Take my place, Captain.
Thanks. Great tune that, eh? Stirs up a man’s vitals, eh?
Yes, indeed; yes, indeed.
Wait till we put that into the repertory of the enemy’s bandmasters.
[Leaning out of the window.
Come. They’re a fine-looking lot, eh?
Fine! Fine! The pick of the land. Fighters to a finish, every one of ’em.
And say, but they’re thanking God tonight for the war-scare that’s brought ’em back from manoeuvres.
They are, eh?
Manoeuvres are too tame. They’re crazy to get into a real fight.
[In excited, subdued tones.
Then you think—there’ll be war?
The President expects to hear from our Ambassador any minute about the private interview he wired he was about to have with the King.
[Taking up the papers.
Seen the latest?
[Picking out one paper with a particularly flaring headline.
“Iberia planning secret attack,” eh? That man Pollen knows more things that aren’t so than a college graduate.
[Taking another paper.
He’s entertaining enough, though. I daresay he has some influence.
I pray to God that we may keep peace, but we must not let ourselves be walked over—we must not—
Exactly. The nation is at last to see what it spends its army and navy appropriations for. Eh?
No sane man wants war, but if—
I’m sane. And I want war. I want to go out and help lambaste those infernally cocksure armies of that jelly-and-cream King. We’ve parleyed long enough. Now we’ll fight. Force is the only convincing argument after all.