"Then they're pretty good customers of ours and anxious to trade," went on Whitney, "and yet when we offered them reciprocity they wouldn't have it. They had all to gain, because the natural outlet for their commerce is to the south, but they said they were British and shut the door on us. On the other hand, I get on with them better than you can, and if we wanted a job in this city, I'd get it before you. Now our States are sovereign, but they're all American."
"Ours are sovereign, but not English," Andrew replied. "One's strictly Canadian, another frankly Australian, and so on. We're an individualistic race, and our different branches grow their own way. It looks like a loose arrangement, but we've found we hold together well. You'll see when the bulletin comes out—if it's what I expect."
"We'll wait. What's this fellow talking about?"
A short, dark-skinned man had buttonholed a neighbor and was speaking vivaciously, his dark eyes snapping.
"But, mossieu', the alliance, la belle alliance!" he exclaimed, and wheeled around to Andrew. "Is it not determine in London that we fight?"
"Spotted you first time, partner," Whitney laughed, and then turned to the man: "When did you come over?"
For a moment the fellow looked puzzled.
"Two hundred year, mossieu'. That is, the family she arrive. Me, I am born in Kebec."
Whitney smiled at Andrew.
"You haven't made much of a Britisher of him yet. They'll speak better German in Alsace in much less time, if the Prussians keep their grip."