d, clothed sufficiently, housed, while the peach
trees grow. He must be financed. Somebody else collects the peaches,
puts them into tins, solders air-tight lids on them, pastes labels round
them. He works with borrowed money. Somebody packs the tins in huge
cases, puts them in trains, piles them into ships, despatches them to
London, getting his power to do these things in some mysterious way from
Ascher.

"While she washes up the cups and saucers," said Gorman, "he brings
round that motor cycle."

"Paid for," I said, "in monthly instalments."

"Probably," said Gorman, "with a deposit of L25 to start with."

"It's Ascher," I said, "who makes that possible."

"It's Ascher," said Gorman, "who makes that necessary. If it were not
for Ascher's rake-off, the tax he levies on every industry, the machine
could be bought right out for the original L25 and there would be no
instalments to be paid."

Possibly. But the tires of the machine were made of rubber. I remembered
my visit to Para, the broad, steaming Amazon, the great ships crawling
slowly past walls of forest trees, the pallid white men, the melancholy
Indians. It may be possible to devise some other means of getting
the precious gum from the Brazilian forest; but at present the whole
business is dependent on Ascher.

We left that motor cycle behind us at last and sped faster along a
stretch of road where the traffic was less dense.

"You notice," said Gorman, "the way London is swallowing up the country.
That was once a rural inn."

I had observed what Gorman pointed out to me. Here and there along the
road, a mile or so apart from each other, we came on old buildings, a
group of cottages, a farm house, an inn. These were solidly built after
the good old fashion. It had seemed wasteful to pull them down. The
waves of the advancing tide of London reached them, passed them, swept
beyond them, left them standing.

"Quite a few years ago," said Gorman, "those houses stood in the middle
of fields, and the people who lived in them ate the food that grew at
their doors."

"No tinned peaches," I said, "no bicycles."

"And no Ascher," said Gorman.

"Well," I said, "we can't go back."

"In Ireland," he said, "we needn't go on. If we can only get clear of
this cursed capitalistic civilisation of England--that's what I mean by
being a Home Ruler."

"You think," I said, "that we should be too wise to accept the yoke of
Ascher, to barter our freedom for tinned p