Sucks books

It
was written in a trembling, cramped, foreign hand, evidently part
of a book, or an article.
"Oh, the wickedness of wealth!" it began. "While millions of the
poor toilers slave and starve and shiver, the slave-drivers of to-
day, like the slave-drivers of ancient Egypt, spend the money
wrung from the blood of the people in useless and worthless toys
of art while the people have no bread, in old books while the
people have no homes, in jewels while the people have no clothes.
Thousands are spent on dead artists, but a dollar is grudged to a
living genius. Down with such art! I dedicate my life to righting
the wrongs of the proletariat. Vive l'anarchism!"
The thing was becoming more serious. But by far the most serious
discovery in the now deserted studio was a number of large glass
tubes in a corner, some broken, others not yet used and standing
in rows as if waiting to be filled. A bottle labelled "Sulphuric
Acid" stood at one end of a shelf, while at the other was a huge
jar full of black grains, next a bottle of chlorate of potash.


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