As I had expected, he shook his head. “No. I cannot face the filth of American politics. I touched them once during a great reform spurt in New York, several years ago, and I feel as if my hands are not clean yet. I shall not offend your ears by a description of the people by whom we were jostled at the polls, nor what we had to handle in attempting to push any reform measure through.”
“Good gad!” exclaimed Bertie, “where would England be if we had funked the business of reform fifty years ago? My father took off his coat and waded into the filth—which was a long sight worse than yours—up to his neck. He and others like him made the country what it is to-day. Upon my word, Rogers, you make me sick.”
Mr. Rogers, who is used to Bertie’s plain speech, smiled and replied politely.
“Would that we had a great force like your father, to push us into the right path. But I am afraid the great majority of would-be reformers feel as I do.”
“It’s your roast beef,” growled Bertie, scowling at his. “It’s only about half the weight of ours and only gives a chap half the blood he needs.”
“It is more delicate and easier to digest than yours.”
“For American stomachs—that’s the point.”
“Are there no gentlemen in politics?” I asked, hurriedly, for Bertie can be rude in a way that Americans cannot understand.
“Unquestionably. There are quite a few in the Senate, but in them the political passion is stronger than their fastidiousness. Even the honours and the fame they may win cannot compensate for the dirt they are obliged to come into contact with every week in the year.”
“Well, all I can say is, that you haven’t the true sporting instinct in this country,” said Bertie. “Men of the same sort ought to stand by each other. If a certain number of gentlemen are willing to hold their noses and plunge in for the good of the country it’s your duty to close up the ranks behind them and keep the stink as far in the background as possible.”