“When it comes time,” said Finacune, “for the man who just rode by to finish his last battle—which we all lose—may he pass out from the arms of the most beautiful woman in London—his daughter!”
They drank standing.
Old Feeney broke the silence which followed. They saw in an instant that he had something big to impart—and that there was joy in the telling.
“The Pan-Anglo Agency of stripped news which I have the honor to represent, sent me a little story this morning,” he declared, with the thin, cold smile which they all knew.
“Feeney, you dead planet, do you mean to say that you have got a ray of light left?” Finacune asked. The two were very hearty friends.
“The Press has rallied about the Throne, as you say, my emotional young friend,” Feeney went on blandly, “but the Throne in the interim has turned one of the smoothest tricks known to diplomacy—all in the dark, mind you—one of the deepest diplomatic inspirations ever sprung in the law and gospel of empire-building. Let us say that some one, by a bit of treachery, has thrown Afghanistan’s fighting power to the Russians, lifting it out of the English control. Also let us grant that Russia, confident of this bulk, is waving the fire-brand along the whole northern border of British India—plunging those sullen native states into rebellion—and telling them why! All lower India, people of the plains, will respond to the disorder. It has been a case of waiting for a full century—waiting for the exact moment for insurrection. India is the prize waiting people. They build for eternity. In a word, my sweet children of a battle or two, England faces a great war—with all India energized by Russia—a ten-to-one shot!”
Feeney sat back and smiled at the vine which had been the background for Jerry Cardinegh’s passing. The others squirmed impatiently.
“What does England do in a case like this?” old Feeney requested at length.... “O glorious England—O my England of wisdom and inspiration! Does England say, ‘Let us fight Russia if we must’?... No, my fellow-sufferers; England looks at the map of the world. The heads of her various top-departments in London draw together. I mean her Home, Colonial, and Foreign offices. One of those mute inglorious Gladstones finds an old petition that has been laughed at and thrust aside for months. It is from Japan. It is read and re-read aloud. The unsung Gladstone of the outfit makes a sizzling suggestion. Japan has asked for an Anglo-Japanese alliance. With a turn of a pen it is done. What does this mean, my brothers?”
The thoughtful Talliaferro deigned to speak: “Japan committed harakiri—that is, many of the young, impulsive flowers of the army and navy did—seven years ago, when Russia led the Triple Alliance and looted the trophies, including Port Arthur, from Japan’s victory over China. With England’s moral support in an alliance, Japan will start a war with Russia to get her trophies back. I’ve got an idea that Japan thinks she can whip Russia.”
Talliaferro talked so seldom that he was well listened to.