"Citoyens, aux armes!"--Paris street cry

MERCY, and other practical considerations, should prevent
us from following John and Mary Drone down, down into
the Slough of Despond, the dismal fen that is the natural
haunt of the skip-tracer, the repossessor, the flint-eyed
usurer. These are good times, happy times! No one wants
to hear, today, of a family selling its television set, selling
its new car, living on three-day-old bread and barley water,
the children dressed in rags, gnawing cold potato skins in
the school cafeteria while their more fortunate schoolmates
buy the hot lunch. No--books should end happily, so let us
leave the Drones perched on their highest peak, the owners
(so to speak) of a new Buick, sparkling electrical appliances
and two houses; living the American dream and happily
awaiting the birth of a new heir.

Besides, Drone has served us well. In T. S. Eliot's words,
he has been an easy tool, deferential, glad to be of use,
politic, cautious and meticulous--but a bit obtuse; at times,
indeed, almost ridiculous--almost, at times, the fool. But
basically a good guy. We wish him well.

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