Thursday, February 13th.—­Labour unrest produced a capital debate, in which Mr. BRACE, Mr. THOMAS and Mr. SEXTON made excellent speeches on the one side, and Major TRYON, Mr. REMER (an employer and a profit-sharer) and Mr. BONAR LAW were equally effective on the other.  Brushing aside minor causes the Leader of the House, in his forthright manner, said the root of the matter was that “Labour wants a larger share of the good things which are to be obtained in this world”—­not an unreasonable desire, he indicated, but one which would not be permanently realised by strikes directed against the whole community.  Mr. SEDDON, of the National Democratic Party, compressed the same argument into an epigram.  If the miners’ full demands were conceded they would have “an El Dorado for one minute and disaster the next.”

* * * * *

FROST AND THAW.

I was earlier than usual that morning, which was bad luck, as I heard Fitz-Jones click his gate behind me and thud after me in his snow-boots.  Fitz-Jones and I had a little disagreement, not long ago, about the sole possession of a servant-maid.  Since then there has been a coolness.  Curiously enough, the hideous frost that raged at the moment (the thermometer stood at twenty-five degrees in the henhouse) seemed to thaw Fitz-Jones.  And I knew why.

Last summer Fitz-Jones had spent four torrid days with the thermometer at 75 degrees, winding up his pipes in straw “against” the winter.  I had seen his purple face as I hammocked it with an iced drink.  He had seen and heard me laugh.

“Ah,” he croaked, “you may laugh on the other side of the hedge now, but you’ll laugh on the other side of your face later.”

So now I knew that he was thudding after me in the snow, bursting to hear that my pipes had burst or were about to burst.

“Hallo, Browne,” he began, “how’d you like this?”

“Oh, all right,” I said airily.  Here I did a wonderful step.  Slide on the right heel—­hesitation shuffle on the left toe—­two half slips sideways.  Wave both arms—­backward bend.  Recover.  Jazz—­tangle—­tickle-toe was nothing to it.

“Slippery, isn’t it?” he said.  “My flannel was frozen to the wash-stand to-day—­had to get it off with a chisel.”

I was prepared for these travellers’ tales.  I knew he was leading up to water-pipes.

“Couldn’t get my cold tub,” he went on; “frozen solid overnight.”

I had heard of this cold tub before.  “My tooth-brush froze on to my teeth,” I capped him; “the teapot spout was hung with icicles, and the cat’s tongue froze on to the milk when it was drinking.”

“How about your pipes?” he began, “Who was right about wrapping?”

“Rapping,” I said in well-feigned innocence—­“rapping?  Who rapped?  Rapped on what?”

That set him going.

I gathered when we reached the station there was a strike on.  But we found a milk-lorry travelling our way.  So Smith had the entire use of my right ear into which to say, “I told you so,” for an hour, while we travelled to the spot on which we win our bread.  He had dragged from me the fact that our hot-water tap had also struck.  The milk cans clattered.  Smith chattered.  So did my teeth.