A Cook's Tourist from Emporia, Kansas, dropped into the Vacant Chair. When the Delegate from The Rookery, Wormwood Scrubs, Islington S. E., resumed his scorching Arraignment of the U. S. A., he got an awful Rise out of the Boy from the Corn Belt.
The Emporia Man said there were more Bath Tubs to the Square Mile out in his Burg than you could find in the West End of London, and more Paupers and Beggars in one Square Mile of the East End of London than you could find in the whole State of Kansas. He said there were fewer Murders in England because good Opportunities were being overlooked.
He said he could Tip any one in England except, possibly, the
Archbishop of Canterbury.
It was his unbiased Opinion that London consisted of a vast swarm of
melancholy Members of the Middle and Lower Classes of the Animal
Kingdom who ate Sponge Cake with Clinkers in it, drank Tea, smoked
Pipes and rode by Bus, and thought they were Living.
Standing beneath the rippling folds of Old Glory, the proud Citizen of the Great Republic declared that we could wallop Great Britain at any Game from Polo up to Prize-Fighting and if we cut down on the Food Supplies the whole blamed Runt of an undersized Island would starve to death in a Week.
With quivering Nostrils, he heaped Scorn and Contumely upon any Race that would call a Pie a Tart. In conclusion, he expressed Pity for those who never had tasted Corn on the Cob.
After he had gone up to the Bridge Deck to play Shuffle-Board, the
Representative of the Tightest little Island on the Map took out his
Note-Book and made the following Entry: "Every Beggar living in the
States is a Bounder and a Braggart."
That evening in the Smoke Room he began to pull his favorite Specialty
of ragging the Yanks on a New Yorker, who interrupted him by saying:
"Really, I know nothing about my own Country. I spend the Winter in
Egypt, the Spring in London, the Summer in Carlsbad, and the Autumn in
Paree."
So the Traveler afterward reported to a Learned Society that the
Typical American had become a denatured Expatriate.
MORAL: No Chance.