"All these fellows are." (Mr.Fyshe generally referred to the British aristocracy as "these fellows.") "Land, you know, feudal estates; sheer robbery, I call it.

How the working-class, the proletariat, stand for such tyranny is more than I can see.

Mark my words, Furlong, some day they'll rise and the whole thing will come to a sudden end." Mr.Fyshe was here launched upon his favourite topic; but he interrupted himself, just for a moment, to speak to the waiter.
"What the devil do you mean," he said, "by serving asparagus half-cold ?" "Very sorry, sir," said the waiter, "shall I take it out ?" "Take it out?
Of course take it out, and see that you don't serve me stuff of that sort again, or I'll report you." "Very sorry, sir," said the waiter.
Mr.Fyshe looked at the vanishing waiter with contempt upon his features.

"These pampered fellows are getting unbearable." he said.

"By Gad, if I had my way I'd fire the whole lot of them: lock 'em out, put 'em on the street.