“Labor is getting out of hand. And he thinks it may do good all round—buck up trade, keep up prices, get the country and the colonies to pull together, and so on.”
“There may be something in it.”
“I don’t think so, Jennings,” said Sir Munt. “We’ve got to look ahead. If we get monkeying with China, the next thing on the tapis—so says Mr. Endor, and he sees as far through a brick wall as most, does that jockey—will be trouble between America and Japan.”
“Is that going to matter?” inquired a second Imperialist.
“We can’t afford to let Japan go under,” said Sir Munt sternly. “Our commitments in that quarter are too deep.”
“A thousand pities, it seems to me,” interposed the slow dry voice of the manager of the National Bank, “that America ever jacked up the League of Nations. Seems to me that the world missed one of the opportunities that can never recur.”
“Mr. Thorp, I’m with you there.” Sir Munt sighed heavily. “And she’s thought so, too, more than once, I’ll bet a dollar. However, there it is. And here’s the situation we’ve got to look at now. Every vote given for the Colonial gentleman is a vote for the U. P. And to-day, says Mr. Endor, and I for one can believe him, the U. P. means war with China. And to-morrow it may mean war with somebody of more importance than China.”
“Serve ’em right.”
The ill-timed remark from the other end of the table was drowned in a chorus of stern dissent. Even to these ardent minds such a contingency was not to be thought of. But on one point the great man at the table head was emphatic. Until the U. P. was brought under control there could be no security for any nation, any body of persons, any private individual. And the moment being opportune, Sir Munt clinched his argument with the story of the recent singular occurrence in that city. Several of those who heard it, although not among the admirers of John Endor—his views were much too “woolly” for thoroughgoing Imperialists—had been present at the famous luncheon. These now bore reluctant witness to the fact that he had been misreported. Not that it particularly mattered. Speechifying didn’t cut much ice in these times. And it was reasonable to allow every orator a certain amount of latitude at a champagne luncheon.
“All very well,” growled Sir Munt. “But that speech has gone round the world. His friends here, knowing the man and knowing the circumstances in which the speech was made, are content to believe that some one has blundered. I don’t put it higher than that. But at Hellington the next day he got a broken head instead of a hearing.”