Hochstein nodded, shoved the folded brown paper into his pocket, and resumed his cards.
“Is thim rifles——” began Soane; but Lehr laid a hand on his shoulder:
“Now, listen! They’re on the way to Ireland now. I told you that. When I hear they’re landed I’ll let you know. You Sinn Feiners don’t understand how to wait. If things don’t happen the way you want and when you want, you all go up in the air!”
“An’ how manny hundred years would ye have us wait f’r to free th’ ould sod!” retorted Soane.
“You’ll not free it with your mouth,” retorted Lehr. “No, nor by drilling with banners and arms in Cork and Belfast, and parading all over the place!”
“Is—that—so!”
“You bet it’s so! The way to make England sick is to stick her in the back, not make faces at her across the Irish Channel. If your friends in the Clan-na-Gael, and your poets and professors who call themselves Sinn Feiners, will quit their childish circus playing and trust us, we’ll show you how to make the Lion yowl.”
“Ah, bombs an’ fires an’ shtrikes is all right, too. An’ proppygandy is fine as far as it goes. But the Clan-na-Gael is all afire f’r to start the shindy in Ireland——”
“You start it,” interrupted Lehr, “before you’re really ready, and you’ll see where it lands the Clan-na-Gael and the Sinn Fein! I tell you to leave it to Berlin!”