Dance and Skylark Read Online Free PDF Page A

no real enthusiasm at all. I say to them, ‘Let’s relive our glorious ’istory,’ and they only shrug their shoulders. I tell ’em it’ll help to earn dollars for the country, and they just don’t care. What they don’t realise is that the foreign visitors will put money into
their
pockets—”
    â€œI suppose,” said Mr. Runcorn sepulchrally, “that there
will
be some foreign visitors?”
    â€œSwarms of ’em, don’t you worry. With money to burn. That’s the line for you to take, if you don’t mind me making the suggestion. Visitors from all over the world!”
    Mr. Runcorn nodded without enthusiasm and made a note on his blotting-pad: “
Viators and peripatetics from other climes”
    â€œI’m relying on you,” added the Mayor, “to lift them out of their apathy. Rouse ’em, Runcorn, rouse ’em!”
    â€œIt isn’t apathy alone,” said Mr. Runcorn, picking up a typewritten letter off his desk. “It’s active opposition. Read this.”
    The letter began:
    â€œWe the undersigned workers wish to protest against thediversion of valuable man-hours and material, at this critical moment in our history
…” It went on for nearly three pages and bore twelve signatures, the first of which was “Enid Foulkes.”
    â€œThat’s bad,” said the Mayor, shaking his head. “That’s a blow beneath the belt, that is.”
    â€œThey’re all employed at the balloon factory,” said Mr. Runcorn.
    â€œI wish nobody any harm,” sighed the Mayor, “but do you know, if I owned the balloon factory, I’d be almost tempted to
purge
that Enid Foulkes.” He was about to hand back the letter to Mr. Runcorn when he hesitated.
    â€œI suppose it wouldn’t be possibles——”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œJust this once——”
    â€œYes?”
    He became aware of the eyes of Mr. Runcorn, like those of an immensely old lizard, unblinking and cold.
    â€œTo tuck it away,” he stammered.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œOn an inside page.”
    There was a long silence during which it seemed as if the shades of five sea-green incorruptibles, Mr. Runcorn’s predecessors in the editorial chair, were gathered behind him where he sat hunched at his desk, as still as a lizard on a rock. The Mayor dropped the letter on the desk.
    â€œThis,” said Mr. Runcorn, tapping it, “is a matter of public interest. I think I need say no more.”
    An atmosphere of bleak and wintry indignation filled the room. The Mayor got up to go.
    â€œI’m sorry, Runcorn,” he said, “I oughtn’t to have suggested that.”
    â€œNo,” said Mr. Runcorn.
    â€œI could bite my tongue off,” said the Mayor. “Please forget it.”
    He went out, and even Miss Smith, who had seen Councillors and Town Clerks and on one memorable occasion the Vicar himself dismissed in the same way, felt sorry for him. Mr. Runcorn looked across the room at her and, forgetting for a moment that she was a Beauty Queen, saw her only as a member of the staff who must therefore participate in his sense of outrage.
    â€œThe
Weekly Intelligencer”
he observed, “may not be the
Manchester Guardian;
but we share certain principles.”
    Miss Smith said nothing; for a number of painful experiences had convinced her that people liked her much better when she didn’t talk, and she had developed a kind of defensive mechanism of silence. So she fell to daydreaming again, and, closing her eyes, saw herself in the dress which the Beauty Queen would wear for the Grand Procession. This dress was to be specially designed by a young man called Robin who had been engaged to design all the dresses for the Pageant; and he, protesting that he couldn’t possibly contrive clothes for somebody he didn’t know, had invited her to tea in his studio. Miss Smith had