“Bosh,” he said; “stuff and nonsense. Your glib acquaintance was engaged in the delicate art of pulling your leg.”
Remembering the earnestness of my companion of Spanish Town country road—remembering his deep seriousness—I disagreed.
“But, my dear fellow, if they tried on that sort of business we should go for them. Eyre strung up Gordon for that sort of thing, and the black fellows have not forgotten the lesson they were taught then. The black Tommies—who are not all Jamaicans—in Up-Park Camp, and the white troops at Newcastle and Port Royal, would have something to say in the matter of Jamaican freedom.”
“How about the intervention of America?”
“So much rubbish. The Yankees have pretty well cornered the trade of the island; the natives count their money in dollars and American notes instead of English sovereigns, and that is about all America wants.”
“But what’s the good of Jamaica to England if America controls the trade?”
“Give it up my boy. England’s got Jamaica and she will have to keep it. Even dear old arrogant Britain cannot do what she likes with her Colonies. There would be a terrible kick-up if we started turning our possessions adrift because they had ceased to be remunerative. Besides, there is still a good trade done with England, and lately fresh British enterprise has done something in the way of increasing the Briton’s share.”
“But suppose the coloured people were to properly organise, and, under the leadership of a strong man, demand absolute home rule?”
“Then we should have to tell them to go to the devil.”
“And if they refused?”