“Right!” answered Blake. “That hasn’t anything to do with the question–it’s might. Back in civilized parts, your little crowd has the drop on my big crowd, and runs things to suit themselves. But here we’ve sort of reverted to primitive society. This happens to be the Club Age, and I’m the Man with the Big Stick. See?”
“I myself sympathize with the lower classes, Mr. Blake. Above all, I think it barbarous the way they punish one who is forced by circumstances to appropriate part of the ill-gotten gains of the rich upstarts. But do you believe, Mr. Blake, that brute strength–”
“You bet! Now shut up. Where’re the cocoanuts?”
Winthrope picked up two nuts and handed them over.
“There were only five,” he explained.
“All right. I’m no captain of industry.”
“Ah, true; you said we had reverted to barbarism,” rejoined Winthrope, venturing an attempt at sarcasm.
“Lucky for you!” retorted Blake. “But where’s Miss Leslie all this time? Her clothes must have dried hours ago.”
“They did. We had luncheon together just this side of the point.”
“Oh, you did! Then why shouldn’t I go for her?”