“And now, Mr. Yang Kee,” said he, as we took our seats in a corner of the docks of the Old Dominion Line, “and now for this very remarkable dream of yours; and permit me to begin by observing that, the central conception of your dream being vicious, the whole business falls to pieces.”
I threw my eyebrows into the form of a couple of interrogation-points.
“You have been at the pains of dreaming that your people are to conquer mine through the instrumentality of armed colonization. Those days, when entire nations—men, women, and children—migrated, sword in hand, are over. Instead of migration we have emigration,—the movement of individuals instead of the movement of tribes; in place of the Helvetii—”
“Mr. Kee, your learning amazes me!”
“It’s all in Confucius,” said he, modestly. “Instead of the Helvetii devastating Gaul, the Swiss waiter lies in ambush against the small change of Christendom. It is no longer warrior against warrior, but man against man. It is not a question of—”
Mr. Kee hesitated, and a subtle smile played over his features.
“Go on,” said I.
“These are the days, I was going to say, of the survival of the fittest, rather than the fightest.”
“Go it, Ying!” cried I; at the same time fetching him a rouser between the shoulders with my rather heavy hand. In my enthusiasm I had forgotten his high rank. I began to stammer out an apology.
“It is nothing,” said he. “It makes me know that you are a good fellow,” added he, at the same time shaking hands with himself, after the manner of his people, with the utmost cordiality.