Maraton looked into their faces and sighed to himself.

There were too many hungry people for his mission.
"We are half starved," a man called from the back of the ball.

"My wage is a pound a week and four children to keep.

It's fine talk, yours, but it won't feed 'em." There was a murmur of sullen approval.

Maraton's hand shot out, his finger quivered as it pointed to the man.
"I don't blame you," he said, "but it's the cry you've just raised which keeps you and a few other millions exactly in the places you occupy.
There are many generations as yet unborn, to come from your children and your children's children.