“Listen,” he cried. “I don’t agree with the Revolutionary Organization, but the man that killed McPhillip . . . no . . . no, no . . . I mean the man . . . can’t ye let me speak? . . . I mean the farmer that McPhillip killed, he was an agent of the capitalist class. Then it follows logically that he was an enemy of the working class. McPhillip was an agent of the working class. He was justified in killing the man. That’s the matter treated logically and brought to a logical conclusion. Everything must be approached logically. Listen. Taking the question from a wider standpoint we can get a broader judgment that will fit all cases of the kind that may arise”—he raised his voice to a scream to drown the noise of a scuffle at the door—“in the near future. We are at the base of a world revolutionary wave. According as that wave advances and gathers strength the whole process of capitalist society will crumble up. Then there will be a gradual increase in the number of these skirmishes, as it were on the . . .” His voice was drowned suddenly by a big man who began to swing his arms about his head uttering a fearful torrent of oaths. He was drunk. Then Lydon shouted: “Murder is murder, I say. Murder is always murder and the gospel of Our Lord Jesus Christ says——” “There must be no mercy,” yelled a little man with a black moustache, who rushed into a corner where he had room to prance about. “There must be no mercy. To hell with everybody. That right, boys? Wha’?” “What are ye talkin’ about?” cried Gypo, suddenly turning about. Silence fell immediately. Everybody looked at him. His face was perspiring. He rubbed his hands on his chest. He curled up his lips. He gave his little hat a slight push towards the back of his head. Then he was seized by another fit of strange humour. He yelled once more and staggered towards the crowd, with his arms hanging loose, pretending to be dead drunk. They fell away from him in amazement. He stood in the middle of the room and looked about him. “What ye talkin’ about?” he drawled ponderously, swaying backwards and forwards. He glared from face to face, but each pair of eyes was turned away as he sought them. He was delighted with the terror he caused. Behind the counter the Italian, still smiling, had grasped a large knife and stood perfectly still. The girl was crouching on the floor. Then Gypo broke into a loud laugh, stuck his hands in his trousers pockets and strolled towards the door.