"He's getting at me!" he said. "I'm always being shot at. Will you both come in to tea and talk?--I should like you to meet my wife, Burt. She'll take you on. She's a red-hot Tory and a bonnie fighter." But Mr. Geddes had a committee, and--"A must get on with the Revolution," said Burt gravely. "What Revolution's that?" asked the Colonel. "The Revolution that begun in 1906--and that's been going on ever since; and will go on till we're through!" He said the last words with a kind of ferocity; and then burst into a sudden jovial roar as he saw the humour of his own ultra-seriousness. Mrs. Lewknor, who had been watching the interview from the loggia, called to her husband as he returned to the house. "Who was that man with Mr. Geddes?" she asked. "Stanley Bessemere's friend," the Colonel answered. "A red Revolutionary from Lancasheer--on the bubble; and a capital good fellow too, I should say." That evening the Colonel rang up Mr. Geddes to ask about the engineer. "He's the new type of intellectual artizan," the minister informed him. "The russet-coated captain who knows what he's fighting for and loves what he knows. Unless I'm mistaken he's going to play a considerable part in our East-end politics down here." He gave the other the engineer's address, adding with characteristic breadth, "It might be worth your while to follow him up perhaps, Colonel." Joe Burt lodged in the East-end off Pevensey Road in the heart of the new and ever-growing industrial quarter of Seagate, which was gradually transforming a rather suburban little town of villas with a fishing-station attached into a manufacturing city, oppressed with all the thronging problems of our century. There the Colonel visited his new friend. Burt was the first man of his type the old soldier, who had done most of his service in India, had met. The engineer himself, and even more the room in which he lived, with its obvious air of culture, was an eye-opener to the Colonel. There was an old sideboard, beautifully kept, and on it a copper kettle and spirit lamp; a good carpet, decent curtains. On the walls were Millais's _Knight Errant_, Greiffenhagen's _Man with a Scythe_, and Clausen's _Girl at the Gate_. But it was the books on a long deal plank that most amazed the old soldier; not so much the number of them but the quality. He stood in front of them and read their titles with grunts. Alfred Marshall's _Principles of Economics_ lolled up against the Webbs' _Industrial Democracy_; Bradley's lectures on the tragedies of Shakespeare hobnobbed with Gilbert Murray's translations from Euripides. Few of the standard books on Economics and Industrial History, English or American, were missing. And the work of the modern creators in imaginative literature, Wells, Shaw, Arnold Bennett were mixed with _Alton Locke_, _Daniel Deronda_, _Sybil_, and the essays of Samuel Butler and Edward Carpenter.