Tales From The Krypt II: Which is Better, Version I

“I believe you are ready and have been for some time, Guy,” said the tall tweed-clad man with bony cheeks. Along with the tweed, he wore, as he did every day, impeccably polished brown leather shoes and tiny rectangular spectacles which rested upon his thin, crooked nose. His name was Thaddeus Crutchley, professor emeritus of Oxford and widower of the widow of the heir apparent of the Duke of Northumberland. Try saying that three times fast. Professor Emeritus Crutchley was left with one million pounds and a nice Victorian home just outside of London. The discussion he was having took place in the drawing room of that very home.
“Ready for what?” Guy asked; setting down the near-empty wine glass he had been sloshing about carelessly whilst sitting with one leg swung casually over the right arm of the firm burgundy chair in which he sat. The ex-professor, or as Guy often called him, Tweedledum, didn’t take too kindly to his offhand manner.
The first time they met, also in this home, was an awkward experience to say the least. The recently retired Crutchley had, unsurprisingly, been dressed in tweed and Guy in his usual black leather jacket and jeans and T-shirt with a giant Union Jack plastered across its front. Crutchley had surveyed Guy’s bleach-blond hair with skepticism, and Guy had nearly burst out in laughter. This stuffy old man would be the leader of the revolution? Oh yeah, he was a real rebel that one. Although in Guy’s own words Crutchley looked to be a “sodding nancy” and in truth, he once had been, but something in his past which he refused to specify had changed him. Now, however, Crutchley was what Guy could only describe as mercenary. He was ruthless; a cutthroat. When Crutchley had first told him the rules of the movement—that anyone who betrayed it would be cruelly and mercilessly killed—Guy had been shocked at this revelation, but not put off. He had replied earnestly, “Bit Draconian, isn’t it?” Nevertheless, despite their differences the two had grown close, almost like father and son, although neither would admit it to save the world; which, as it so happened, was what they were trying to do.
Presently, Crutchley pushed his spectacles higher up his nose with one long thin finger; they had fallen, as they were wont to do. “When I first swore you into the organization,” Crutchley ignored his question, “what were the reasons you gave for joining?”
“For the children; gum drops, sugar plums an’ all that,” Guy said with mach enthusiasm.
Crutchley ignored him again. “If memory serves you had two ‘principles’ upon which you based your anti-authoritarian stance: first, that being controlled is anathema to you, and second, that not being in on a secret is painfully frustrating.”
“Well, yeah,” Guy protested, “but that’s a gross oversimplification--”
“The only reason I did not kill you on the spot as a being danger to the organization,” Crutchley interrupted, though not entirely unkindly, “is because revolutionaries are rarely better than those they overthrow.”
Guy looked almost hurt.
“You see,” Thaddeus smiled wanly, “few enter government with the intention of doing evil, but power corrupts… nevertheless, I feel we are necessarily bound to ousting the current wolves who would lead the flock back to their den.”