More than once of late at the Imperial Club, whose imposing freestone façade stared at him from the other side of the Square, had Sir Munt during the luncheon hour heard despondent businessmen declare “that what the country really wanted to put things right was another war.” During the late upheaval, whose scars had now begun to fade, all classes of the community had shared in a delusive prosperity; but only the few who controlled the means of production and their nominees in Whitehall and Westminster had been permanently enriched. The price of everything had been forced up, yet the value of everything had gone down. When Sir Munt entered the Club dining room at a quarter past one as usual, he found it a hive. And it was a hive seething with excitement. Political feeling ran high. This by-election, having regard to all the circumstances, promised to be quite one of the most piquant of modern times. John Endor whom the U. P. had returned by a solid majority of four thousand at the last election, having bitten the hand that fostered him, was now going ignominiously to be “fired.” “Serve him right!” The opinion of the Club dining room was almost unanimous. But that which none of these pundits could understand even now was why in Wonder’s name had Slippery Sam offered John Endor the Home Secretaryship? On the face of it such a move was an open and palpable affront to the U. P. In the light of that circumstance only one explanation was feasible. The prime minister was riding for a fall. Even the most advanced thinkers at the Club luncheon table hesitated to accept that view. Slippery Sam was the wiliest of men; yet those who were ready to make every concession to his peculiar talent were quite unable to read the riddle. If Endor was unseated, Mr. Williams would have to appeal to the country. And what would happen then? No, the pundits declared themselves beaten. It was left, however, to the shrewdest and weightiest of them all to cast a ray of light upon the darkness. Sir Munt, armed with the new and rather amazing knowledge that had come to him less than an hour ago, proceeded to electrify the table at the head of which he sat. “Comes to this, Murrell, my boy.” Poising an oyster on an authoritative fork Sir Munt turned augustly to Alderman Murrell, the eminent Imperialist on his right. “Do we want another war or don’t we? That’s what it comes to.” A pause followed. And then, Sir Munt having enforced the appeal to Alderman Murrell’s judgment by demonstratively swallowing the oyster, the eminent Imperialist gave a cock of the head and said: “Well, Sir Munt, since you ask me I say ‘Yes’ and I say ‘_No_.’” “You can’t ride both horses, my boy.” Sir Munt poised oyster the second. “You’ve got to make up your mind to one on ’em. If you want war you’ll vote for this little Colonial Snot.”--Sensation!--“If you don’t want war you’ll vote for John Endor.” A pin might have been heard to fall on the Club mahogany.