“The tropics,” said I, “are a broad territory. What part of Cancer of Capricorn have you been honoring with a visit?”
“Down along China or Peru—or maybe the Argentine Confederacy,” said Kansas Bill. “Anyway ’twas among a great race of people, off-colored but progressive. I was there three months.”
“No doubt you are glad to be back among the truly great race,” I surmised. “Especially among New Yorkers, the most progressive and independent citizens of any country in the world,” I continued, with the fatuity of the provincial who has eaten the Broadway lotus.
“Do you want to start an argument?” asked Bill.
“Can there be one?” I answered.
“Has an Irishman humor, do you think?” asked he.
“I have an hour or two to spare,” said I, looking at the café clock.
“Not that the Americans aren’t a great commercial nation,” conceded Bill. “But the fault laid with the people who wrote lies for fiction.”
“What was this Irishman’s name?” I asked.
“Was that last beer cold enough?” said he.