“But it isn’t so,” cried Hank. “There’s no Monroe doctrines in morality. America can’t sit scratching herself when others are up and doing. Why the nations have got war down, down, right now, kicking under the blanket, and it only wants America to sit on her head to keep her down.”
“America’s got to be strong before she does anything,” fired Tommie. “How’s she to be strong if a lot of foreigners sitting in Geneva can tell her to do this or that? Why they’d cut her fists off.”
“Strong,” cried Hank. “Why armies and navies aren’t strength. Love of man for man—”
“Mean to tell me you could love Turks?”
“Ain’t talking of Turks.”
“Greeks then—Portugueses—say, tell me straight—do you love niggers?”
The sight of Tommie “het up” and with sparkling eyes gave the struggling hero such another heart punch that he collapsed, lost sight of the banner of brotherhood and went on opening the can of salmon.
“Maybe I’m wrong and maybe you’re right,” said he, “it’s a big question. Pass me that plate, will you, Bud?”
Candon had said nothing. He had deserted his co-idealist like a skunk, and seemed engaged in re-reviewing the League of Nations by the light of Tommie.