The two dogs are making the bone a pretext for a
fight with each other. That old bull-dog, the British capitalist,
has got the bone in his teeth. That unsatisfied mongrel, Plebs, the
proletariat, shivers with rage not so much at the sight of the bone,
as at sight of the great wrinkled jowl that holds it. There is the
old dog, with his knowing look and his massive grip on the bone: and
there is the insatiable mongrel, with his great splay paws. The one
is all head and arrogance, the other all paws and grudge. The bone
is only the pretext. A first condition of the being of Bully is that
he shall hate the prowling great paws of the Plebs, whilst Plebs by
inherent nature goes mad at the sight of Bully's jowl. "Drop it!"
cries Plebs. "Hands off!" growls Bully. It is hands against head,
the shambling, servile body in a rage of insurrection at last against
the wrinkled, heavy head.
Labour not only wants his debt. He wants his pound of flesh. It is
a quandary. In our heart of hearts we must admit the debt. We must
admit that it is long overdue. But this last condition! In vain we
study our anatomy to see which part we can best spare.
Where is our Portia, to save us with a timely quibble? We've plenty
of Portias. They've recited their heads off--"The quality of mercy
is not strained." But the old Shylock of the proletariat persists.
He pops up again, and says, "All right, I can't have my pound of flesh
with the blood.
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