‘But you’ve only seen the froth of things, and not the substance. Ginger isn’t Oxford, and Beefy isn’t Cambridge. Ten minutes in the Old Country doesn’t confer the right to shake us up and blow traditions into smithereens.’
‘Tradition’s all moonshine, Billy.’
‘Perhaps; but all your grain-lumpers and pork-packers come here for wives and knighthoods. You’d sell your soul to sleep in Buckingham Palace, and pawn your trousers to eat with the Cecils.’
‘Certainly,’ said Tosher, ‘if we wanted to push through a twenty-thousand-dollar deal.’
‘But aren’t we sportsmen? That’s the point.’
‘Sure! But sport won’t pay the rent or win the war, old child. You can’t kill Huns with hockey-sticks, or use tennis-balls in a barrage. Horse-sense and push-an’-go is a live scheme. You’re real good, real kind; but it makes me tired to see the nootrals selling your grub to the Kaiser, and using your papers to get the plans of the latest push. You ain’t wise over here.’
‘And what’s good about us? Anything?’
‘Your soul. It’s as clean as the brook, and true as Lincoln. You’re fools; but you ain’t willing fools. You’re old; but yet you’re green. This island is a happy hunting-ground for Jews, Germans, and assassins. But we can’t see you fall. The Old Land is Our Land. It’s the Old Home, Billy, and that’s why I’m in. God help the Huns when I go out! I’ll go “West” before this land goes “West.” But, say, I’ve got to go. I’m dining with a real live lord. He wants to see a bucking broncho from the West. Cheerio, boys!’ and Tosher stepped out into the night.
‘Well, that’s the greatest artist Canada has produced,’ said Ginger.
‘That’s the true Imperialism,’ shouted Nobby, ‘but you don’t understand it. All the drivel you got in the Union won’t wash in practical politics. Tosher can make rings round you, and’——