Diary of a Drug Fiend

18 The Diary of a Drug Fiend ‘Sorry, sir,” he said to Owen, who had ordered a 65 brandy. It appeared that it was now eight hours forty-three minutes thirteen and three-fifth seconds past noon. I don’t know what the law is ; nobody in England knows what the law is—not even the fools that make the laws. We are not under the laws and do not enjoy the liberties which our fathers bequeathed us; we are under a complex and fantastic system of police administration nearly as pernicious as anything even in America. “Don’t apologise,” said Lamus to the waiter in a tone of icy detachment. “ This is the freedom we fought for.”’ I was entirely on the side of the speaker. I hadn't wanted a drink all evening, but now I was told I couldn’t have one, I wanted to raid their damn cellars and fight the Metropolitan Police and go up in my ‘plane and drop a few bombs on the silly old House of Commons. And yet I was in no sort of sympathy with the man. The contempt of his tone irritated me. He was in- human, somehow; that was what antagonised me. He turned to Owen. ‘“‘ Better come round to my studio,” he drawled; ‘‘T have a machine gun trained on Scotland Yard.” Owen rose with alacrity. ‘‘T shall be delighted to see any of you others,” continued Lamus. ‘I should deplore it to the day of my death if I were the innocent means of breaking up so perfect a party.” _ The invitation sounded like an insult. I went red behind the ears; I could only just command myself enough to make a formal apology of some sort. As a matter of fact, there was a very curious reaction in the whole party. The German Jew got up at once— nobody else stirred. Rage boiled in my heart. I understood instantly what had taken place. The intervention of Lamus had automatically divided the party into giants and dwarfs; and I was one of the dwarfs. }