girls in motors or on motorbikes. They don’t give a serious thought to a thing—save Doncaster races, and the Derby: for they all of them bet on every race. And football! But even football’s not what it was, not by a long chalk. It’s too much like hard work, they say. No, they’d rather be off on motorbikes to Sheffield or Nottingham, Saturday afternoons.”
“But what do they do when they get there?”
“Oh, hang round—and have tea in some fine tea-place like the Mikado—and go to the Pally or the pictures or the Empire, with some girl. The girls are as free as the lads. They do just what they like.”
“And what do they do when they haven’t the money for these things?”
“They seem to get it, somehow. And they begin talking nasty then. But I don’t see how you’re going to get bolshevism, when all the lads want is just money to enjoy themselves, and the girls the same, with fine clothes: and they don’t care about another thing. They haven’t the brains to be socialists. They haven’t enough seriousness to take anything really serious, and they never will have.”