men demanded what he wanted.
“He’s
 the
 young
 lady’s
 brother,’’
 the
 landlady
explained while Groom silently
 cursed
 her.
“Her brother, are you ?”
“No,”
 he
 said.
 ‘“That’s
 a
 mistake.
 But
 I’m
 a
friend of hers. What has happened ?”’
“Well!” exclaimed the landlady.
“What’s
 your
 name?”
 the
 plain
 clothes
 man
barked.
A little resentfully Groom gave his name.
 The
other seemed to weigh him mentally.
 He said at
length:
“Well, you don’t look like a red. You’d better be
on your way.’
Groom turned pointedly to the landlady, and asked :
“Where is Miss Luddon, do you know ?”
She wailed: “I don’t know.
 I thought you were
her brother.
 She might be down at Kronen’s.
 It’s
the first time I’ve ever had the police in my house. . . .”’
Resentiul against both the landlady and the police
Groom left before she had finished speaking.
 It
seemed suddenly urgent that he should find Theodora.
He drove back to Kronen’s Limited and scanned the
20 UPSURGE
pavements but could not see her.
 He asked one of
the pickets.
“I think she’s around somewhere,” the girl answered,
but could tell him no more.
The footpaths were congested with the lunch-hour
crowds.
 People jostled one another confusedly.
 The
presence of the police and the pickets added to the
confusion.
Groom found the girl at last and got her out of the
crowd and told her what was happening.
 She was
incredulous.
 She repeated several times: ‘‘But what
for?
 But,
 Peter, what
 for 2’’
He told her that he had seen the plain clothes men
packing away some books from the mantelpiece, and
at that
 she
 had
 an inkling
 of the
 truth,
 and
 gasped
with fear for Steven Riley.
“Peter,” she exclaimed, “have you got your car?”
“Why, yes!”
 |
“Peter, those books belonged to Steven Riley.
I’ve got to let him know.
 Will you drive me °”’
“Of course !”’
“T don’t know where he’ll be,” she said when they
reached the car.
 ‘I think we had better go first to
the Friends of the Soviet Union.
 Do you know where
it is?”
“No.”
She directed him, adding: ‘Please drive fast.”
“You might tell me what it’s all about,” he said
when they were under way.
 ‘“Who is Steven Riley
“He’s a Communist,” she told him.
 “He kept his
books in my room because he was afraid his own might
be raided.
 I don’t know how they could have found
out...”
She gave him a quick, sidelong glance.
 There was
a look of stupefaction on his face.
UPSURGE
 20“I remember !”” he said in an astounded way.
 “I
remember now.
 I noticed the titles but I didn’t
think anything about it. Great Scot, Theo!
 How
did you come to get mixed up with a fellow like
that ?”’
“Steven Riley’s my friend,” she replied quietly.
“But a Communist !”’
“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,”
she said, and he detected a hardness in her voice that
he had never heard before.
He looked at her in astonishment.
“Are you a Communist ?”’
“I’m not a member of the Party,” she replied non-
committally.
“Well, I’m damned
 !”’ he exclaimed : he could think
of nothing else to say.
“If you’d rather not drive me now you know... .”
Theodora suggested.
“What rot!
 No, of course I’ll drive you.
 But
...
 Good
 God!
 ...I1...
 I’m mazed,
 that’s all!”
The Friends of the Soviet Union occupied a grimy
shop in the northern quarter of the city.
 Outside the
shop an ill-dressed crowd had gathered. The crowd
was chattering in an excited way.
 Theodora sprang
out of the car. The pictures of industry in the
U.S.S.R., pictures of factories and wheat-fields and
smiling groups of workers, with which the window
was usually filled, were gone.
 With Groom behind
her she thrust through the crowd into the shop.
 The
almost life-size photogravure of Lenin which had hung
at the end of the shop was gone.
 The counters which
were customarily laden with piles of papers and pam-
phlets,
 and
 the shelves behind
 them,
 which
 had
 held
a little library for the use of members of the organiza-
tion, were
 bare.
20 UPSURGE
‘““What’s happened ?” inquired Groom.
 “Have you
been
 raided,
 too ?”’
The starved-looking man to whom he addressed the
question nodded.
 “We been raided all right, com-
rade.
 They’ve taken everything. They've taken our
papers and our lists and our typewriter, and they even
took the blank typewriter paper, and the blank
receipt-books, and our library which didn’t have a
revolutionary book in it.”
Theodora asked: ‘“Where’s Steven Riley?
 Has he
been here ?”’
“T haven’t seen him,
 comrade.”’
“T’ve got to find him.
 If he comes in will you tell
him that the police have raided my room, too ?
“You're? ...
“T’m Theodora Luddon.”
The man nodded.
 “I'll tell him, but I expect he'll
know by this. They’ve raided the Party headquarters.
I think they’ve raided us everywhere.”
 |
 |
Theodora clutched Groom’s sleeve,
 draggin
g
 him
out of the denuded shop.
“Come on. We've got to find Steve !”
“But if he already knows, as that bloke said eae
“He mightn’t know.
 We've got to find him.”’
“Oh, all right.”
 |
 ~
 ~The girl gave him the address
 of
 the
 Commun
ist
|
headquarters.
Riley was not there, but
 Anna
 Peacelo
ve,
 the
 wife
of the leader of the Party, comforted Theodora with
an assurance that Riley already knew.
 —
‘We
 were
 raided here,
 too,”
 she said.
 “Steve
 was
here, and was afraid for you, so he rang up your land-
lady.”
 a
‘He wasn’t arrested
 ?”
 Theodor
a
 cried
 in alarm.
“No.
 There was
 no
 one
 arrested
.
 They
 only con-
UPSURGE
 20fiscated everything.
 They took the last number of
the Red Star which was just off the machine and all
the paper we had.
 But they left us the multigraph.
Tom and Steve have gone to see about getting out a
special. We’ll sell five thousand copies on the strength
of this raid, even if it’s only a single sheet. . . .”
“Where now ?” Groom asked when he and Theodora
were again back in the car.
The girl hesitated.
 “If he knows... there’s no
need to find him now.
 But I wish I’d seen him...
 .
Thank you, Peter.
 You’ve been good.”
“Nonsense !” he retorted.
 ‘“What about some lunch
then?
 It was to take you to lunch that I went to
your room.”’
“I ought to get back and see what they’ve taken.”
“All right,”
 he agreed.
 ‘We'll
 go back
 first, then
we ll have some lunch.”’
Theodora consented silently.
 Left to herself she
would have gone without lunch.
 Most of the erst-
while workers at Kronen’s Limited were going without
lunch, conserving as well as they might the little
money that remained to them.
They arrived at her lodgings.
 As they entered the
landlady emerged from her room under the stairs and
approached with an air of urgency.
“I was waiting
 for you
 to come
 in, Miss Luddon,”’
she said. “I suppose you know the police have been
here. I don’t know what you’ve done to get mixed
up with the police, Miss Luddon,
 and I may say I
don't care because I’m not wishing to pry into your
affairs and I’ve never had any complaints to make
about you myself.
 But I think you ought to under-
stand that this makes a difference.
 I’ve got to think
of my house.
 I’ll have to ask you to find another
room,
 Miss
 Luddon.
 I don’t
 like doing
 it, and
 God
20 UPSURGE
knows I can’t afford to have a room empty, but I’ve
got to think of my house.
 I don't mind giving you a
few days to find another room, of course.
Theodora listened. This was a development that
she had half expected.
 She said:
 ;
“Very well, Mrs. Withers ; I’ll find another room.
“I’m sorry, Miss Luddon.
 As I said, I’ve nothing
to complain about myself, but . . a |
Theodora cut her short.
 “‘There’s no need to say
any more, Mrs. Withers.
 ’ll find another room to-day.
My rent is paid to to-day.”
 93)
“So long as you understand, then...
"
 derstand.”’
With a glance of disapproval at Groom, the landlady
went back to her room beneath a Sans.
“T say, I’m sorry
 !’’ Groom
 exclaimed.
“There's no need to be sorry.
 I’d have had to
move, anyway.
 The room was
 too
 expensive for
They went up the stairs.
 The police search had been
thorough.
 The contents of drawers, cupboa rds, trunks,
and cases had been turned over, but nothing had been
taken except the books belonging to Riley and some
letters that had reposed in a dressing-table drawer.
They were innocuous letters, mainly from her home
in Collie. Her clothes, however, had been mauled and
crumpled.
 Dresses that had been on hangers lay in a
heap on the floor of the wardrobe.
 A box of face-
powder was spilt over a
 drawer
 of
 lingeri
e. ;
She exclaimed in a
 dismay
ed
 way:
 “Oh, the
;
beasts |”
“Well, you'll have to pack them all, anyway,
 Groom
consoled
 her.
 “Don’t
 worry
 now.
 Come
 and
 have
some lunch.
 Afterwards, if you like, Pll run you
round till you find another room, then come
 and help
UPSURGE
 20you pack.
 In fact, I’ll do any darned thing you want
me to.”’
“Thanks, Peter.’’
 He was kind, she thought.
At a restaurant they ate grilled flounders and sweet
omelettes and drank locally-brewed lager beer.
Theodora was silent.
 She was wondering how the
police had known there was anything in her room to
seize. She came to the conclusion that either Steven
Riley had told someone who had passed on the infor-
mation, or that the policeman who had called on her
a few days ago to find out what she knew of Ethel
Rumble had noticed the books and reported them.
He
 had
 not seemed
 to notice;
 he had
 seemed
 to be
concerned only with what she had to tell him of the
excursion to Rockingham with Ethel Rumble and Paul
Kronen and Peter Groom.
 Groom ought to know
about that, she thought, and told him.
“They
 came
 to see me,
 too,”
 he said.
 ‘Poor
 kid,
her father must have been mad !”’
“Yes,” Theodora agreed.
“Theo—that story about Paul Kronen sacking her
because she wouldn’t play—was that right, Theo ?”
“That’s what she said,’ Theodora replied in a low
voice.
“I don’t understand it. After we’d dropped you
and her that night Paul told me he’d made the grade.
How did the story get about ?”’
She told him briefly.
He said thoughtfully : “Well, it might be right, but
he told me he’d made the grade.
 Do you know what
I thought ? I thought he’d sacked her because he
didn’t like her being in the shop after he’d had her.
He'd be afraid of her talking, undermining his prestige.
He's crazy about his prestige in the shop.
 He didn’t
know that you and she worked there, that night when
O
21 UPSURGE
we set out.
 He thought your faces were familiar, but
he couldn’t place you.
 Afterwards I told him.
 I
thought it was a good joke, but he got
 out
 of
 the
 car
in a rage.
 But if that was why, I don’t understand
why he didn’t sack you too.”
“He did,’ said Theodora quietly.
The young idler echoed: ‘He did!
 Oh!
 I didn’t
know.
 I’m right, then.
 It was
 because
 he
 was
 afraid
for his prestige.
 Don’t you see?”
In the hard voice that he had heard her use once
before that day, Theodora said : “Does it matter why
he sacked us?
 If he hadn’t sacked Ethel she'd still
have been alive—and her father and mother and
sister.”
“But you can’t hold him responsible for that.
 He
didn’t know that would happen.”
“It happened,” Theodora said in the same hard voice.
“And it’s not the only time things like that have
happened.
 When people are underpaid all their lives
so that they can’t provide for emergencies, and then
turned out to starve on the dole, the men who exploit
them and then turn them out to starve aren’t guiltless
when murders and suicides occur !”’
Groom gazed at her first with astonishment, and then
with an expression of doubtful respect on his candid,
sun-tanned face.
 d
“Of course, if that’s the way you feel about it... .’
“That’s the way I feel about it,” Theodora said, and
there was a silence.
A Greek waiter came bearing coffee on a tray, and
set cups before them.
 Groom began to talk of other
things.
 At last
 he
 said:
“Listen, I’m a grass-widower.
 Cynthia's away.
After we’ve found
 another
 room
 for
 you and moved
your things, what
 say
 we
 run
 up
 to
 the
 hills and have
UPSURGE
 Z2II
dinner together?
 Maybe
 we
 could
 even
 stay
 the
night.”’
He smiled at her cheerfully and, as always,
 she had
to smile back.
 She liked her companion ; she could
not help liking him, though he belonged to a class she
was beginning to hate.
 Paul Kronen’s class, she
thought.
 But he was not like Paul Kronen.
“It'd be nice,” she admitted.
 ‘‘ But there mightn’t
be time after we’ve found a room.”
; “Don’t let’s waste time,
 then,”
 he
 cried,
 rising.
Let’s go and find it.”’
She was about to raise an objection
 but checked
herself, feeling a little ashamed.
 She
 had already
made up her mind to go.
i
 eee
CHAPTER
 TWENTY-THREE
I
HE magistrate James Riddle signed and blotted
the orders for the release on bail of Olive Curnow,
Gladys Crooks, Gertrude May Shannon, Mary Blane,
Millicent Thompson, Peter Smallpage Smith, and
Algernon Grimwood.
 The chemist John Graham, who
had deposed his rugged bulk on a corner of the magis-
trate’s table, smiled mildly.
 Gathering the orders
together in a sheaf, Riddle handed them to the waiting
police orderly and directed an unsmiling glance at the
chemist.
“One of these days,’”’ he remarked, “‘you’re going to
regret going bail for this sort of riff-raff.
 One of them
will jump bail and where will you be then ? You can't
afford to lose fifty pounds.”’
“T'll take the risk,” said Graham placidly.
“I signed a search-warrant for your place amongst
others this morning.”’
“IT noticed your signature.”’
“What I’m afraid of, John, is having to sign a
warrant for your arrest.
 You’ve nothing in common
with this rabble you aid and abet with your time and
brains and money.
 Break away from them before
youre too deeply involved.”’
“I prefer to be on the winning side,’’ said the chemist
gently.
“The winning side?
 Youre mad!
 Those raids
this morning were more than a gesture.
 Every known
Communist haunt in the State was raided this morning,
21UPSURGE
 21John. The Minister for Justice acted at the request
of the Federal Government.
 And it’s only a begin-
ning.’’
The still smile that at once charmed and irritated
Riddle flickered on the face of the chemist.
"So the State is going to play Canute at last, is it,
James ?”
“What do you mean ?”
“Armed with incantations from the Crimes’ Act, the
State is going to cry ‘Enough’ to the tide of evolution |”
The magistrate twisted uncomfortably in his chair
and exclaimed contemptuously : “Your evolution !”
Graham laughed and stood up.
“Forget it, James.
 Don’t worry about me.
 Are
you doing anything in particular next Wednesday
night ?”’
“I'm going to draw up a comfortable chair to a fire,’’
growled Riddle, ‘‘and read.”
“Plato’s Republic, perhaps,” suggested the other.
“Perhaps.”
“You’d do better to read Marx—the Poverty of
Philosophy.
 But that’s by the way.
 What about
having dinner with us on Wednesday night and coming
on to the Dramatic Society afterwards? Young
Manning—you know him, I think—is having a play
produced.
 I’ve read it in manuscript.
 I think it
would interest you.”’
“What’s it about ?”
“It’s about nut-picking,”’ answered Graham.
 “‘A
phase of modern industry that merits more attention
than it’s received.”
“If you don’t think I’m likely to regret it,” said
Riddle.
 “Yes, I’ll come.
 Thank you, John.”’
21 UPSURGE
The evidence was of the usual order, Riddle thought.
He listened patiently to the story of the police breaches
of the peace committed against the disquieting back-
ground of the class-war.
 It appeared that the ring-
leader of the strikers
,
 the
 girl Olive Curnow, was a
Communist.
 The
 police
 seemed
 to think that evidence
of conduct
 was
 unimpo
rtant
 if
 witnesses could be
induced
 to swear,
 in cases like these,
 that one of the
accused was a Communist.
 Over and over again he
had reproved
 the
 prosecu
ting
 sergeant for advancing
the politica
l
 convict
ions
 of
 accused
 persons as evidence.
The sergeant
 resente
d
 the
 reproofs
.
 Riddle was well
aware that the
 sergean
t
 regarde
d
 him,
 Riddle, as an
old woman,
 and
 referred
 to
 him
 privily
 as ‘‘the Lord
of the Urinal’,
 like the drunkards
 and
 hoodlums
 and
thieves who appeared in the dock, and the Communists
the sergeant seemed so bitterly to hate.
Olive Curnow attempted to make a speech from the
witness-stand, but he cut her short.
“You're not on a soap-box,”’ he reminded her.
“Confine yourself to a statement of what happened.”
For himself he was disposed to listen patiently to
speeches from the dock or witness-stand.
 A little
patience in
 that
 regard
 did
 much
 to
 counter
act
 the
impression
 that
 it
 was
 not
 Justice
 that
 the
 courts
dispensed.
 But the Minister for Justice thought other-
wise. The
 Ministe
r feared the effect of inflammatory
speeches
 even
 upon
 the small audiences that could
squeeze into
 the
 public
 enclosure of the court.
 That
was always
 the
 way
 with
 a
 Labour
 govern
ment.
 The
more radical
 a
 govern
ment
 purport
ed
 to
 be
 the
 more
fearful it was of revolutionary propaganda.
Olive Curnow protested angrily that she was being
UPSURGE
 21muzzled,
 and there was
 a low murmur
 from
 the back
of the court.
With desperate patience Riddle said: “You’re not
being muzzled.
 Tell the court your version of what
happened, but tell it briefly and without comment.
 It
has been stated in evidence that you attempted to
incite your associates to commit a breach of the peace
and an assault on the police.
 You say you didn’t.
Tell us what you did do.”’
“I did nothing.
 I wasn’t there when the others
were
 arrested.
 When
 I returned,
 and was told, I was
astounded.
 I said: ‘And you let them take them ?’
No more than that. And almost before I had said it
I was grabbed by two brutes and dragged away.
 Of
course I struggled!
 I'd done nothing to deserve being
treated in that way.
 They tore my dress and my
stockings, and my arms and shoulders are a mass of
bruises. Look !’’
She
 wrenched
 down
 her
 dress
 from
 a
 shoulder,
exposing the blue, bruised flesh.
. “Very interesting,’ said the prosecuting sergeant.
But you brought it on yourself by resisting arrest.
You say you weren’t there when the others were
arrested. Where were you ?”
“I was away.”
“Of course you were away.
 Suppose you answer the
question.
 Where were you ?”’
“What’s that got to do with it ?”
“Isn't it a fact that you visited the headquarters of
the Communist Party, and that you came back with Com=
munist literature to distribute amongst the strikers ?”’
The girl forced a laugh.
 “The Communist head-
quarters were raided and all their literature was taken,”
she said. “How could I have got literature ?”’
“The raid took place several hours after the time
21 UPSURGE
we're speaking of,’’ said the sergeant smoothly.
 “Did
you visit the Communist Party rooms and bring back
literature ?”’
“And if I did, what’s that got to do with me inciting
a breach of the peace ?”
Riddle
 interposed : “It’s got nothing
 to do with it,
but you shouldn’t prevaricate.
 Remember that you're
giving evidence on oath.
 Sergeant, I am as well aware
as you are that Communists or Communist elements
are behind most troubles of this sort. Evidence that
an accused person is a Communist, or an associate of
Communists, in some cases might be relevant.
 In
this case itis not.
 Itis not, I may say, in most of the
cases where you seek to adduce it. Have you any
more relevant questions to put to the witness ?”
“No, sir,” said the sergeant scowling.
Olive Curnow returned to the dock.
“Ts there any record ?”’ queried Riddle.
“No, sir,’ said the sergeant reluctantly.
“T find the charges proved,” said the magistrate
curtly, and imposed fines amounting to four pounds
with a fourteen days default.
 He had imposed the
Same penalties in the other cases.
Olive Curnow laughed ironically and said: “Thank
you, your worship, I’ll take the gaol !”’
Three of the strikers by the help of friends or rela-
tives,
 paid
 their
 fines.
 The
 others,
 Olive
 Curnow,
Mary Blane, Gladys Crooks, and
 Peter
 Smith
 were
hustled into cells in the lock-up.
The air in the lock-up was stale and
 clammy, and
smelled of vermin, urine, and sweat.
 The bedding
was stiff and sticky with dirt from the bodies of prisoners
who had used it before.
 When night fell a damp cold
crept in, and when morning came, no sunshine entered
the cells.
UPSURGE
 21On
 the
 stage
 an
 orchard
 of nut-trees
 grew from
green-painted tubs.
 Men, naked save for ragged cloths
round their waists, their faces and torsos smeared with
grease-paint so that they looked tired and emaciated,
so that their ribs seemed to protrude from their sunken
flesh, slowly picked the nuts with which the branches
of the trees were laden.
 Women, also in rags, helped
the men.
Amid the trees, and as widely separated as the tiny
stage made possible, were three double thrones on each
of which sat a man and woman in brilliant evening
dress. Each ‘king’ held a sceptre in his right hand.
At the foot of each throne was a wooden tub almost
filled with
 nuts,
 and
 by
 each
 tub
 sat
 a girl in rags,
boring holes in the nuts and threading them on strings
and placing each string as she finished it round the
neck of her ‘queen’.
There were no footlights.
 The stage appeared to be
illuminated by a single yellow spotlight directly over-
head. The garish light shone straight down on the
heads of the actors.
 Their eyes shone from the caves
of shadow cast by their brows; their noses appeared
longer and sharper, and the shadows of their noses
bearded their chins ; they trod in pools of shadow which
clung to their feet as they moved.
The effect was weird and unreal, and was enhanced
by the muted groaning sound the nut-pickers made as
they worked.
 Spasmodic dialogues took place amongst
them, and the audience gathered that they starved
and despaired.
 The three kings came down from
their thrones and beat the nut-pickers about their
heads and shoulders with their sceptres.
 The nut-
pickers cringed away, made gestures of obeisance, and
21 UPSURGE
we're speaking of,” said the sergeant smoothly.
 “Did
you visit the Communist Party rooms and bring back
literature ?”
“And if I did, what’s that got to do with me inciting
a breach of the peace ?”
Riddle interposed : “It’s got nothing to do with it,
but you shouldn’t prevaricate.
 Remember that you're
giving evidence on oath.
 Sergeant, I am as well aware
as you are that Communists or Communist elements
are behind most troubles of this sort. Evidence that
an accused person is a Communist, or an associate of
Communists, in some cases might be relevant.
 In
this case itis not.
 It is not, ] may say, in most of the
cases where you seek to adduce it. Have you any
more relevant questions to put to the witness ?”’
“No, sir,’ said the sergeant scowling.
Olive Curnow returned to the dock.
“Is there any record ?’’ queried Riddle.
‘No, sir,’”’ said the sergeant reluctantly.
“T find the charges proved,” said the magistrate
curtly, and imposed fines amounting to four pounds
with a fourteen days default.
 He had imposed the
Same penalties in the other cases.
Olive Curnow laughed ironically and said: “Thank
you, your worship, I’ll take the gaol !"
Three of the strikers by the help of friends or rela-
tives,
 paid
 their
 fines.
 The
 others,
 Olive
 Curnow,
Mary Blane, Gladys Crooks, and Peter Smith were
hustled into cells in the lock-up.
The air in the lock-up was stale and clammy, and
smelled
 of
 vermin,
 urine,
 and
 sweat.
 The
 bedding
was stiff and sticky with dirt from the bodies of prisoners
who had used it before.
 When night fell a damp cold
crept in, and when morning came, no sunshine entered
the cells.
UPSURGE
 21On
 the
 stage
 an
 orchard
 of nut-trees
 grew from
green-painted tubs.
 Men, naked save for ragged cloths
round their waists, their faces and torsos smeared with
grease-paint so that they looked tired and emaciated,
so that their ribs seemed to protrude from their sunken
flesh, slowly picked the nuts with which the branches
of the trees were laden.
 Women,
 also in rags, helped
the men.
Amid the trees, and as widely separated as the tiny
stage made possible, were three double thrones on each
of which sat a man and woman in brilliant evening
dress. Each ‘king’ held a sceptre in his right hand.
At the foot of each throne was a wooden tub almost
filled with
 nuts,
 and
 by
 each
 tub
 sat
 a girl in rags,
boring holes in the nuts and threading them on strings
and placing each string as she finished it round the
neck of her ‘queen’.
There were no footlights.
 The stage appeared to be
illuminated by a single yellow spotlight directly over-
head. The garish light shone straight down on the
heads of the actors.
 Their eyes shone from the caves
of shadow cast by their brows; their noses appeared
longer and sharper, and the shadows of their noses
bearded their chins ; they trod in pools of shadow which
clung to their feet as they moved.
The effect was weird and unreal,
 and was enhanced
by the muted groaning sound the nut-pickers made as
they worked.
 Spasmodic dialogues took place amongst
them, and the audience gathered that they starved
and despaired.
 The three kings came down from
their thrones and beat the nut-pickers about their
heads and shoulders with their sceptres.
 The nut-
pickers cringed away,
 made gestures of obeisance, and
21 UPSURGE
went back to their work.
 The kings returned to their
negligent lounging on their thrones.
 The ragged
girls by the tubs continued to thread nuts on strings,
and the queens seemed to be oblivious of everything
that went on about them.
Then
 the lights began
 to dim,
 and
 the nut-pickers
approached with their baskets to the tubs at the feet
of the thrones and counted in their nuts.
 Each had
twelve nuts.
 One after another the kings
 said
 : “Well
done, ye good and faithful servants,”
 and,
 dipping
their hands into the tubs, distributed four nuts to each
of the ragged pickers.
 The pickers cracked the nuts
and ate then ravenously,
 then threw themselves down
under the trees in attitudes of sleep, and the light waned
till the stage was in complete darkness.
In a dead silence the audience waited.
 The light
appeared again, a faint glow, then grew
 to
 its
 full
 yellow
blaze. The ragged nut-pickers roused
 themselv
es
 and
began their work anew.
 Anon the
 light
 grew
 dim,
 and
they came to the thrones with twelve
 nuts
 each.
So the queer play proceeded.
 The garish light
waxed and waned, and the audience
 sensed
 the passing
of days and nights.
By and by the nuts gathered by the pickers began
to overflow the tubs and spill over on to the bare
boards of the stage. The faces of the kings registered
sudden panic.
 They leaned forward on their thrones,
watching the growing piles of nuts.
 When the over-
flowing from the tubs began
 to
 bury
 the legs of the
thrones the kings cried out
 in
 alarm:
 “Stop!
 Stop !’”
And the work stopped.
 The light waxed and waned,
but the nut-pickers sat about in idleness under the
trees, gathering no more nuts, and receiving none from
the hands of the kings.
The colour of the lighting changed.
 The ragged
UPSURGE
 21nut-pickers seemed to become still more wan and
emaciated.
 One of them reached up and plucked a
nut from the tree above him, glancing about furtively
as he did so. A king saw him and sprang from his
throne and beat the man about the head with his
sceptre till the picker fell in a heap on the stage. The
others muttered sullenly.
 The king dealt a blow here
and there, however, and they were quiet. Then one
cried :
‘Are we to starve ?”’
“If you want food you must work for it,’’ answered
the king.
“But you won’t let us work,” protested the nut-
pickers.
‘Am I to be buried in nuts that I cannot use and
cannot sell ?’’ demanded the king, pointing to his own
throne and then to his two colleagues with their tubs
overflowing with nuts. “Are there no eyes in your thick
heads?
 Howcan I sell my nuts when those who might
buy them already have too many of their own?
 Can
you buy them ?”’
“For every twelve nuts we picked, our share was
four,’ a nut-picker said sullenly.
 “Our share was
four!’ he repeated.
 “Not enough to fill our bellies.
If our share had been larger your tub wouldn't have
overflowed.
 May we eat the nuts that have over-
flowed °”
“Are you to eat nuts for which you haven't worked ?”’
shouted
 the king, striking out
 again with his
sceptre.
The light dimmed.
 The stage was in darkness.
Then a thin white spotlight played upon the stage from
the back of the theatre, revealing the three kings in
conference.
‘We must get rid of the nuts,” said the first, and
22 UPSURGE
the second and the third agreed: ““Yes, we must get
rid of the nuts ”
 |
 |
“The pickers are beginning to complain,”
 said
 the
first.
 .
“We must give them something
 to
 occupy
 their
minds,’
 said the second.
 |
‘We must give them the task of getting rid of the
nuts,”
 said the third.
 ‘“‘We must
 declare war on one
another.”’
“War 2”
“War |”
“Ves, that is the only way.”
 |
The spotlight went out. The stage was in darkness.
The stark yellow light from above appeared again,
growing in garish brilliance.
 The first king stood erect
in front of his throne
 with
 his
 nut-pickers before him.
“Forget your empty
 bellies,”
 he
 said.
 “Your honour
is at stake |”
 |
The nut-pickers looked
 at
 one
 another
 with
 uncom-
prehending wonder.
“It is war,” said the king solemnly.
 “Cheer !”’
The nut-pickers gazed
 at
 one
 another
 wonderingly.
“Cheer, damn
 you!”
 cried
 the
 king.
 “Don't you
understand ? It’s
 war.
 Cheer!’
 he
 shouted,
 raising
his sceptre threateningl
y.
“Hurrah !’’ cheered the nut-pickers.
 “Hurrah,
hurrah, hurrah !”
“To arms, then,” said the king.
Whereupon the nut-pickers took up nuts from the
tub at the foot of their king’s throne and began to
throw them at the other thrones.
A second king sprang to his feet crying : “War ! The
sanctity of treaties !’’ and the pickers about him took
up nuts and returned the fire of the enemy.
 ;
Then the third
 king
 rose.
 ‘‘A
 war
 to
 end
 war!”
 he
UPSURGE
 22shouted,
 and his pickers,
 too, took up nuts and flung
them at the others.
 |
The stage was clamorous with shouts and cries and
the sound of bursting nuts.
 The yellow glare changed
to red. While the men hurled nuts at one another the
women
 picked more
 nuts from
 the trees.
 Men
 fell in
simulated death.
 The nuts smashed.
 But the ragged
girl beside
 each
 throne
 continued
 to
 thread
 nuts
 on
lengths of string, and the queens seemed oblivious of
all that was going on.
The piles of nuts about the thrones dwindled and
disappeared.
 The tubs were emptied.
“Enough !”” cried the first king.
 ‘Civilization is
saved |”
The other kings took up the cry. The pickers
limped back to the thrones, bearing their dead, and
the kings made speeches to them, lauding their deeds
and their courage
 and the virtues of their dead.
 The
light faded.
 The stage was in darkness.
 The yellow
light waxed again.
 The pickers rose from their sleep
beneath the nut-trees and began to gather nuts.
 The
light waned.
 They
 came,
 each
 with
 his twelve
 nuts,
to the thrones and counted them into the tubs.
Well done, ye good and faithful servants,” said the
kings, and to each picker distributed four nuts.
The light waxed and waned, waxed and waned.
Slowly the tubs filled with nuts and overflowed.
 The
pickers began to mutter amongst themselves.
 The
kings fell upon them with their sceptres. . . .
Then the curtain fell and the auditorium lights shone
out, and there was a polite outburst of clapping.
Members of the audience turned to one another.
“What an extraordinary play !”
"Whatever can it mean ?”’
How silly !”
22 UPSURGE
“How
 strange !”’
“How
 boring !’’ remarked
 Gerda Graham,
 yawning
and gazing about her at the audience, looking for people
she knew.
John Graham smiled grimly and glanced at Riddle,
who sat on the other side of Gerda.
“What did you think of it, James ?”
“T
 don’t
 know,”
 answered
 the
 magistrate
 in
 a
troubled way.
He was more impressed than he cared to confess.
Was that extraordinary play a true representation of
the facts?
 Was he, Riddle, indeed a sceptre in the
hands of an
 irresponsible
 power, a bludgeon to silence
the mutterings
 of
 slaves?
 The thought was still
troubling him
 when
 the
 auditorium
 lights went out
again, and
 the
 curtain
 rose
 on
 a
 second
 one-act play.
But after
 The
 Nut-Pickers
 it
 seemed
 trivial
 and dull.
So did
 a
 third
 play
 which
 followed.
 He
 was
 glad
 when
the final curtain fell.
In the street outside some showers had fallen. The
wet pavement gleamed in the light of the overhead
standards.
 The air was sweet and cold.
 People were
turning up the collars of their overcoats.
Graham suggested that they should go to a café for
some hot coffee before they went home, but the
magistrate refused.
 His bus departed in a few
minutes.
 He bade good night to his hosts and hurried
along to his bus.
 His mind was still troubled by the
bizarre fantasy he had witnessed.
CHAPTER
 TWENTY-FOUR
I
SLIGHT,
 dark, well-dressed
 man
 appeared
amongst the pickets who patrolled the pave-
ments outside Kronen’s Limited, and inquired for
their leader.
 The girl of whom he made the inquiry
looked him up and down resentfully.
 His polished
shoes, his fawn spats, his well-tailored suit, the expen-
sive felt hat that shaded his shrewd, dark, thin features
the suggestion of wealth and power and authority in
his face and bearing typified everything against which
she and her fellows were struggling.
“We've got no leader,” she said rudely.
 ‘‘She’s in
gaol.”
“There’s someone in her place, isn’t there ?” he asked
sharply.
 “I want to make a contribution to your
strike funds.”’
) The girl said in an astonished way:
 “A contribu-
tion! The strike’s in the hands of the committee of
action. You could see Theo Luddon.
 Wait.
 I’ll see
if I can find her.”
“I won't wait here,” he answered quickly, and
pointed to a café across the street.
 “‘I’ll be sitting at
a table in there.
 Will you bring her to me ?”
“Yes.”
The man entered the café and disposed himself at a
table where he was in plain view from the door.
 A
waitress approached and he ordered a cup of coffee.
Within a few minutes the girl to whom he had spoken
on the footpath entered with Theodora and two other
2222 UPSURGE
girls and a man.
 The girl hesitated for a moment,
looking about her, then perceived the man
 at the table
and led the others over
 to
 him.
“This is Theo Ludden,” she said, ‘“‘ond
 some others of
the committee.”
“What do you want ?”’ Theodora asked.
 |
“T want to subscribe to your strike funds
,” he
 said
softly.
 “If you’ll
 sit
 down
 I
 think
 we'll
 be
 less con-
spicuous.
 I don’t want to advertise the fact that I’m
helping you.”
They pulled out chairs and sat down, and
 the man
took a fold of Treasury notes from a pocke
t of his vest
and pushed them across the table to Theod
ora.
 He
said :
“There’s a hundred pounds there. That
 ought to
_
help you.”
“Rut... but who are you, and why are
 you
 givin
g
us this money ?”’
 |
 ;
“Never mind
 who
 I
 am
 if
 you
 don’t
 know me, the
man said, and seemed to lose a little
 of his assurance.
“Tf you should find out who I am,”’ he
 added,
 “‘I’d be
glad if you wouldn't broadcast it.”
 |
“We
 can
 promise
 you
 that,’
 Theodora
 said.
;
“But...”
“And why I’m doing it doesn’t matter to
 you,”
 the
man said.
He
 drank his coffee quickly,
 and rose, nodded,
 and
walked out of the cafe.
 |
The girl who had nudged Theod
ora
 whisp
ered
quickly : “Don’t you know who he is?
 He's
 Herbe
rt
Ringer.
 His wife used to buy her hats
 at
 Krone
n
 s.
He’s a millionaire.
 ;
Theodora exclaimed bewilderedly : “By why
 should
he give us a hundred pounds °”’
 |
 .
“A hundred pounds is nothing to
 him.
 Don't
 you
d
aoe
ia
aUPSURGE
 22remember?
 There was a Royal Commission about
him. They said he was selling blocks of land by
misrepresentation.”’
“That doesn’t explain why he gave us a hundred
pounds.”
A waitress came for an order.
“We don’t want anything, thank you,” Theodora
said.
They went out hastily to convey the news to their
comrades.
The gaoler unlocked the doors of the cells in which
Olive Curnow,
 Gladys
 Crooks,
 Mary
 Blane,
 and
 Peter
Smallpage Smith were confined, and said gruffly :
“Come on.
 Your fines have been paid.”
“Who paid them ?” Olive Curnow demanded impul-
sively.
~ How should I know ?”’ answered the gaoler.
He led the way down the long passage and opened
the heavy door at the end.
“Go to the desk for anything they took off you when
they brought you here.”
Outside the lock-up, Theodora and half a dozen
other strikers were waiting.
“Did you pay our fines?” Olive Curnow inquired.
“Where did you get the money to pay them ?”
Several of them began to explain at once.
“Well,
 that’s
 a break,’’
 Olive
 Curnow
 said.
 ‘‘But
why did you pay our fines when you needed it to
carry on?
 When we'd served more than half the
default !”’
Theodora told her that she was needed.
 She had to
be present at the meeting of the union that had been
called for the following night.
 Without her to speak
P
22 UPSURGE
they would be denied again.
 The secretary and
executive would explain away
 the charges against
them.
Olive Curnow was silent.
Gazing
 at the
 other’s strong, unhandsome
 face,
Theodora
 seemed
 to sense the thoughts that flowed
behind it : pleasure in the knowledge of her capabilities
as a leader, pleasure in their general recognition of it,
but the pleasure tempered by the weight of responsi-
bility they put upon her. Theodora wished that she
herself could share the other’s burden.
 She wondered
if she could find the reserves of strength ever to lead,
and doubted... .
“Well,
 come
 on,’’ Olive Curnow
 said.
They moved off in a group to rejoin the pickets.
Over two thousand members of the Department
Store Employees’ Industrial Union of Workers crowded
into the Trades Hall.
 The president of the union
whispered to the vice-president who sat beside him in
the centre of the semi-circle of seated officials who
occupied the stage :
“There’s a bigger attendance than there was at the
strike meeting.
 It looks bad.”’
He rose and addressed the meeting briefly. They
heard him in silence.
 There was not a single inter-
jection.
 As he sat down a few isolated hands were
clapped timidly, and then abruptly ceased to clap.
“We want to hear about those shares !’’ a voice
cried.
 ‘“‘Can you explain about those shares ?”’
The secretary Creighton began to speak, and for a
little while he, too, was heard in silence.
 The silence
was ominous,
 oppressive, broken
 only by the sounds
UPSURGE
 22of a few
 feet
 being
 shuffled,
 and
 Creighton’s
 strong,
passionate voice.
 He spoke of disruptive elements in
the union.
 He spoke of the steady, progressive policy
that had been followed so successfully since the present
executive had been in power.
 He cited the improved
conditions,
 the increases in wages
 which
 had
 resulted
from the steady prosecution of that policy in the
years before the depression began.
 So, through a
recitation of the struggles and successes of the past, he
led up to the accusations that had been levelled against
him and other officials of the union.
 Did they, his
hearers, consult their employers before they put
money in the savings bank, or into any little invest-
ment it was in their power to make?
 Were he and
other members of the union executive bound to consult
the union before investing savings ?
“Under assumed names !”’
“Why not in your own names ?”
“A hundred pounds’ worth of shares!
 How did you
save a hundred pounds ?”’
“What about the strike fund ?”’
“Is that where the strike fund went ?”
In a moment there was uproar.
 From every part
of the hall angry questions were shouted, and
Creighton shouted to make his voice heard above
the din.
“Do you think it was your money?
 You’ve been
listening to Communists and white-anters!
 You’ve
been listening to agitators who are trying to undermine
all you've ever achieved... .”
“Why weren’t the shares in your own names?”
shouted Olive Curnow.
“Put the motion!’ a man shouted.
 “Put the
motion if you can’t explain !”’
A hundred voices shouted at once : to give the speaker
22 UPSURGE
a chance, to put the motion, to resign.
 Butina
 little
the din died down.
 |
“This meeting’s packed with
 disrupt
ionists
 !”
 said
Creighton angrily.
 “Mr. President, I want the roll
called.
 Ifit wasn’t for the disruptionists amongst you
this meeting would never have been called.
 A motion
of no confidence in the executive is an insult to the
intelligence! .. .”
Again there was uproar. ...
 |
An hour and twenty
 minute
s
 after
 the
 preside
nt
opened the meeting,
 in
 a
 hoarse,
 straine
d
 voice
 he
 put
the motion, and by an overwhelming majority the
motion was carried.
 Theodora felt a thrill of elation.
“Very well,” said
 the
 president.
 “The meeting had
better elect another
 chair.”
Without opposition Olive Curnow was elected to the
chair.
“We've got to elect a provisional executive to carry
on until we can have a proper ballot.
 I’d suggest that
the Kronen’s Limited
 strike
 commit
tee
 be appointed,
plus one or two
 represe
ntative
s
 from
 each other
|
shop....
She spoke withou
t
 her
 usual
 fervour
,
 but
 with
 a
quiet confidence.
 Before
 she
 appeal
ed
 for
 support
 for
the strike she knew it would be granted.
 It had been
refused before on
 the
 advice
 of
 official
s
 who
 were share-
holders in Kronen’s
 Limited
.
e
ele
 amaenemd
eeaaunee
aaiaads.
——CHAPTER
 TWENTY-FIVE
A
 a magistrate of the state of Western Australia,
James
 Riddle
 was
 also
 a
 coroner.
 In his
capacity as coroner he perused the file relating to the
deaths of Colin, Elizabeth, Clarice, and Ethel Rumble.
He perused it idly until he came to the statements
obtained by the police from Paul Kronen, Peter Groom,
and Theodora Luddon.
 When he had read those he
put the file aside.
“T can’t take this inquest,” he said.
 “I know
three of the witnesses personally.
 Get a justice to
take it.”’
He did not want to encounter Theodora in any
official capacity again.
The inquest was
 taken by the Jew, Meyer,
 and the
interest and horror which had been allowed to die
down were awakened again.
 But Meyer elicited
details of the excursion to Rockingham which had
preceded Ethel Rumble’s dismissal, and the focus of
the renewed interest was not upon the bloody details
of the tragedy, but upon that excursion.
Mrs. William
 Smith,
 the wife of a suburban
 baker,
read a report of the inquest in the evening paper and
remarked to her husband :
“That story I heard about Paul Kronen and that poor
girl must have been true.
 He was left alone with her
in the car. I can just imagine what happened in that
car. That poor girl trying to hold him off! Ill never
buy another thing at Kronen’s...
 .”
Her husband took the paper from her and read the
report himself.
2223 UPSURGE
Paul Kronen said that he had been invit
ed by Groom
to make one of a party of
 four,
 consi
sting
 of himself,
Groom,
 and
 two
 girls.
 He
 did not remember
 having
met either of the girls previously.
 He did not know
that they were employees of
 Kron
en’s
 Limited, or he
would not have gone; he had
 strict
 views
 about the
relationship
 of employer
 and
 employed.
 They
 had
motored to Rockingham and for
 a while had sat
drinking cocktails and talki
ng
 in
 the
 hotel lounge.
After about an hour they left
 the
 hotel
 and
 drove back
along the road to Perth.
 Groo
m
 was
 drivi
ng
 the car.
When they came abreast of
 the
 old
 Kwin
ana,
 Groom
stopped the car and walked
 down
 to
 the
 beac
h
 with
Miss Luddon.
 He did not know why they did so, but
assumed that they wanted to enjoy the
 moonlight for
a few moments—it was a
 beaut
ifull
y
 soft, warm,
moonlit night : the warmest night
 that
 mont
h—or that
Groom wished to show the Kwin
ana
 to
 his
 comp
anion.
Groom had a particular interest
 in
 the
 Kwina
na
 becau
se
he had once taken an option over
 it
 with
a
 view
 to
 turn-
ing it into a cabaret, but he had abandone
d the project.
They were away from the
 car
 for
 perh
aps half an
hour.
 During that time he and
 Miss
 Rumb
le
 remained
in the car conversing.
 He had
 made
 no
 overt
ures of
any kind to her.
 Their conv
ersa
tion
 was
 of
 a
 purely
impersonal nature.
 When
 Groo
m
 and
 Miss
 Rumb
le
returned, the four of them dran
k
 a
 bottl
e
 of
 spark
ling
burgundy which they had brought from
 the Rocking-
ham hotel, and then drove
 back
 to
 the
 city.
Reaching Perth, they dropped Miss
 Rumble and
Miss Luddon, and Groom
 was
 drivi
ng
 him
 home when
he mentioned
 that
 the two
 girls had
 seemed
 familiar
to him.
 Groom then told him that they were
 both
employed at Kronen’s Limit
ed.
 He
 was
 very
 angry
,
and got out of the car and
 walk
ed
 home
.
UPSURGE
 23He did not know every girl who worked at Kronen’s
Limited.
 Over a thousand assistants worked there
and nearly eight hundred of them were girls. Many of
them he had never seen.
 He did not personally either
engage Or discharge employees.
 Ethel Rumble was
dismissed on the recommendation of the manager of the
department in which she worked, presumably because
she was incompetent.
 He did not know then how
long she had been in the employ of Kronen’s Limited
He signed a list containing the names of those recom-
mended for dismissal by the managers of departments
but did not notice what names it contained.
 He did
not notice either Ethel Rumble’s name or Theodora
Luddon’s name...
 .
“Tt sounds a bit thin,” the baker said.
Alloysius Briggs, a sheet-metal worker, read the
report on his way home in a tram at the end of his day
and thought : “It sounds a bit thin !"
 |
Anthony Horton, a chartered accountant and a
member of the firm of auditors and accountants who
performed the audits of Kronen’s Limited, was inclined
to accept Kronen’s statement until he read that
Kronen deposed that he had not noticed the names of
either Ethel Rumble or Theodora Luddon on the list
Horton thought that he knew Kronen better than that.
The names of the two girls would have been impressed
on his mind, and he would certainly have read through
the list... . If Kronen had told one lie, how man
more lies had he told ?
 |
 J
; Mabel Smith, a stenographer in the employ of an
insurance company, read the report and reflected that
no man of her acquaintance would buy her cocktails
and sparkling burgundy and then be content to con-
verse impersonally with her in the rear seat of a car. .
On the following morning Cynthia Groom read of the
23 UPSURGE
inquest as she lay in bed in the house
 of an old school
friend, Wilhelmina
 Potts,
 fifteen hundred
 miles away,
in Adelaide.
 The paper was brought her by a maid,
with her morning tea and wafers of
 buttered toast.
As she read, the old bitterness
 and
 rese
ntment against
her husband rolled over her
 again
.
Wilhelmina
 Potts
 came
 into
 her
 room
 with
 another
paper in her hand.
“There’s something
 about
 your husband
 here,
 my
dear,” she said.
“Tye read it,” Cynthia answered dully.
‘Do you believe he was simply show
ing
 that girl
over
 the—the—what’s
 the
 name
 otf
 it ?—that
 old
boat ?”’
“No,” said Cynthia.
 “Mina, I’ve changed my mind
about going back.
 I’m not going.
 I...”
She broke off.
“What about your ticket ?”
“Damn the ticket !’’ Cynthia said betw
een clenched
teeth.
 “Oh, Mina, if you
 would
n’t
 mind
 just leaving
me alone for a little .. . just
 a
 minu
te
 or
 two.
 .. “Of course, my
 dear,” said Wilhelmina.
Looking a little disappointed, she went
 out.
Cynthia began to cry quie
tly.
...
CHAPTER
 TWENTY-SIX
O light showed under Theodora’s door.
 Riddle
| turned slowly and descended the stairs, dis-
appointed.
 As he reached the foot the landlad
shuffled out from her cupboard under the stairs
 ”
or you looking for someone ?”’
 |
“Tf was looking
 for Miss
 °
said.
 “I’m afraid she’s a“
 me magistrate
“Miss Luddon don’t live here any more,’’ the woman
said grimly.
 |
“Indeed?
 I didn’t know that.
 When did she
move °"
“About a week ago.
 I can’t have people in my house
who get in trouble with the police.”
“Oh !”’ exclaimed Riddle softly.
“Are you a friend of hers °”’
“Yes.
 Perhaps you can give me her address ?”’
The woman eyed him with disapproval.
 |
“Well, I’ see if I can find it,’’ she said,
 and shuffled
back to her cupboard under the stairs.
 |
The magistrate waited.
 Presently the woman came
out again with a scrap of paper in her hand.
“This is the address she left. If you’ve got some-
thing to write it down on....
 I can’t give you this
because somebody else might want it.”’
Riddle noted the address and thanked her and
departed. He knew the street : a wide, mean thorough-
.
 4 rn lodging-houses.
 Why had T heodora
ne to re
 a locality ny ake
 lik that? ? He walked on until he
2323 UPSURGE
inquest as she lay in bed in the house of an old school
friend, Wilhelmina Potts, fifteen hundred miles
 away,
in Adelaide.
 The paper
 was
 brough
t
 her
 by
 a
 maid,
with her morning tea and wafers of buttered toast.
As she read, the old bitterness and resentment agains
t
her husband rolled over
 her
 again.
Wilhelmina Potts came into her room with anothe
r
paper in her hand.
“There’s something about your husband here, my
dear,” she said.
“Tye read it,’ Cynthia answered dully.
“Do you believe he was simply showing that
 girl
over the—the—what’s
 the
 name
 of
 it
 ?—that
 old
boat ?”’
“No,” said Cynthia.
 ‘Mina, I’ve changed my mind
about going back.
 I’m
 not
 going.
 I...”
She broke off.
‘What about your ticket ?”’
“Damn the ticket !’’ Cynthia said between clenc
hed
teeth.
 “Oh, Mina, if
 you
 would
n’t
 mind
 just
 leavin
g
me alone for alittle.
 .
 .
 just
 a
 minut
e
 or
 two..
.
 a
“Of course, my dear,” said Wilhelmina.
Looking a little disappointed, she went out.
Cynthia began to cry quietly....
CHAPTER
 TWENTY-SIX
O light showed under Theodora’s door.
 Riddle
| turned slowly and descended the stairs, dis-
appointed.
 As he reached the foot the landlady
shuffled out from her cupboard under the stairs.
woe you looking for someone ?”’
“T was looking
 for Miss Lud
 °
said.
 “I’m afraid she’s out.”’
 Hone”
 The magistrate
“Miss Luddon don’t live here any more,’’ the woman
said grimly.
“Indeed ? I didn’t know that.
 When did she
move °"
“About a week ago.
 I can’t have people in my house
who get in trouble with the police.”
“Oh !”’ exclaimed Riddle softly.
‘Are you a friend of hers ?”’
“Yes.
 Perhaps you can give me her address ?”’
The woman eyed him with disapproval.
“Well, I'll see if I can find it,’’ she said, and shuffled
back to her cupboard under the stairs.
The magistrate waited.
 Presently the woman came
out again with a scrap of paper in her hand.
“This is the address she left.
 If you’ve got some-
thing to write it down on....
 I can’t give you this
because somebody else might want it.”’
Riddle noted the address and thanked her and
departed. He knew the street : a wide, mean thorough-
fare of cheap lodging-houses.
 Why had Theodora
gone to a locality like that ? He walked on until he
encountered a taxi.
2323 UPSURGE
The house smelled faintly of bygone meals, but did
not seem to be dirty.
 He was shown through a dim
hall by a slatternly but pleasant-faced woman.
 She
knocked on a door and said : “A gentle
man
 to
 see
 you,
Miss Luddon,”
 and smiled and retreated.
“How did you find me here ?”’ Theodora said.
“T got your address from your previous lodgings.
You don’t seem pleased to see me.”’
She was silent.
“Aren’t you going to ask me in >” he inquired
gently.
Theodora
 made
 a helpless gesture,
 and said:
 “Yes,
come in.”
In the room there was a fragrance of face-powder
and scented soap.
 The magistrate glanced round the
bare cell. It was not more than seven feet by nine.
There was a bed,
 a chair, a varnished
 pine cupboard,
and a painted dressing-table with a tarnished mirror,
and on the floor a strip of decaying linoleum.
 The
light from an unshaded electric globe shone
 back
 from
the bare, white plaster walls and filled the room with a
hard brilliance.
“Whatever possessed you to come to a place like
this ?”’
“T had to find somewhere
 cheap.
 I pay only six
shillings a week for this.”
Riddle
 regarded
 her
 gravely
 for
 a
 moment,
 then
took her by the shoulders and said gently :
“Forgive me.
 There’s a strike, isn't there.
 I'd
forgotten the effect that would have.
 Let
 me
 help
you,
 Theodora.
 Oh,
 you
 little
 fool!
 You
 adorable
little fool! Why didn’t you let me know ?”
“There was no reason why I should let you know,”
she replied, avoiding his eyes.
 “Things ... have
changed since I first met you.
 I... liked you, but it’s
UPSURGE
 23over now.”
 She disengaged herself and sat down on
the chair.
 “I hoped you wouldn't find me here.”
The magistrate was both puzzled and distressed.
“You won’t let me help you?
 You didn’t want to
see me?
 Why,
 Theodora ?”’
She laughed,
 and the low,
 rich,
 contralto
 notes
dragged at his bowels.
“Oh, don’t you understand?
 Can’t you see that
we're on different sides ?”’
Under his breath he swore.
 That damned Com-
munist!
 This was his doing!
 But he said quietly:
“That’s nonsense, Theodora.
 Don’t you know that
I love you, my dear?
 How could we be on different
sides?
 They’re imaginary—those sides, Theodora.
They only exist in the jaundiced view of life’s failures,
my dear.”
“Did I only imagine
 that you sent my
 friends to
gaol ?”’
He
 sat
 down
 on
 the
 bed,
 which
 squeaked
 as
 it
received his weight.
‘Do you think I did that because of any personal
animus against them?
 Oh, my dear, my dear!
There are circumstances over which we have no
control... .”
“Tt was circumstances over which we had no control
that put us on different sides,’ said Theodora in a low
voice.
He drew a deep breath, silently cursing Riley.
“Even if I admit that, it doesn’t make my regard
for you the less. Let me help you, Theodora.”
She shook her head.
“I’ve already taken some help from you that I
didn’t intend to take.
 I was going to write to you.
I...
 I pawned
 those pearls you gave me.
 I got
seven pounds for them.”
23 UPSURGE
“You
 pawned
 those pearls !’" he exclaimed.
 “For
seven
 pounds !
 Oh,
 you
 little fool!
 You
 charming,
quixotic little fool!
 I gave forty-five pounds for those
pearls.
 Give me the pawn-ticket.
 Dll get them
out.”’
Touched, Theodora said: ‘You shouldn't have
 paid
so much for them.
 She
 got
 up
 quickl
y
 and
 went
 to
the cheap little dressing-t
able
 and
 took
 the
 ticket
 from
a drawer.
 Taking the ticket from her, he drew her
down on the bed beside him.
‘Will you promise me not to pawn them again
 ?”
“But... but... youre
 not
 going
 to
 give
 them
back to me ?” she protested.
 ‘“You thought I’d take
them back after... after?
 ...”
“You don’t mean you won’t take them back
 !”’
“Of course I won't!” she
 cried.
 “How
 could
 I?”
“But, my dear girl,”
 he
 said
 desper
ately,
 ““what
use are they to me?
 If you won't take them back
what am I to do with them ?”
“You have other women friends.
 One of them
would appreciate them.”
“Listen,
 my
 dear,’
 he
 said
 gently.
 “Since
 I’ve
known you I haven’t had any other women
 friends
not in the way you mean,
 not
 as
 mistre
sses.
 There'
s
no one else to whom I could
 give
 those
 pearls
.
 They
 re
your pearls, Theodora.
 Take them back.
 You'll
hurt me if you don’t.
 I
 wante
d
 you
 to
 promi
se
 not
to pawn them again only
 becau
se
 it’s
 so
 foolis
h
 when
you could come to me.”
Theodora stood up.
“You're... youre kind,’ she said.
 “T don't
want
 to hurt
 you,
 but...
 Oh,
 don’t
 you
 see
 that
it can’t go on?
 If I took them back it would mean
that it could.
 I can’t.
 Oh, go please, go!
 You're
only making it difficult.”
UPSURGE
 23Riddle, too, stood up.
 He was hurt and a little
angered.
“T certainly shan’t stay if my presence is distasteful
to
 you
 1”?
She shook her head.
 ‘“‘You don’t really misunder-
stand.
 You
 know it isn’t
 that.
 But...I
 just
can’t.
 Oh, please go!”
“Very well,” he said quietly.
 “I'll send the pearls
to you.”
She answered: “If you do I’ll have to send them
back.
 I only told you about them because I would
never have been able to get them out and it seemed
a shame that the pawnbroker should keep them.”
As he went out he thought he saw tears in her eyes,
but he was annoyed with her and did not turn back.
CHAPTER
 TWENTY-SEVEN
I
AUL
 KRONEN
 sat at his great glass-topped
desk
 in
 his
 office
 on the gallery.
 Through the
glass walls he could see the little black-clad girls
moving hurriedly, incompetently to and fro behind the
counters,
 and
 the
 thin
 streams
 of
 customers
 that
trickled through the wide aisles.
 ;
The managing director of Kronen’s Limited had lost
weight.
 His normally ruddy, bald face looked pale
and blotchy.
 His lips twitched in an ugly way.
 He
was waiting for his father.
He hated his father, but hated him secretly because
he also feared him. He hated the ageing man’s cynical
carelessness of personal dignity, his indifference to
public opinion and sentiment, his amorality.
 He had
always hated
 him.
 James
 Kronen
 had
 relinqu
ished
any right
 to
 interfe
re
 in
 the
 conduc
t
 of
 Kronen’
s
Limite
d
 and
 he
 had
 never
 presum
ed
 upon
 his
 relation
-
ship to do so. To his son this had been a source
 of
gratification, and nothing else his father had done
 or
had refrained from doing had ever gratified him. Butas
 j
he waited for his father now he hated him
 on this
 ~
account, too.
 It seemed to him that in the
 decisiv
e
 —
crisis of the firm’s existence he should not
 have
 to
plead with his father for help.
 It should have been
offered freely and willingly.
 His father was in his dotage !
His pretty secretary announced his father. The
 —
office staff had remained loyal, had accept
ed
 the
 ~
23UPSURGE
 23reduction in wages.
 Kronen
 rose as the old man
entered, returning inanely his
 father’s malicious, old
smile.
“sit down, sit down!’’ said James Kronen, waving
his stick negligently.
 “Don’t stand on ceremony for
me.”
Concealing his hatred, Paul waited till his father
was seated, then sat down himself, and pushed the
writ and the bank’s demand across the desk to him
The old man perused them.
“T misjudged you, Paul, I misjudged you,” he said,
shaking his head.
 ““You managed to stave it off
longer than
 I
 expect
ed.”
Paul leaned
 forward
 upon
 the desk which
 had cost
more than a shop-girl received in wages in a year, and
said
 tensely:
 ‘You
 realize
 what
 it
 means,
 don't
ou?”
“Do you?” queried his father.
“Tt means that unless you come to the rescue we'll
have to go into
 liquidation.
 There’s
 no
 one
 else
 I
can turn to.”
James Kronen regarded his son with amused eyes.
“Why should I come to the rescue?
 It’s not my
business.
 I’m no longer interested in it.”
“But .. . Great Scot, dad, don’t you understand ?”
“Perfectly.
 But, as I’ve said,
 I’m no longer inter-
ested in Kronen’s Limited.”’
“Do you mean you're going to see us fail without
raising a finger to help °’’ cried his son desperately.
“The business you built up yourself—from nothing!
Do you mean to say it doesn’t mean anything to
you ?”’
The old man shook his head.
 “Since I handed over
control to you, Paul—nothing.
 I have never ielt any
sentiment
 about
 business.
 In
 that,
 maybe,
 I’m
 not
24 UPSURGE
like
 ness—Kronen’s sentiment,
 me than the
 average
 a son,
 means Limited—was
 and
 business
 tol can’t an end.
 feel man.
 never I any wanted I
 anything now.
 never
wealth This felt
 more busi-
 any
 and
 to
power.
 As
 you
 know,
 I set my
 mind
 on
 a million.
When purpose I and got my was million of no further
 the busi
 use.
 ness So had I served handed its
 it
over He to extracted you.”
 a cigar from his wai
stcoat pocket and
lit Paul it unhurriedly.
 said thickly: ‘But it’s wort
h another million.
Are you going to see ‘+t fail for
 the sake of a paltry
 .
hundred thousand ?”
“Tm not interested in it, my boy.
”
The son tried to keep
 his
 voic
e
 stea
dy as he made a
last appeal.
“Tf you won’t do it for the sake
 of the business
won't you do it for my sake ?”’
James Kronen smiled, and met
 his son's eyes. Paul
turned cold.
 He had always hated his father.
 Now
for
 the
 first
 time,
 he
 realized
 that
 his
 father
 hated
him |!
“Tl call a meeting of the shareholders,’
 he whis-
pered.
James Kronen struggled to his
 feet.
“That’s right.
 Take
 it
 philosophically,
 my boy.
There’s no one amongst the shareholders
 who’s likely
to my really want yacht.
 to to worry indict She'll about.
 you be finished for Now mismanagement.
 I’m in a going week.”
 down Nothing
 to see
 |
He nodded and went out.
weak, the Paul solar as Kronen plexus.
 though slumped he His were face back recovering
 and into
 brow his were from
 chair.
 damp
 a
 blow
 He with
 felt
 on
sweat.
 Through the glass walls of his
 office on the
24UPSURGE
gallery he could see the little black-clad girls movin
aed
 to and fro behind the counters, and the
“ ‘7 Streams of customers passing along the wide
The strike had changed things.
 His
break it had failed. The strike-breakers were Sunes.
petent.
 Many of them had had no previous experience
of the work.
 They did not know the names of goods
They could not remember where goods were ke t
They could not read the private price-markings
 The |
had to refer constantly to the departmental managers
while customers were kept waiting.
 The managers
were nearly distracted.
 Trade had fallen off because
of the inefficient
 service,
 the activities of the pickets
and the prejudice that had grown up as a consequence
of the scurrilous,
 whispered
 story of his treatment
 of
Ethel Rumble, and the reports of the Rumble inquest
An atmosphere of bleakness and hopelessness seemed
to pervade
 the shop, and to creep into the soul of the
young Napoleon of commerce who sat slumped in his
chair behind the great glass-topped desk.
 He could
see through one of the doors of the shop on to the
street.
 People idled or hurried past.
 Amongst
them were the strike pickets—some of the old, efficient
employees of Kronen’s Limited, some of those who
had stabbed the firm in the back!
 A wave of self-
pity rolled over the young magnate.
 Kronen’s was
to fail because those who had lived by it, and he who
had built it, had stabbed it in the back! . . .
With
 the
 failure
 of
 Kronen’s
 Limited,
 the
 strike
came to an end.
 The affairs of the company passed
into the hands of a liquidator, who, after a consultation
Q
24 UPSURGE
with the various managers, caused notice of dismissal
to be given to more than four hundred of the new
assistants, announced the restoration of the wage-
scale prevailing before the strike, and invited the
strikers back behind the counters.
 Efficient labour
was necessary to ensure a rapid liquidation of stocks.
The strike committee met, then called a meeting of
the strikers and advised them not to return unless all
the strike-breakers were dismissed.
“No compromise !’’ Olive Curnow besought them.
‘We've compromised before.
 Right through the reign
of the old union executive we compromised.
 Where
did it get us?
 If we hold out for anothe
r
 day
 or two
they'll get rid of all the scabs.
 They
 can’t
 afford
 not
to.
 Then there’ll be jobs for us all, even though they re
only temporary jobs. To go back on the terms we're
offered now would be to victimize as many of our
comrades as there are scabs remaining at work.”
When the liquidator received the strikers’ answer
he shrugged and agreed.
 Dismissal notices were served
on the rest of the new assistants.
 Efficient labour was
necessary and there was no longer any question of the
prestige of Kronen’s Limited. ...
In a week the strikers were back at work, and great
posters plastered over the plate-glass windows of
Kronen’s Limited read:
 Liquidation Sale.
 Small
holes cut in the posters revealed the
 goods
 piled
 in
the windows—goods marked at a halt
 and
 a
 third
 of
their former prices.
 In crashing cresce
ndos
 of
 black
type the full-page advertisements in the newspapers
cried: Liquidation Sale!...
From the office on the gallery overlooking the
ground floor counters the liquidator could see the little
black-clad girls dodging to and fro behind the counte
rs,
and the customers swarming in the
 wide
 aisles.
 .
 .
 .
UPSURGE
 24While passing through the “‘free-ground”’ section of
the Karrakatta Cemetery, a grave-digger, on his way
to dig another hole, noticed something fluttering on
the mound of a recent family grave.
 He remembered
the grave:
 it contained
 the remains
 of the victims of
what
 had
 become
 known
 as the Maylands
 Tragedy.
Puzzled,
 he
 set
 down
 his
 spade
 and
 approached
 the
mound and found a sheet of newspaper held down by
a brick.
 It was a full-page advertisement of the
liquidation
 sale at Kronen’s
 Limited.
The grave-digger grunted and picked up the paper
crumpling
 it and
 stuffing
 it into
 his pocket.
 It was
part of his duty to keep the cemetery tidy.
CHAPTER
 TWENTY-EIGHT
I
HE autumn alternations of shower and sunshine
ended in a short succession of cold grey days,
and the antipodean winter closed down.
 The higher
surf of winter broke upon deserted
 white
 beaches.
Shivering in rags that were still soaked
 with
 the
 sweat
of summer, the unemployed huddled
 together
 under
the
 bandstands
 in the
 parks,
 in the
 great,
 draughty
rooms
 of the Public Library,
 in unused
 railway car-
riages,
 in latrines,
 in a thousand
 hovels.
 The
 women
of the powerful bourgeoisie gathered in the lounges of
fashionable
 hotels
 and
 drank
 cocktails
 and _
 tea,
shrieking at one another the latest fashionable catch-
cries and phrases.
 There began a series of public balls
at which it was the mode to get drunk.
 The sub-
scriptions to these balls, however,
 were
 too
 high to
permit of the general public
 attendin
g.
Rains fell in the hills and the blue waters of the
river rose and turned muddy.
One of the unemployed flung a beer bottle through
a shop window to get into gaol, where he was assured
of food and shelter, and for a fortnight afterwards
there were almost daily cases of window smashing.
On the esplanade reserve Riley and other Com-
munists made inflammatory speeches.
 The news-
papers contained reports
 of
 wars,
 strikes,
 riots, and
other excesses in every
 part
 of
 the
 world.
On June 26, at a meeting at the Trades Hall, a new
executive
 was
 elected
 to
 office
 by
 the
 Department
24UPSURGE
 24store Employees’ Industrial Union of Workers.
 It was
revolutionary.
 Olive Curnow was appointed to the
secretaryship, and on her motion the union resolved
upon a rupture of relations with the Australian Labour
Party and upon affiliation with the Militant Minority
Movement, the revolutionary temper of which was
consistent with the new outlook of the organization.
A few days later Olive Curnow offered Theodora
Luddon a post as organizer, of which there were several.
Theodora demurred, feeling inadequate for the job.
“You'd be all right,’’ Olive Curnow assured _ her.
“Most of them know you and like you.
 You’d do all
right.”
Theodora was at once fascinated and repelled by
the prospect.
 A sense of being drawn against her will
into an uncontrollable current of events oppressed her,
yet she was seized with an impulse to yield to the
current and let it take her with it where it willed.
She asked for a day or two in which to think it over
and Olive Curnow consented.
 Theodora attempted
to discuss it with Riley, but the Communist laughed,
and said :
“What do you want to talk about it for?
 You’ve
already made up vour mind.”
“I haven't,’’ Theodora protested.
“Yes you have.
 You wouldn’t want to talk about
it if you hadn’t.
 You’ve made up your mind to take
it on, and asking my advice is only a cover for some-
thing else. I don’t know what.’’
| “Do you still think I’m trying to seduce you ?”’ the
girl demanded
 with
 some
 heat.
~ Yes,” answered Riley.
 “I do.
 When you see
things as I do maybe you'll have more success.
 Listen
now I’ve got over it, Theo, I may as well tell you
something.
 Something happened to me that night I
24 UPSURGE
met your friend, Riddle, in your room. I was jealous,
as you said, and that’s the truth. I’ve got over it
since, but I don’t trust you yet, and I don’t want to
spoil you.”
Theodora’s vexation disappeared as he spoke.
 She
laughed softly and shook her head.
“Vou’re a fool, Steve!
 I'll get over you if you’re
not careful.”’
“That
 wouldn’t
 matter,’’
 a?
 Riley
 said
 deliberately.
“Tf it did
 it would
 be the
 best
 thing
 that
 could
happen.’
Next
 day
 Theodora told
 Olive
 Curnow
 that she
would take the post.
“Good girl !’’ exclaimed the secretary.
 “You'll get
the female
 basic wage ;
 one pound
 sixteen
 and nine--
 |
pence a week.
 Less than you get at Kronen ’s.”’
“Well, the job at Kronen’s will be over in three
 .
months.
 Then I’d have nothing.”
“Ts that what decided you to take on this job ?”
“No,
 but it occurred
 to me.”
“Well,” said Olive Curnow,
 “it’s what you do, not
why you do it that matters.”
When
 Theodora
 returned
 to
 her
 mean
 room
 that
 j
day she found a letter from her mother awaiting her.
 —
Her mother
 wanted
 her to return
 to Collie when
 her
 —
job at Kronen’s came to an end.
It’s good the strike 1s over [her mother wrote],
 —
but it’s terrible your job will come to an end so soon,
 —
and I don’t suppose you'll be able to get another,
It’s better when you're out of work for us all to be
together.
 We would be able to live better together.
You
 can’t
 live on sustenance by yourself, but if you |
came
 home
 we'd be able to manage better 1f we had —
your sustenance as well as our own... .
UPSURGE
 24Theodora thought of her home, of the squabbling
nd recriminations of her parents, of the squalor
 and
1-cariness of the house, of the fighting and weeping
: nd spying and backbiting of the children.
 Her
stomach revolted at the idea of going
 back.
 It
 would
: beth stter to go short of food than to endure that again.
“16 reflected that if she had not already accepted the
‘ost Olive Curnow had offered her, the prospect of
returning home would have made her accept it. She
wrote to her mother telling her of her new job, and
snclosed a pound note—all the money she had.
-
As one of a patient crowd sheltering in the corrugated
ron
 shed at the Labour
 Bureau
 from the cold drizzle
sf rain, Peter Groom
 shivered
 and tried desperately
to regard
 his
 misfortunes
 as
 part
 of
 an
 adventure.
The human flotsam and jetsam gathered in the shed
yaid no attention to him, regarding him as one of
emselves.
 Nevertheless he felt conspicuous.
 From
the shelter shed a miserable queue stretched across a
gace of muddy ground to the doors of the bureau.
he unemployed entered by one door and departed
by another.
 The queue moved slowly through the
lrizzle, for the clerks behind the counters in the bureau
ent about their work leisurely.
 The damp cold
) netrated
 Groom’s
 overcoat.
 He
 clenched
 his hands
1 the pocket of the coat and stamped his feet on the
ound, thankful that he had not sold this warm
 coat
ith the rest of his wardrobe, and regretting that he
d not kept a thicker suit. His cheeks were dark
h stubble, for he had not shaved for two days. He
1 refrained from shaving deliberately, thinking that
less he looked like his past self the better.
 He
24 UPSURGE
was glad that his shoes and hat and overcoat were
shabby from too regular wear and frequent wet. —
tings.
At last he took his place in the queue.
 As he moved
slowly forward the boisterous wind drove the rain —
into his face beneath the brim of his hat and into his —
clothes.
 He tried to hurry on the man ahead of him —
who
 turned
 and
 snarled:
 a
“Lay off!
 D’you think those bastards in there are —
goin’ to move
 any quicker for your shovin’?
 D’you —
think they care a
 that we’re gettin’ wet ?”
 |
“Sorry,” Groom muttered.
The man grunted and relapsed into damp apathy.
 _
When Groom finally reached the door of the bureay
the legs of his trousers beneath the skirts of his over-—
coat clung coldly to his legs, and the water dripped —
from the brim of his hat.
 |
At acounter a laconic clerk eyed him contemptuously d
and said :
 “Well, what do you want ?”
“T want to register,’ he answered.
 “What
 the
devil do you think I want ?”
 {
The
 clerk
 asked
 him
 a number
 of questions,
 then
filled in a card and handed it to him.
 ‘“Here’s your ticket. If you want sustenance you'll
have to apply at the Relief Depot in seven days’ time.
You won’t get any for seven days.
 Next!
 Hurry on
there |”’
 i
Groom passed out of the bureau into the drizzle
again, feeling angry and miserable.
 Adventure! ...
He made his way back to Manning’s rooms.
 Of all
his friends, it seemed, only John Graham and his wife,
and Noel Manning had failed to gloat over his mis-
fortune,
 and
 for
 a while
 since
 he
 had
 been
 staying
with Manning.
 He didn’t like sponging on Manning
UPSURGE
 24u
mm Dthe journalist would have to put up with him for
nother seven days.
“Tn Manning’s rooms he took off his wet outer clothes
ed hung them before an electric radiator to dry.
 If
he hadn’t been a fool, he told himself, he would have
ept at least one change
 of clothing.
 He
 put
 on an
old and worn pair of flannel trousers belonging to his
ae
1Ws
 ; Manning
 did not
 return
 for lunch,
 but
 the little,
sarrassed maid-of-all-work
 employed
 at the rooming-
souse brought in lunch on a
 tray, and Groom
 ate
- The
 sky
 cleared
 in the
 afternoon.
 The
 sun
 shone
with a pleasant warmth.
 Groom’s clothes had dried
so he put them on and
 went
 out to mouch about in
the streets.
 Time
 had
 hung
 heavily on his hands
since the last of his
 money
 had
 gone.
 He walked
spout aimlessly till he found himself in Kings Park,
overlooking the city from the river heights.
 He was
still depressed.
 The wide beauty of the park passed
under him and over him.
 He walked gloomily under
he magnificent trees.
From the stone terrace of a war memorial he looked
down on the panorama of city and river. The brick
and stone and concrete cliffs of the city reared them-
selves
 behind
 the
 gardens
 along
 the
 water-front.
Groom reflected that every building in that huddled
mass meant money.
 He saw the city suddenly from
new point of view: in terms of money.
 Millions
and millions of pounds sterling were frozen there in
he huddled
 mass
 of the city,
 and
 every
 penny
 of it
yelonged to somebody else.
 The riches of the anti-
des were these beneath him, and not a penny of it
yuld he touch.
 ...
As he gazed down upon the wealth piled there he
25 UPSURGE
hated
 the
 city.
 It
 was
 like
 his
 friends
 with
 their
secret smiles, like his perfidious wife, like the insolent —
clerks behind the counters of the Labour Bureau.
He retraced his way slowly.
 .
Ten
 days
 later
 the
 erstwhile
 idler,
 Peter
 Groom,
with twenty-two other men, was drafted to the Bride.
ways
 River
 relief works
 in the district of Wilmot, —
about a hundred miles south of the capital.
 |
CHAPTER
 TWENTY-NINE
I
WN the little township of Wilmot the police force
| had been strengthened on account of the proximity
of the relief camp, eleven miles west towards the sea.
‘he shopkeepers and property-owners of the town
ived
 in a state of omnipresent uneasiness as though
he community
 of unemployed
 at Brideways
 River
as a magazine
 of explosives
 which
 might
 blow
 up
nd wipe Wilmot out.
 Bands of unemployed from
he camp would make their way into the township
ter they had drawn their relief pay, and plunge into
sbauchery.
 Uncomprehending mothers turned them
to bogeys with which to frighten themselves and
eir children, and the men played unconsciously on
he
 women’s fears by making water in the streets, and
aking the town echo with their obscenities.
Brideways rose like a city of canvas from the black
ad. Past it ran the half-excavated canal into which
e Brideways River was to be diverted to irrigate the
rounding country.
 The relief-workers were digging
canal, fifteen miles long and a chain wide and from
een to thirty feet deep, with picks and shovels and
eel-barrows.
 The men worked on the excavation
-a scattered army of ants, filling their barrows each
th seven shovelfuls of sand and trundling them up
planks laid on the long inclines from the bottom
he canal to the embankment.
 Gangers supervised
work.
hun an ant, the young
 idler,
 Peter
 Groom,
 filled
2525 UPSURGE
his barrow
 and began
 to wheel it up the incline.
 By
the time he reached the top his legs and arms felt weak
and his back ached dully.
 He sat down on the barrow —
for a moment, wiping away the sweat that had broken —
from
 his
 brow.
 But
 a
 man
 in
 a
 khaki
 shirt
 and
breeches and field boots called out:
“Hey, you!
 That won’t do. Get
 on
 with
 your
work,
 now !”
 .
Groom glared at him for a moment, but the man —
looked
 like
 one
 in
 authority,
 so
 he
 rose
 resentfully ]
and wheeled
 the barrow
 back into the excavation, |
Taking
 up
 his shovel
 he began
 to load
 his barrow
again.
 The
 sand was not black but yellow at the
bottom of the excavation.
 The shovel sank into it
easily, yet there
 seemed
 to
 be
 so little strength left in
his arms that
 he
 had
 to
 thrust
 it in with his foot. It_
was an agony
 to
 grip
 the
 shovel.
 His hands had not
had time
 to
 callouse,
 and
 were
 blistered
 and raw.
“Rive
 shovels
 is
 enough
 for
 any
 man
 to push up !
that slope,”
 said
 the
 man
 working
 beside
 him.
 “Seven
kills
 a
 man
 !”’
 |
“Ves,”
 he
 answered
 apathetically,
 loading
 his
barrow.
His breath came heavily.
 He was conscious of the
ganger watching
 him.
 He
 filled
 his barrow and began
the long ascent again. He was filled with a dee D
resentment. Men worked like this for eight hours a
day, day after day, year after year; men began to
work like this as soon as the years brought them
strength enough, and continued to work till the years
took their strength away.
 With
 an energy born of
his resentment he thrust the barrow forward.
 But
the pain from his blistered hands stabbed through
him, and he gritted his teeth and went more slowly.
Tipping the barrow on the embankment he looked
UPSURGE
 25yund for the man in breeches and boots, and,
 failing
Be cee him, rested for a moment or two.
 He
 felt at
syne with the sullen, bitter, proletarian mass
 whose
hatred charged the atmosphere of the camp.
 He was
airtier than he had ever been previously in his life,
and there were no showers in the camp.
 The govern-
Brent wouldn’t install showers.
 The government said
that it would
 provi
de
 the
 materi
al, but the men
would
 have
 to
 install
 the
 showers’
 themselves,
snd in their own
 time, if they wanted
 them.
 The
men refused.
 Of course they refused, Groom thought
resentfully.
 They hadn't built the camp on a wilder-
ness of black sand where it was impossible to keep
clean.
 They were only in the place at all under con-
straint.
 No
 showers,
 and
 a latrine that was
 simply
an open ditch with a scantling frame
 to sit on.
 An
open ditch for two thousand men to
 in.
 When-
ever the wind blew over the latrine the whole camp
smelled like a
 house.
 Four days’ back-breaking
work a fortnight for food and a
 filthy tent
 and
 no
showers and an open trench to
 in!...
& He thought
 he had better get back or the ganger
would
 miss
 him.
 The
 ganger,
 Baskerville,
 was
 the
ultimate
 swine.
 The
 erstwhile
 idler
 got
 up
 from
the barrow
 and
 wheeled
 it
 back
 into
 the
 excava-
10n.
“You took a bloody long time to dump that barrow,”
said the ganger,
 Baskerville.
“Seven shovels is too damn much !”’ retorted Groom.
“Why don’t you try wheeling a barrow out yourself
or a while r
The ganger leered at him and said:
 “Get on with
_ Silvertail.’’
The whistle blew at last, and the men swarmed out
[ the excavation.
 Groom felt as exhausted as he
25 -
 UPSURGE
had felt after his first day.
 As they trudged back to
the camp they reviled the ganger, Baskerville.
“The bastard’s forgotten he was ever a man himself !”’
‘“?R’s only doin’ what ’e’s there for. ‘E’s there to
drive us, an’ the supe’s there to drive ‘im, an’ if the
supe don’t do ‘is drivin’ voluntary, there's someone
else to drive ’1m.”’
‘Maybe he zs there to drive us, but he don’t have
to stand over us like a bloody slave-driver.
 Basker-
ville’s a natural bastard.
 ’E kes slave-drivin’ !”’
Groom joined in their curses.
 The men were
beginning to accept him.
 At first they had treated
him with suspicion, which had puzzled and distressed
him.
 After he had worried over the phenomenon for
a day or two he had asked his tent-mate, the ex-struc-
tural steel-worker,
 Thomas
 Hart.
Hart had regarded him curiously.
‘Because you look like a bloody silvertail, I suppose.
What
 was
 you before
 you came
 here, anyway ?”’
And
 Groom
 had told him.
 At first the other was
incredulous,
 but
 when
 he had
 asked
 a few
 questions
he had accepted the story.
 He had laughed.
‘What are you laughing at ?’’ Groom had demanded.
He recalled Hart’s grin.
“I suppose you never read the Commumst Mant-
festo ?”’
“No.”
“Well,
 in
 the
 Communist
 Manzfesto
 it says
 the
leisured classes spend half their time chasin’ round
after each other’s wives.
 I was just thinkin’ how
bloody true it was!"
Even Hart had been suspicious, but thereafter he
had seemed to shed his suspicions.
 Now others were
accepting him,
 too.
There
 were
 over
 two
 thousand
 men
 in the camp.
UPSURGE
 25They belonged to all sections of the
 proletariat. th
professional classes, and the petty
 bourgeoisie ‘The
mass was proletarian, homogeneous,
 sullen and bitt :
Middle-class elements reaching the camp
 either et.
tisoned the past and were absorbed
 by the mass or
held themselves apart, forming separate
 little cliques
and coteries and denying by their
 pathetic dignit
their simulated cheerfulness, their caref
ul atcenkuation
of all that differentiated them from the prole
tariat,
the misfortunes that threatened to identify
 them with
it. Groom had no sympathy for them.
 The menta]
independence consequent upon the wealth and
 leisure
he had enjoyed in the past left him free of
 any will
to pretend to be now what he was no
 longer. He
was
 contemptuous
 of their pretences.
 Did
 it matter
that one relief-worker had been an accounta
nt and
another a labourer?
 They were both labourers now
They
 lived
 on
 their
 vanity,
 calling
 it “‘self-res
 ect”.
They refused to associate themselves with the
 com
plaints of the rest, preferring to do without a
 sanitar
service, to do without showers, to sweat up the incli
nes
of the canal pushing barrows loaded with seve
n shovels
of sand rather than admit, even to themselves
, that
they had a grievance in common with the prole
tariat |
And men like that dominated the camp comm
ittee,
the supposititiously elected body that the
 su er-
intendent had brought into existence to prov
ide ‘the
camp with a means of voicing its grievanc
es.
 Half
their grievances the committee refused
 to state !
There was trouble brewing over the committee.
 .
Groom trudged tiredly over the black sand
 with his
companions.
 As they reached the camp they fell
Silent. To enter the camp was like entering
 a squalid
city. The tents were erected in blocks
 and streets
like a city, and every tent was grey with
 an impregna-
25 UPSURGE
tion of the fine black sand.
 Little clouds of black
dust rose from their
 feet
 as
 they
 moved along.
 Before
the entrances of the
 tents
 were
 the
 piled
 ashes
 of the
cooking fires, from
 some
 of
 which
 thin
 curls
 of
 smoke
arose.
 Scattered about on the ground near the ash-
piles, or hanging on stakes driven into the
 sand, were
blackened billy-cans
 and
 frying
-pans,
 keros
ene-tin
buckets, pannikins, and
 whatn
ot.
 Despi
te
 the
 advan
ced
winter, and the coolin
g
 evenin
g,
 the
 fly
 swarm
s
 lin-
gered, crawling about
 sluggi
shly.
 Here
 and
 there
men were re-lighting the fires preparatory
 to cooking
the evening meal.
Groom felt grateful for the arrangement
 he had
made with Hart where
by
 whoev
er
 was
 not
 worki
ng
did the cooking.
 The
 camp
 worke
d
 in
 gangs
 of
 about
seven hundred men.
 Each gang worked for four days
then knocked off and another took its place,
 so that
although each man
 worke
d
 only
 four
 days
 in
 each
fortnight the work
 went
 on
 conti
nuous
ly,
 excep
t
 on
Sundays which were
 kept
 holy.
 Hart
 was
 in
 a
 dif-
ferent gang.
Reaching his tent, he nodded to Hart,
 who was
peeling potatoes for
 their
 meal,
 and
 entere
d
 the tent.
The bunk, made of sacking and green
 poles, creaked
as he lay down.
 His
 limbs
 ached
 with
 fatigue.
 He
began to think of Cynth
ia
 in
 an
 apath
etic
 way.
 The
years he had spent with her seemed almos
t infinitely
remote, but his resen
tment
 agains
t
 her
 seeme
d to have
burned itself out...
 .
When Hart told him the meal was ready
 he dragged
himself from his bunk
 and
 ate
 enorm
ously
 despite his
fatigue. Then he went back to his bunk
 and presently
fell asleep.
The brazen clamour of a great gong summ
oned him
to work again in
 the
 morni
ng.
UPSURGE
 25From
 all over
 the
 camp
 men
 converged
 upon
 th
open space between the camp and the excavation A
big fire had been lit and its ruddy glare illumined thei
sullen faces.
 By the fire was a stump upon which a
orator was mounted, addressing the crowd.
 :
ve What’s the use of a camp committee if the
won t do what we want?
 They tell us we can’t do
anything about it, comrades, because there’s no
machinery for sacking the committee. No machinery !”
—the orator spat angrily and contemptuously.
 “We
elected the bloody committee, didn’t we? ...”
The flames of the fire flickered as they were fanned
by a newly-awakened breeze, and to the nostrils of
the crowd was borne the smell of the latrines. Men
grimaced.
 A few cursed.
 |
‘There it is!’ shouted the orator.
 “Every night
when the wind comes up the whole camp’s fouled
with it! ...”
 |
The speaker went on, working himself into a fury
There were shouts
 and interjections.
 Men
 heaped
wood on the fire till the flames leapt ten feet into the
air, and, attracted by the red glare, more men wan-
dered from the city of tents to swell the sullen crowd
at the meeting-place.
The angry orator said that the camp committee
had received instructions to complain of the latrines
to the Minister for Works and Unemployment who, a
few days previously, had visited the camp.
 The
committee had not done so because they had deemed
the matter too delicate to broach.
 The Minister
might have been shocked by being reminded that men
had to
 ! And eat in the bloody smell of it!
The committee was nothing but a bunch of supe’s
R
25 UPSURGE
toadies.
 There
 wasn’t
 a
 man
 of
 real
 working-class
origin on it.
‘|, they make representations. Representations|
They go to the supe and say: ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘No, sir,’
and come
 back
 and tell us we’re being unreasonable !
Some of our complaints are never made at all—like
our demand for a sanitary service. Will they com-
plain that loading barrows with seven shovels of sand
and pushing them up those bloody slopes is work no
man can do for eight hoursa day?
 Will they demand
that showers are put up?
 We didn't put this camp
on
 fine black
 sand.
 We
 didn’t
 choose
 a spot
 where
it’s impossible for any man to keep clean... .”
When the speaker became hoarse another took his
place....
The relief workers muttered as they drove their
shovels into the yellow sand and wheeled their barrows
up the inclines. The sand was being dug on a level
twenty feet below the embankments on to which it
had to be dumped ; the plank-paths laid on the slopes
for the wheel-barrows were sixty and seventy and
eighty yards long.
A sturdy, grim-visaged ex-stevedore said to the
ganger: “It’s too much fora man!
 I'll be shot if I
take up another with seven in it !”’
He heaped five good shovels of sand on to his wheel-
barrow and stooped to the handles.
 The ganger
placed himself in the path of the barrow.
 His eyes
S
 were filled with a cold, threatening glare.
S “You don’t take any empty barrows out of here,”
he said:
 “Load that barrow or go and take your
time.
 Any man here who doesn’t care to load his
barrow can take his time,’”’ he added, raising his voice.
UPSURGE
 25The
 ex-stevedore glowered
 and stood for
 a moment
irresolutely, holding the handles of the barrow.
 At
last he lowered
 them
 and
 took
 up
 his
 shovel
 again.
There was no sustenance for any man discharged from
qarelief camp.
 The relief workers muttered and cursed
the ganger, Baskerville, but they loaded their barrows
with seven shovels of sand.
Peter Groom asked resentfully : “How much deeper
are we going ?”
“Seven feet, silvertail,”’ said the ganger, grinning.
“Get on with it!”
That night a meeting of the relief-workers declared
the
 camp
 committee
 dissolved,
 and
 in
 its
 place
appointed a “council of action’? composed
 of twelve
men, of whom the leader, an ex-steel-moulder named
Thomas McClintock, and three others, Harry Giles, an
ex-stone-mason, Jack Fullerton, an ex-mechanic, and
William Gruder, an ex-shearer, were Communists.
On the following morning the council of action, at
the head of two or three hundred men who were not
on the working gang, went to the assembly tent
adjacent to the administrative
 offices which
 had been
provided for the use of the camp committee and took
possession of it. Some of the committee-men were in
the tent.
McClintock said: ‘Come on, you boss's toadies,
get out! This camp is going to be run by the rank
and file from now on.”
The president of the deposed committee, calling to
him all the dignity he had acquired in the course of
twenty years in company secretaryships, cried out
that it was an outrage.
 But McClintock and his com-
panions advanced threateningly into the tent, and,
fearing rough handling, the committee-men got out
precipitately.
 Casting his dignity to the winds,
26 UPSURGE
the president
 scrambled
 out
 under
 the
 canvas
wall.
Then McClintock, with Giles, Fullerton, and Grude
r,
went to the superintendent and demanded
 that
shower-baths
 and
 a_
 prope
rly
 organ
ized
 sanit
ary
service be instal
led
 in
 the
 camp.
“These requests,’ said the superintendent,
 “have
already been made by the camp committee.
 They
were referred
 to
 Perth
 and
 you'v
e
 had
 an
 answe
r.
The government
 is
 willin
g
 to
 provi
de
 the
 mater
ials
 for
the construction of showers if you are willin
g
 to
 erect
them at your own cost and in your own
 time.
 As for
the sanitary service—if you want it you'll
 have
 to
organize it yourselves and provide the
 mater
ial
 your-
selves.
 The government
 has no suitable material
available since
 all
 exist
ing
 pan
 services are conducted
by
 local
 authorities.”
“We're in this camp under constraint,’ said
 McClin-
tock, “and it’s the
 government’s job to make it
habitable, not ours.
 We didn't ask to come here;
we were sent here.
 We
 were told that we could come
here or starve.
 We...”
“Tm not
 going
 to listen to you,” the superintendent
replied.
 “The camp committee was created for
 the
purpose of intercourse between the camp
 autho
ritie
s
and you men.
 If the committee has
 any
 furthe
r
representations to make I’ll listen, but
 I’m
 not
 going
to discuss
 anyth
ing
 with
 indiv
idual
s.”
McClintock said: ‘“The camp committee’
s no longer
-n existence.
 It wouldn’t observe the
 wishe
s of the
i
 rank and file so it was dissolved.
 We're
 not
 here as
l
 l individuals but as the duly elected repre
senta
tives
 of
the workers in this camp.’
The superintendent frowned.
“T know
 all about that,’ he remarked.
 ‘There are
UPSURGE
 20a number
 of malcontents
 in this camp
 who
 imagine
it’s only
 necessary
 to
 pass
 a resolution
 at
 a meeting
of some
 minority
 faction
 to
 upset
 all constitutional
guthority.
 You
 object
 to the committee
 because
 it
won t give expression to the views of a few extremists.
You may as well understand the position once and for
all. The committee was elected three months ago for
a period of twelve months, and as far as I am con-
cerned the committee is the only body competent to
speak on behalf of the men until it resigns or its term
expires.
“Tf that’s your last word .. .’ began McClintock.
“That’s my last word.”
“Will you discuss the loading of barrows?
 Seven
shovelfuls is too much
 to
 wheel
 up
 the
 slopes.
 All
except the strongest
 of us...”
“TI
 won’t
 discuss
 that
 or
 any
 other
 question,”
answered
 the superintendent.
Mounted on the stump of a jarrah tree and thrown
into relief by the red light of the fire, McClintock
addressed sixteen hundred relief-workers.
«
 and if a man refuses to load seven shovels
he’s
 told
 he can take his time.
 He knows what that
means—star
vation,
 or
 something
 mighty near it.
But listen, comrades,
 the government
 can refuse sus-
tenance to one man who’s sacked from a relief camp,
or to a dozen men, but it daren’t refuse a thousand.
To-morrow we'll all refuse to load more than five
shovels, and if any man’s sacked we'll use a weapon
and an argument that we haven’t used yet. The
superintendent refuses to discuss the matter with us ;
the government won’t reply to our telegrams; but
26 UPSURGE
they’ll talk turkey when we use direct action. If we
can’t get satisfaction from the supe we'll get it from
the fountain-head of oppression in Perth.
 We'll walk
out in mass.
 We'll march out in mass, as an organized
army of victims of the class-war.
 We'll march on
Wilmot and billet on the town till the government
provides us with a train to take us to Perth.
 And
when we reach Perth we'll march to the Treasury,
still as an army, and demand the right to live not as
slaves but as men !”’
Peter Groom was conscious of a growing tenseness,
The speaker fell silent and for
 a moment the crowd
about him, too, was silent.
 Then some mass restraint
snapped
 and
 a deep-throated
 roar of approval went
up.
 The
 young
 idler felt a wave
 of reckless
 elation
sweep over him... .
When the gong clanged in the morning he turned
out eagerly.
 The sense of elation was still upon him.
As he joined the others making their way to the
excavation he was surprised at their grim and unsmiling
mien.
The ganger, Baskerville, said: “I’m told there’s
trouble brewing among you fellers. You may as well
know where you stand before you start. The man
that don’t load his wheel-barrow’s going to take his
time, as I’ve told you before. And if none of you
load your barrows, as I’m told you've planned, youll
 e
 p e
 eall take your time. There’s going to be no job-control
in this camp, so get on with it !”
 ,
 a e
The
 men
 heard
 him
 in silence,
 and
 when
 he had
 ©
 e efinished went grimly to where their various barrows
stood.
 Groom loaded his barrow with five shovels of
sand, and stooped to the handles.
 The voice of the
ganger rang out sharply :
“Seven
 shovels,
 silvertail |”’
UPSURGE
 26“Get—— |!’ he answered between his teeth and
began to wheel his barrow out.
In two strides the ganger reached him, caught him
py
 the
 arm
 and
 wrenched
 him
 round.
 The
 barrow
tipped and the yellow sand spilled out.
“Did you hear what I said?
 Full your barrow or
get your time
 !""
“Bive shovels is enough for any man to wheel out,”
Groom retorted, glaring into the eyes of the ganger.
“Tf you re not satisfied with that I will take my time.”’
“Tf you're not satisfied with that we'll all take our
time, Baskerville !’’ said a man nearby.
There was an angry chorus of: “Yes!”
“Suit yourselves,” said the ganger grimly.
 “Take
my orders or
 take
 your
 time
 !”’
The relief-workers flung down their shovels and
climbed out of the excavation, and along the three
miles of excavation upon which work was being done
similar
 colloquies
 were
 followed
 by
 similar
 con-
sequences.
CHAPTER
 THIRTY
I
HE
 dust rose from the feet of sixteen: hundred
rebellious
 outcasts,
 unwashed
 and
 unshaven,
who marched in column of four along
 the sandy track
that wound through the thin forest of
 jarrah between
the Brideways River relief camp and
 the township of
Wilmot.
 With them marched the young idler, Peter
Groom. From somewhere a number
 of red flags had
been obtained
 and these were borne aloft at the
 head
of the procession.
 As they
 marched
 they
 sang the
songs of the
 revol
ution
.
When
 the
 citizens
 of
 Wilmot
 saw
 the
 column
approaching they displayed every
 sign of panic,
Many of the shopkeepers hastily close
d their doors.
The police ran out and strung themselves
 in open order
across the main street, and when
 the column drew —
near raised their hands as a signal to halt.
 The leaders —
being halted, arrested but the and men began in the to shout
 rear threateningly.
 thoug
ht they were The ©
 :
spreading quarter-mile found themselves in a long crowd
 column in across
 danger broke
 the
 of
 street
 being and . surged
 surrounded The six forwa
 police rd,
 by —
 ~
 ]
theBut angry the police relief-workers.
 were concerned only
 with
 preve
nting
 —
trouble.
 A collo
quy
 ensue
d
 with
 the
 leader
s. McClin- —
tock until said the government that they proposed saw fit
 to to
 billet
 provide
on
 them
 the town
 with —
transport man of the to local the capital, authority.
 and Presently asked
 to
 see
 the
 the
 chai
 chait
 rman
 -
 —
2626UPSURGE
| appeared, 4 fat and pompous
 grocer, trying desper-
ately to impose dignity upon his apprehensi
on.
 He
said:
“What is the meaning of this invasion Q”?
McClintock explained,
 and added:
 “If you have
any influence with the government you'd better
 use it
to get us that train
 quick
ly.
 In
 the
 mean
time
 you'll
have to find billets for us.”
“Billets ?” cried the chairman.
 “It’s impossible.
Billets? There
 are
 twice
 as
 many
 of you as the
opulation
 of the town!”
McClintock laughed.
“TI don’t mean private billets,’’ he said.
They could sleep in the town hall, the churches, and
the buildings on the Agricultural Show Ground.
 They
had
 some
 money,
 and
 what
 provender
 they
 needed
they would buy.
 If no train was made available before
their mone
y
 ran
 out,
 however, the town would have
to provi
de
 them
 with
 food.
The chairman
 agreed,
 because
 he could
 do nothing
else.
With
 his
 lieutenants,
 McClintock
 repaired
 to
 the
post office and sent a long telegram to the Premier.
When
 the
 postal
 clerk
 asked
 for
 payment,
 he
 said
roughly:
“Charge it at the other end !""
In the morning heavy police reinforcements and a
number of journalists arrived from the capital. Never
had so many police been seen in the streets. The
journalists went about amongst the townspeople and
the relief-workers, questioning and probing,
 and
through the afternoon and evening the telegraph lines
were so burdened with press and official messages that
a
 mons
 was delayed.
 The messages were
|
 ,y
 e relief-workers were quiet and orderly.
26 UPSURGE
Their orderliness, however, was regarded
 aS more
ominous than rioting, and there was
 relief
 in
 the
 town
when it was
 known
 that
 a
 special
 train
 was
 on
the way.
In the
 cold
 early
 morning drizzle
 Groom
 crowded
into
 a compartment
 with
 eleven
 other men,
 two of
 |
whom were McClintock and Gruder.
 The train started
and gathered speed, driving through the cold
 mist of ©
rain. Many of the relief-workers
 had
 had
 nothing
 to —
eat, for the rain had
 made
 it difficult to cook in the
open air.
 They looked forward to a stop at a refresh-
ment
 station, and hot tea and coffee, pies and scones,
 —
But the train ran through all stations, blowing long
blasts on the whistle and maintaining speed.
“They're giving us a non-stop run,’ McClintock
remarked.
The countryside hid behind a grey veil of rain, but
despite the rain the platforms en rouie were crowde
d
with country-folk, with agricultural
 worker
s
 who
cheered the ‘““Brideways River Army” as the
 special -
passed.
 Some of the platforms
 display
ed
 red
 flags.
It was cold, but there was a warm fug
 in the com-
partment.
 The grey veil of
 rain
 stretch
ed
 over the
countryside without end.
At two o’clock in the afternoon the train drew
 into
Fast Perth, a station short of the capital,
 and stopped.
Groom, sitting by a window,
 droppe
d
 the
 protecting
glass and thrust out his head and gasped.
 The platform swarmed with police. The
 police
who had been sent from Perth
 to
 Wilmot
 as
 reinforc
e-
ments were pouring out of the van at the rear
 of the
train. A guard came quickly along the train,
 locking
the doors of the compartments
,
 and
 behind
 him
 came
UPSURGE
 26three burly police in plain clothes and
 the sergeant
from Wilmot.
The sergeant pointed into a compartment.
 One of
the plain clothes police unlocked it and dragged out a
man, who was passed back to other police.
- Someone shouted: “‘They’re arresting the council !’”
- Groom drew in his head and looked in a startled
we y at McClintock and Gruder.
 The former was
already on his feet.
_ “They’re arresting the council.
 Quick!
 The other
doo
 e
_ The leader tried it.
- “It’s locked,’’ he said between his teeth.
_ Gruder opened a window, thrust out his head, then
withdrew it and looked round scowling.
“It’s no use.
 There are police on that side, too.”
The compartment darkened a little as the sergeant
and plain clothes men appeared at the windows.
Peering in, the sergeant perceived
 McClintock and
Gruder and said something to his
 companions.
 A
plair clothes man
 opened
 the
 door
 and
 beckoned
 to
the two leaders.
“Come on, you!’’ he said roughly.
i! What are we wanted for °’’ McClintock inquired.
Fs travelling without tickets,’ answered the other
vith a grin.
 “Come on!’
“But we're all travelling without tickets !’’ exclaimed
sxsTOOM.
The plain clothes man gave him a glance, but made
© comment.
)Are
 you
 coming?’
 he said
 to McClintock
 and
Beer.
 Or have we got to drag you out 2”
Ewe re coming, said McClintock quietly.
ney stepped out on to the platform and disappeared
nd the ranks of uniformed police. The sergeant
la
26 UPSURGE
and plain clothes men
 went
 on, leaving the compart-
ment door unlocked behind them.
The stationary train jerked suddenly and shudd
ered
 ~
with a series of heavy shocks.
 Thro
ugho
ut
 its
 lengt
h
 |
sounded the crashing and clanging
 of
 colli
ding
 buffer
s,
 —
There was a clank of couplings being
 thrown back,
 —
then moveda away chuff-chuffing from
 the ofcarri
 steam ages.
 from the engine
 as it
 |
From the platform came shouts of:
 “Allout!
 The
train’s not going any further !”
Groom got out.
 The relief-workers were Swarming |
out of the train, and the police, in
 their long, caped
great-coats, were hustling them off the
 platform.
 Men
were dashing back to their comp
artm
ents
 for
 their
baggage with police at their heels. Men
 were struggling
into
 ragged
 overcoats
 to
 protect
 themselves
 against
the
 rain.
 Men
 were
 carrying
 swags,
 bundles
 of
clothing, billy-cans, frying-pans.
 All were being hustled.
through the station by the police.
 ‘
Groom had barely time to grasp the impor
t of the
scene before a constable
 shout
ed
 at
 him:
 “Come on! Get going ! Don’t stand there
 gaping |”
He went hurriedly back
 into
 his
 comp
artm
ent in
the grip of a sudden panic.
 Half a dozen men reached
for the luggage on the overhead racks and
 under the
|
seats at once.
“Hurry up,’ the constable said grim
ly from the
|
doorway.
“We're coming,” Groom answered.
 “Can't you see
|
we're coming?”
Laden with his belongings, he stum
bled
 on to the
platform again, and seemed to run
 a gauntlet of police
all shouldering him, pushing him this
 way and that,
through the barriers on to the street.
 |
In
 the
 street
 outside
 the
 station
 the
 Brideway
UPSURGE
 26River Army gathered pitifully in the rain, a leaderless
mob
 of unemployed.
 A
 cordon
 of
 troopers
 rode
through them, cutting them in half.
 Half of them
‘streamed one way, half the other. The police herded
them
 like
 cattle
 in
 a
 drafting-yard,
 turning small
gl oups
 of them
 into
 lanes
 or
 side
 streets,
 harrying
them, scattering them.
Wet to the skin and almost weeping with humiliation
and
 rage,
 Peter
 Groom
 escaped
 from
 the
 confusion
and set out for the rooms of his friend, Noel Manning.
He knew of nowhere else to go.
 His anger was directed
against
 the police
 and
 was not unmixed with
 amaze-
ment. The police, whom he had regarded as
 the
custodians of his rights and privileges,
 he
 saw
 through
his rage as hired bravoes, as churlish bullies, as the
minions of an oppressive tyranny that stood between
him and the least right he thought to possess.
Cold and angry, he hurried through the rain. His
way took him past the central railway station.
 He
saw the police dispersing a crowd
 that
 had
 gathered
 to
welcome
 the
 Brideways
 River
 men.
 Some
 arrested
men were being bundled into motor-cars.
 Lying in a
sutter was a red banner
 which
 bore
 the
 hammer
 and
kle of the Communist
 party
 and
 looked
 as
 though
t had been trampled underfoot
CHAPTER
 THIRTY-ONE
I
OLDING
 her umbrella over her head, Theodora
hurried back to the headquarters of the Com.
munist party. She was cold and hungry. She had
been waiting outside the station with Riley and Martin:
Peacelove since one o’clock.
 No one had known what
time the train would get in. The railway officials had
been instructed not to give any information.
 Cold,
driving rain! . . . The police, beasts! ...
 But even
if the police had not brought off that unexpected coup
at East Perth, the demonstration that had
 been
planned would have been ruined by
 the
 rain.
 |
Arriving at her destination, she found Riley
 and
Peacelove, from whom she had been separated in the
preaking-up of the crowd, already there with Peace-
love’s wife, Anna,
 and several others.
 They made no
attempt to hide their chagrin at the debacle.
“Have you heard anything?’ Theodora
 asked,
shaking the water from her umbrella.
“They arrested the leaders,” Peacelove said. “But
we'll get them out. The men must be got together
again or everything that’s been done will go for
nothing.
 See Olive Curnow, comrade, and tell her
she’s to arrange
 for the Trades
 Hall for a meeting
to-night.
 Then come back unless your own
 work's
pressing.
 We're getting out a special issue
 of th
Red Star.”
 |
Theodora nodded and went out.
 She would hav
to forgo
 the
 lunch
 she had been looking forward to
27UPSURGE
 27al she was hungry; she had had nothing to eat
since a slice of toast with a cup of tea in the early
morning.
 A month had elapsed since she joined the
Party, and it was not easy—trying to do her work as
a union collector—she was not really an organizer, she
hought—as well as the little odd jobs that Riley and
Peacelove heaped upon her. Nevertheless, she felt a
ittle proud of being a member of the Party.
a
iea The
 State Parliament
 began
 sitting at four in the
afternoon, and sat, as a rule, till fairly late at night.
At ten o’clock the Premier was informed that a deputa-
tion from the Brideways kiver men wanted to see
lim.
 He was not surprised,
 for a few minutes
 earlier
1e had received a telephone message from the Trades
Hall informing him that the deputation was on its
yay. The deputation comprised twenty men;
 he
agreed to see three of them, and McClintock, Giles and
Gruder, who had been released on bail, were therefore
admitted.
“JT can only give you five minutes,’’ the Premier
said, frowning, ‘‘so say what you have to say as briefly
s possible.”’
He conned over the phrases of his answer while
McClintock spoke ; he had spent the last ten minutes
Tso in arranging them.
 When the Brideways River
ader had finished, he said :
“The government will discuss the conditions at the
ideways Kiver camp with the appointed repre-
ntatives of the men when, and only when, the men
ave returned and resumed work under existing con-
tions.
 There
 is a train back
 at nine o’clock
 on
mday morning.
 Passes will be made available for
27 UPSURGE
that
 train,
 and
 until then
 meal
 and
 bed
 tickets wil]
 —
be issued by the government.
 They
 will be issued,
 —
however, on the express understanding that you return
to Brideways by that train, and your acceptance will —
be assumed to mean acceptance of the government’s |
terms.”’
The
 deputation
 returned
 to
 the
 Trades
 Hall
 and
informed the men of the Premier’s answer.
“We've got what we wanted, comrades,’ McClin-—
tock said.
 “The government doesn’t dare let us_
starve.
 We're not going back.
 The Premier knows
we're not going back except on our own terms, but
he’s got to preserve his face. We'll see on Monday
how
 much
 he
 likes
 the
 idea
 of
 sixteen
 hundred
organized men starving.
 . . .”
 But on Monday at midday when the men applied
for
 further
 meal
 and
 bed
 tickets,
 none
 were
 forth-
coming, and the men’s leaders were informed by an
official of the Trades Hall that they would not be
permitted
 to meet
 there again.
 The evening press
said :
 .
BRIDEWAYS
 RIVER MEN BREAK PROMISE TO
RETURN.
 |
GOVERNMENT STANDS FIRM.
That night there was a conference between the
Brideways River leaders and Perth Communists, as
 an
outcome of which notices were chalked during
 the
night at intervals of about two hundred yards along
every footpath in the city. The notices announced
a meeting of Brideways River men, unemployed, and
sympathizers,
 on the Esplanade
 reserve
 at noon on
the following day.
 ‘
 q
UPSURGE
;
27| Speaker
 after speaker
 mounted
 the
 rostrum.
 The
crov d
 grew
 in
 size.
 Five
 thousand,
 six thousand,
seven thousand
 people massed
 on the green, tree-
rimmed reserve
 by the river.
 Here and there red
panners fluttered.
_ In an eddy of the crowd Theodora bumped against
a
 tall young
 man
 in
 shabby,
 work-stained
 clothes,
with a ragged felt hat pulled low on his face.
 She
stared at him in astonishment.
“Peter!
 Peter Groom !”
 :
“Ffyllo, Theodora,”’ he said, grinning in a pathetic
“Peter, whatever! .. .
 a“Well?” he queried. “Whatever's reduced me to
this condition. Is that what you mean ?”
_ “What's happened °” she cried.
A few people turned their heads.
“Tm
 one of the Brideways River men.”
= You!”
“Yes, and you've got something
 to do with it, if
you only knew.”
- “T have |”
_ “Yes, but this isn’t the time to talk about it. Where
an I find you, Theodora’?
 Are you still working at
<ronen’s ?”’
“I’m at the union office,” she answered weakly,
“What are you doing here ?”’
“Tm .. . I’m interested. That's all.”
He grinned again in the same pathetic way.
a remember. I suppose you're actively interested.”
is grin faded and his face became suddenly bitter.
Well, so am I.”’
S
27 UPSURGE
red There banners was a moved surging together
 moveme
 .
 nt McClintock
 in the crowd.
 sho
ute
 The
 d
from “Come the rostrum on, Comrades :
 !
 The
 old formation !
 We're
going the out the A banners, of banners cheer to the march crowd like in a to broad ranks, the like the roar
 a Treasu
 moved
 column
 colossal
 of
 ry. a slowly waterfall of snake . men - forward.
 -
 from
 began
 went the
 up, to
 Behind
 pile
 draw
 and
 of
its Theodora’s “Stay
 own coils.
 with
 arm.
 me,’
 “You Peter
 shouldn’t Groom
 be said,
 in
 this,
 clutchin
 you
 g
know.
 that Groom’s She made nodded, ‘There’s side, her borne heart consciou
 going along
 thump.
 to s
 be of
 by trouble.
 an
 the She upw
 ’
 elling irresistible moved excitement
 forward current
 at
of the crowd.
 .
 .
 .
inspector Treasury in advanced—a of columns and unemployed their A sight. the small overflowing leaders street streaming waited Building.
 The knot halted broad advanced.
 bearin
 little of them alertly police along column
 g
 before There knot alof
 into
 under
 on
 the
 t
 The wai
 the
 marching were the their the ted footpaths Treasury
 knot the gutters.
 broad no as red charge of the
 alon
 other flags, poli
 on Buil
 steps g
 une
 At ce
 of either the
 ding, unifor
 mpl
 flanking
 a last stepped
 of cent
 burly
 oye
 side
 the
 and
 ms
 the
 re
 d
forward ‘Where to do meet you them.
 think you're
 going ?” the inspector
inquired “We're grimly.
 going to see the Pre
mier,’ one of the men
answered.
29UPSURGE
“No you're not.”
ates.
 the “Arrest “IT leader said: deliberately.
 them,” we’re ,
 goin sai
 Said goi g the to “Stand see inspector
 ,
 th
 erence
 to ier?
 his .
 subordin-
 repeated
ney moved forward briskly.
“cx, re men Gruden, one of the several leaders, shouted :
,
 ,
 comrades.
 We're going
 t
 ,
Premict: and we’ve got thousands behind us >
 me
ae
 cheer went up from the unemployed
' pe mpector 8 eyes glittered and his lips curl d
. a ittle from his teeth.
 He took a step forw rd
an with all the weight of his great frame behi di
Be drove
 font his fist into Gruder’s face. The m an stumbled
 biog
Bee ton instant there was an astounded silenc
en, beginning as a murmur, like a distant flood ..
 roar of rage went up from the unemployed
 At
a seme moment poce whistles shrilled stridently
)
 y gate and alleyway
 in the
 vicini |
police appeared.
 Foot-police appeared with thes
batons of the hoofs gripped of troopers’ pur posefully,
 h -
 sane
 there
 was a clatter
A trap !"’ someone shouted.
Bed
 “Break ’ em up! ’ said sal the inspector, and the police
ecciine moment the street was filled with shouting
pe me _unempioyed and police. A park fence
he
 eet gave way beneath the press, and men
|
 Pie ets irom the fallen lengths of fence to
os . weapons _ Whistles shrilled again and more
=
 me manning.
 Nearby the road was up for
Decay of dice an
 and beside the excavation lay
ae
 m e and lumps of concrete and bitumen
ent the air was thick with a hail of flying
UPSURGE
27stones.
 Thestreet echoed with shouts, curses,
 screams,
and cries of rage and pain and fear.
Yet more police reinforcements arriv
ed, and, work-
ing to a plan, cleared a space of a few
 score yards
before the Treasury steps. [roopers
 formed up
quickly in the space and charged
 the
 crowd
. The
unemployed went down before the
 horse
s.
 A
 flying
out stone of
 struck his saddle.
 a trooper Others on the were temple
 drag
ged
 and from he rolled
 their
 q
—
horses.
 few again.
 were yards.
 unhurt Each But
 Under began time the
 they the troopers
 to struggle shock charged of reformed
 to the they get
 charges
 cleared away, and
 those
 a to charged
 furth
 break who
 er
 :
 —
 —
 |
thro
ugh the jam of humanity behind.
 The crowd
surged
 and swayed
 like a wounded
 thing that cried
 q
 |
out With in its Theodora death agonies.
 beside him, Peter
 Groom was flung ~
like this a
 way sodden and chip that in by a the torrent.
 convulsions Sudd
enly
 of ,
 the
 the
 crowd
 crowd  —
‘n front
 of him
 seemed
 to melt
 away.
 A
 trooper
bore like him, a with down
 wall. his upon Desperately eye him.
 on the The Groom trooper.
 crowd swun
 The
 g closed the crowd girl in behind
 behind thrust
 ©
him forward against the legs of the
 trooper’s
 horse.
The man swung up his baton. Groom
 ducked and
felt in his hair the wind of the baton
 as it desce
nded.
And crumpled in his up ears at his sounded
 feet.
 aThe dull murderous crunch. Theo
 devil, dora
 he
thought.
 The and trooper young the and crowd The idler his trooper horse, flowed felt a and swung
 together
 tremendous
 Theo
up dora
 and
 ,
 his shock, and exploded baton the and again.
 street
 into
 the
;
darkness.
 By and by, when the stree
t
 was
 clear,
 the
 erstw
hile
‘dler Peter
 Groo
m,
 and
 the
 girl Theodora Luddon,
UPSURGE
 29and several
 others,
 were
 placed
 on stretchers and
conveyed in an ambulance to the Perth Public
Hospital.
In the meantime, and throughout the day, the police
were quelling minor riots all over the city.
CHAPTER
 THIRTY-TWO
I
she
 magistrate James Riddle learned of the riot q
and the arrests as he sat in chambers.
 That |
meant that John Graham
 would
 be
 round
 before
 the ©
afternoon
 was
 out.
 If the police opposed
 bail, he |
thought, he wouldn’t grant it.
 i
Graham arrived about four. The still, ironical smile —
that hovered as a rule on his lips was missing. With
him came a constable with the bail bonds.
 The police —
did not oppose bail.
 Riddle signed the bonds impa- |
.
tiently.
“Next
 time an affair of this sort occurs,” he said >
severely, “I’m going to consider refusing bail in my
 own discretion.
 All these agitator friends of yours
know that when they’re arrested they'll be released
again almost within the hour.
 If they didn’t have |
that knowledge they
 might
 be
 less
 disposed to create |
disturbances.
 Thirty-
eight
 bonds
 !”
 .
“Thirty-eight,”
 Graham
 agreed.
 “There
 are four
more to whom bail wouldn’t be much use.”
 “What do you mean ?” Riddle inquired.
He handed the bonds to the constable and signed
:
to him to go.
“There were
 fourteen
 taken
 to the hospital,’’ the
chemist
 said grimly.
 “Ten
 of them
 were
 released
after treatment,
 but
 four were
 badly
 hurt.
 One of
them, it may interest you to know, is a
 friend of yours.
She got a crack over the head with a trooper’s baton,
27UPSURGE
 27‘d she’s suffering from a fractured skull.
 Theodora
; ac don.”’
“What ’’ exclaimed
 Riddle, sitting upright with a
tart.
“J thought you'd be interested,” the chemist ob-
erved calmly.
 “Her name’s on the danger list. She
may not live.”’
«Good
 heavens!’
 exclaimed
 Riddle in a whisper.
“The police, of course, were only doing their duty,”’
said the chemist.
 “In times like these the police
save a more than ordinarily difficult task to perform.
t’s not remarkable that under the stress of provoca-
tion they’re sometimes
 a little rough in the exercise
of their duty.”
The magistrate thrust back his chair and sprang
 to
is feet. His face was contorted.
“Damn you, John!” he cried.
 “That’s rubbing it
1, I’m going to see her.”
 ,
‘Theodora Luddon?
 The orderly at the hospital
hook his head.
 She was
 on the danger list, he said.
he couldn’t have any visitors.
 Riddle searched in
is pocket and found a card.
“Oh!” said the orderly.
 “I beg your pardon, sir.
f you'll wait a moment I’ll see the C.M.O.”
Presently
 the
 magistrate
 was
 admitted,
 and
 the
hief Medical Officer himself conducted him to where
neodora lay.
He stood at the bedside and looked down at her.
r head was swathed in bandages.
 Her lips were
ted. She breathed slowly, stertorously, heavily.
“Will she live ?”
“She has a chance,” the doctor answered.
28 UPSURGE
Riddle swallowed, fighting his emotion.
“She mustn’t die,” he said.
 “Everything that can
be done for her must be done.
 Do you understand?
 —
i
Everything !”’
“There
 is nothing
 we
 can
 do that hasn’t
 already
 been
 done,”
 replied the doctor.
 “Nothing
 can be q
done in these cases. There’s a blood clot pressing on
 —
the brain.
 If it clears away she'll live, if it doesn’t
 —
}
she’ll die.”’
Leaving
 orders
 that he was
 to be notified imme- —
diately of any change in the girl’s condition, Riddle
went home.
 But he could think of nothing but |
Theodora.
 At last, afraid that his orders might be-
overlooked or disregarded, he rang up the hospital.
“There is no change,” he was informed.
He rang up again in the morning and received the
same answer:
 “There is no change.”
 The charges arising out of the riots were listed for
hearing. The public enclosure in the court-room
 was
crowded with unemployed. The magistr
ate
 felt
 their
furtive eyes upon him as, in a hush, he took his seat
on the bench, and his own eyes roved over them
grimly.
 It was because of that miserable, malodorous
rabble, he thought, that Theodora lay between life
|
and death.
He tried to forget Theodora
 and
 concent
rate
 on
 the
procedure
 of the court, but could not.
 a
Some of the accused wore plaster on their faces,
 Or
bandages round their heads, or both. They conjured
up an image of the girl lying in the hospital bed with
her head swathed in lint. There were some
 troopers
in court, and one of them
 wore
 his
 arm
 in
 a sling.
UPSURGE
 o8t
Several of the ordinary police wore bandages. The
police had not had it all their own way, it seemed.
_ The accused were charged separately or in batches.
Anna
 Peacelove,
 charged
 with unlawfully addressing
crowd - Herbert Smith and William Gruder, charged
with assaulting the police and resisting arrest ; Thomas
McClintock, charged with addressing a crowd ; Steven
Riley, charged with incitement to violence and resisting
arrest; Peter Groom, charged with assaulting the
police and resisting arrest.
 Peter Groom! .
 .
~ “Peter Groom !” cried the usher, and Groom mounted
the steps to the dock.
_ Riddle stared and frowned.
 How had the young
fool come to be mixed up in this? The young idler
glared back
 defiantly,
 with
 his head
 held
 high,
 and
in a moment the magistrate found himself listening to
of T heodora
 Luddon.
 A
 trooper
 accused
 Groom
 of
raving attempted to pull him from his horse.
 Groom
demanded :
“Did you smash a girl’s head in with your baton ?”’
| Feeling that he was like to choke,
 Riddle
 gazed
 at
the trooper.
 The man
 looked
 embarrassed,
 and
hesitated in his answer.
“Answer
 that
 question,’
 the magistrate
 ordered.
4 When
 . . . when
 the accused
 tried to drag me
off, your worship, the trooper said, licking his lips,
I aimed a crack at ‘im with my
 baton.
 He
 ducked
n I hit a girl who was standing behind him.
 It was
n accident.’
~The girl’s skull was fractured !” exclaimed Groom
She's on the danger list.
 She may
 die.
 Then you
nocked me out with your baton,” he said, glaring at
€ trooper. “Didn’t you ? Didn’t you ?”’
‘You resisted arrest,’’ said the trooper.
28 UPSURGE
Riddle gazed at the trooper, unable to trust himself
to speak.
The prosecuting sergeant interposed: “The matter
of the girl may be the subject of a special inquiry,
your worship. It has no bearing on the offence with
which
 this man
 is charged,
 and
 it can’t be advanced
as an extenuating
 circumstance
 because it happened
afterwards not before he tried to pull the trooper off —
his horse.”
 |
Riddle made an effort and said quietly:
 “I.
 . |
understand, sergeant.”
 In the same quiet voice he
said to Groom: ‘‘You will confine yourself to ques-—
tions which
 have
 a direct bearing on the offence with
which you are charged.”’
“T haven’t any questions then,’ said Groom.
A plain-clothes constable entered the witness-box —
and said that he had seen
 Groom try to puil the —
trooper from his horse.
 Groom questioned him angrily,
then gave evidence himself.
 He said indignantly:
“It’s a pack of lies! I didn’t touch the man, or try.
to touch him.
 Miss Luddon was with me—standing —
behind me.
 It was the murderous blow the trooper
aimed at me that struck her...
 .”
 |
“I don’t want to hear about that,” said the magis-
trate
 in a hard,
 calm
 voice.
 “It has
 nothing
 to do
with the case.
 You heard what the sergeant said.”
There was
 a murmur
 from
 the back of the court,
insistent and angry. A voice cried: “Shame!” and
there was a sibilant hissing.
 Riddle’s self-control
snapped.
 ‘
“Silence !’? he shouted. ‘“‘Silence! If there’s another
sound from the back of the court I'll have the enclosure
cleared! . . . Have you got anything else to say?”
he barked at Groom.
 :
“Tf I’m not allowed
 to
 mention
 the
 girl,
 what
 can
UPSURGE
 28>” demanded the young man.
 “I can only deny
iat I tried to pull the trooper off his horse !”’
“Very well then!”
“He reserved his decision. He had reserved it in all
ci es.
 He would deliver them all at once at the end of
the proceedings.
 He rose abruptly, unable to contain
h himself.
_ “The court will adjourn for five minutes.”
“The
 Lord of the Urinal !’’ someone in the enclosure
jeered softly as he went out, and an unpleasant titter
arose.
In his chambers Riddle rang up the hospital.
3 - “There is no change, ” came the voice over the wire.
He went to the privy then resumed his seat in court.
The cases dragged on through the day, and the
next day, but towards the end of the second day he
said:
 “Decision reserved’’ in the last case.
The
 court
 will deliver
 its decision
 at ten-thirty
to-morrow morning.”
_ For the tenth or the twentieth time he rang up the
hospital; Theodora was the same.
 He received the
same answer when he rang late at night, but early on
Friday morning a nurse answered the telephone and
said cheerfully :
“T think she must be better.
 I don’t see her name
on the danger-list.
 If you’ll hold on I’ll inquire.”’
_ The magistrate waited.
 The nurse seemed to be
prey a long time, but he heard her voice again at
rm
 sorry,’
 a?
 she
 said.
 “IJ made
 a mistake.
 The
patient died at half-past four this morning.
 That’s
vhy her name
 was
 crossed
 off the list.
 She
 didn't
ecover consciousness.”
28 UPSURGE
Promptly at half-past ten Riddle took his seat on
the bench. The police and lawyers in the court com-
 —
mented
 in
 whispers
 upon
 his
 appearance.
 His
 face
 |
looked drawn and old.
 When
 he
 spoke
 his voice
trembled.
 He said:
‘As always in cases arising out of public disturbances,
accusations of brutality are made against the police, —
I have called attention to this before, and what I have |
said before I say again now. When disturbances occur i
it is the duty of the police to quell them.
 Sometimes —
the police have to be brutal to do their duty, and —
this is particularly true in cases where crowds are
incited by professional agitators to violence.
 .
“Tn two cases I find that there is insufficient evidence
 ©
to warrant convictions.
 In all other cases I find the —
charges proved. . . .
 “Paul Geary. .. .
“Joseph William Symonds. . . .
“Anna Peacelove. . . .”
 F
As Riddle named the accused he pronounced their
sentences. The court gasped at their severity.
 .
“Peter
 Groom
 ..
 . one
 month’s
 imprisonment
with hard labour!
 ..
 .”
 q
Groom raised his hand and wiped away the sweat
that broke out on his brow.
 A month’s imprisonment
with hard labour! .. .
 “Steven Riley.
 . . .”
 Riley nodded grimly to Riddle, who looked back at
him with cold rage. In his grief it did not occur to
him that the Communist, too, was suffering.
 He
thought of him only as the man whose influence
 he
 d
brought Theodora to her death.
UPSURGE
 28_. you will be sentenced to nine months’
Day prisonment with hard labour !”’
ii “JT made you a promise once,’ said Riley, clenchin
g
his hands.
 “You know what it was, and it still holds
good!”
_ The magistrate
 rose
 abruptly,
 pushing
 back
 his
heavy
 chair.
“The
 court will adjourn for five minutes.”
He had to steady himself against the wall of the
privy.
 -
An- Mrs. Blundel wrote to her daughter Cynthia
 :
y
My darling, I don’t know how to express my
sympathy for you. To hts misdeeds your worthless
husband has now added the disgrace and humiliation
of getting mixed up in an unemployed riot and
being sent to gaol. Oh, my dear, what can I say ?
This ts too much! You mustn’t hesitate any longer.
You must divorce him. It was against my advice
that you ever married him, but you were so insistent,
thinking you knew better than your mother, and
ever since you've regretted it. He couldn't be true
to you, and now it appears that he has so far for-
gotten his class and upbringing as to throw in his
lot with a lot of lazy unemployed. He must be lost
to every impulse of decency and respectability.
 I
am sure all your friends in Perth must be talking
of nothing else. I am sending you the newspaper
veports of the whole disgraceful affair.
 Oh, my
dear, I’m so sorry for you, the terrible disgrace !
Ive written to a private inquiry agent and asked
him
 to
 write
 to you,
 because
 you'll
 have
 to have
definite evidence for a divorce.
 Of course,
 he'll
28 UPSURGE
have to watt till Peter gets out of gaol before he can
 —
do anything, but you ought to be able to give him
 —
something to go on. I understand that before this
 —
trouble Peter actually went into the Brideways River
 —
relief camp and was with all those graceless scamps
 q
who marched out.
 I’ve sent you cuttings about that,
too, so I needn’t write about it.
 My darling Cynthia —
I’m so sorry for you.
 Please write and tell me —
what to do. If you can only get your freedom from —
Peter Groom and marry some decent man who will —
know how to treat you I shall be happy. . . .
Peter! In a relief camp! In gaol! The startled Cynthia threw down her mother’s letter and took
 up~
the cuttings.
 It was true | Her heart fluttered in her
breast like a captive bird. Peter in a relief camp,
 in
gaol! As all that that implied
 was
 borne
 in
 upon
 her,
 —
she burst into tears.
 She
 felt
 as
 though
 her
 heart
would break.
 It was her fault!
 She had left him
§
destitute.
 . ..
And she loved him.
 She no longer sought to deceive
herself.
 It was because she had loved him so much
that she treated him so... to punish him .
 . |
bring him back to
 her.
 She
 was
 overwhel
med
 by
remorse.
 His faithless
ness
 no
 longer
 seemed
 impor-
tant.
And
 her
 mother
 wanted
 her
 to divorce
 him
 . when he was in trouble, needing her. Her mother
 ?
If it had not been
 for
 her
 mother
 she
 would
 never
have done it, it would all never have happened.
 With
the tears still streamin
g
 down
 her
 face
 she
 began
 to
drag out her clothes
 and
 her
 cases.
 She
 was
 going
back.
EPILOGUE
y ATER
 in the same
 year, at Berne,
 an international
2 Ju ;
 conference of peasant and proletarian organiza-
tions took place.
 A revolutionary upsurge in every
jndustrialized country of the world was remarked.
The Australian delegates observed that even in
} Western
 Australia,
 the least advanced
 of the Austral
States, there was a definite revolutionary upsurge.
THE
 END