Chapter IV (4)

"Oh, yes, I forgot," said the chief clerk. "I thought it was the Indian Massacre, but I guess that's for to-morrow. Go straight to the end of the street and turn left about half a mile and you'll find the boys down there."

We thanked him and withdrew.

We passed across the open plaza, and went down a narrow side road, bordered here and there with adobe houses, and so out into the open country. Here the hills rose again and the road that we followed wound sharply round a turn into a deep gorge, bordered with rocks and sage brush. We had no sooner turned the curve of the road than we came upon a scene of great activity. Men in Mexican costume were running to and fro apparently arranging a sort of barricade at the side of the road. Others seemed to be climbing the rocks on the further side of the gorge, as if seeking points of advantage. I noticed that all were armed with rifles and machetes and presented a formidable appearance. Of Villa himself I could see nothing. But there was a grim reality about the glittering knives, the rifles and the maxim guns that I saw concealed in the sage brush beside the road.

"What is it?" I asked of a man who was standing idle, watching the scene from the same side of the road as ourselves.

"Attack of American cavalry," he said nonchalantly.

"Here!" I gasped.

"Yep, in about ten minutes: soon as they are ready."

"Where's Villa?"

"It's him they're attacking. They chase him here, see! This is an ambush. Villa rounds on them right here, and they fight to a finish!"

"Great heavens!" I exclaimed. "How do you know that?"

"Know it? Why because I _seen_ it. Ain't they been trying it out for three days? Why, I'd be in it myself only I'm off work. Got a sore toe yesterday--horse stepped on it."

All this was, of course, quite unintelligible to me.

"But it's right here where they're going to fight?" I asked.

"Sure," said the American, as he moved carelessly aside, "as soon as the boss gets it all ready."

I noticed for the first time a heavy-looking man in an American tweed suit and a white plug hat, moving to and fro and calling out directions with an air of authority.

"Here!" he shouted, "what in h--l are you doing with that machine gun? You've got it clean out of focus. Here, Jose, come in closer--that's right. Steady there now, and don't forget, at the second whistle you and Pete are dead. Here, you, Pete, how in thunder do you think you can die there? You're all out of the picture and hidden by that there sage brush. That's no place to die. And, boys, remember one thing, now, _die slow_. Ed"--he turned and called apparently to some one invisible behind the rocks--"when them two boys is killed, turn her round on them, slew her round good and get them centre focus. Now then, are you all set? Ready?"

At this moment the speaker turned and saw Raymon and myself.

"Here, youse," he shouted, "get further back, you're in the picture. Or, say, no, stay right where you are. You," he said, pointing to me, "stay right where you are and I'll give you a dollar to just hold that horror; you understand, just keep on registering it. Don't do another thing, just register that face."

His words were meaningless to me. I had never known before that it was possible to make money by merely registering my face.

"No, no," cried out Raymon, "my friend here is not wanting work. He has a message, a message of great importance for General Villa."

"Well," called back the boss, "he'll have to wait. We can't stop now. All ready, boys? One--two--now!"

And with that he put a whistle to his lips and blew a long shrill blast.

Then in a moment the whole scene was transformed. Rifle shots rang out from every crag and bush that bordered the gully.

A wild scamper of horses' hoofs was heard and in a moment there came tearing down the road a whole troop of mounted Mexicans, evidently in flight, for they turned and fired from their saddles as they rode. The horses that carried them were wild with excitement and flecked with foam. The Mexican cavalry men shouted and yelled, brandishing their machetes and firing their revolvers. Here and there a horse and rider fell to the ground in a great whirl of sand and dust. In the thick of the press, a leader of ferocious aspect, mounted upon a gigantic black horse, waved his sombrero about his head.

"Villa--it is Villa!" cried Raymon, tense with excitement. "Is he not _magnifico?_ But look! Look--the _Americanos!_ They are coming!"

It was a glorious sight to see them as they rode madly on the heels of the Mexicans--a whole company of American cavalry, their horses shoulder to shoulder, the men bent low in their saddles, their carbines gripped in their hands. They rode in squadrons and in line, not like the shouting, confused mass of the Mexicans--but steady, disciplined, irresistible.

On the right flank in front a grey-haired officer steadied the charging line. The excitement of it was maddening.

"Go to it," I shouted in uncontrollable emotion. "Your Mexicans are licked, Raymon, they're no good!"

"But look!" said Raymon. "See--the ambush, the ambuscada!"

For as they reached the centre of the gorge in front of us the Mexicans suddenly checked their horses, bringing them plunging on their haunches in the dust, and then swung round upon their pursuers, while from every crag and bush at the side of the gorge the concealed riflemen sprang into view--and the sputtering of the machine guns swept the advancing column with a volley.

We could see the American line checked as with the buffet of a great wave, men and horses rolling in the road. Through the smoke one saw the grey-haired leader --dismounted, his uniform torn, his hat gone, but still brandishing his sword and calling his orders to his men, his face as one caught in a flash of sunlight, steady and fearless. His words I could not hear, but one saw the American cavalry, still unbroken, dismount, throw themselves behind their horses, and fire with steady aim into the mass of the Mexicans. We could see the Mexicans in front of where we stood falling thick and fast, in little huddled bundles of colour, kicking the sand. The man Pete had gone down right in the foreground and was breathing out his soul before our eyes.

"Well done," I shouted. "Go to it, boys! You can lick 'em yet! Hurrah for the United States. Look, Raymon, look! They've shot down the crew of the machine guns. See, see, the Mexicans are turning to run. At 'em, boys! They're waving the American flag! There it is in all the thick of the smoke! Hark! There's the bugle call to mount again! They're going to charge again! Here they come!"

As the American cavalry came tearing forward, the Mexicans leaped from their places with gestures of mingled rage and terror as if about to break and run.

The battle, had it continued, could have but one end.

But at this moment we heard from the town behind us the long sustained note of a steam whistle blowing the hour of noon.

In an instant the firing ceased.

The battle stopped. The Mexicans picked themselves up off the ground and began brushing off the dust from their black velvet jackets. The American cavalry reined in their horses. Dead Pete came to life. General Villa and the American leader and a number of others strolled over towards the boss, who stood beside the fence vociferating his comments.

"That won't do!" he was shouting. "That won't do! Where in blazes was that infernal Sister of Mercy? Miss Jenkinson!" and he called to a tall girl, whom I now noticed for the first time among the crowd, wearing a sort of khaki costume and a short skirt and carrying a water bottle in a strap. "You never got into the picture at all. I want you right in there among the horses, under their feet."

"Land sakes!" said the Sister of Mercy. "You ain't no right to ask me to go in there among them horses and be trampled."

"Ain't you _paid_ to be trampled?" said the manager angrily. Then as he caught sight of Villa he broke off and said: "Frank, you boys done fine. It's going to be a good act, all right. But it ain't just got the right amount of ginger in it yet. We'll try her over _once_ again, anyway."

"Now, boys," he continued, calling out to the crowd with a voice like a megaphone, "this afternoon at three-thirty --Hospital scene. I only want the wounded, the doctors and the Sisters of Mercy. All the rest of youse is free till ten to-morrow--for the Indian Massacre. Everybody up for that."

It was an hour or two later that I had my interview with Villa in a back room of the little _posada_, or inn, of the town. The General had removed his ferocious wig of straight black hair, and substituted a check suit for his warlike costume. He had washed the darker part of the paint off his face--in fact, he looked once again the same Frank Villa that I used to know when he kept his Mexican cigar store in Buffalo.

"Well, Frank," I said, "I'm afraid I came down here under a misunderstanding."

"Looks like it," said the General, as he rolled a cigarette.

"And you wouldn't care to go back even for the offer that I am commissioned to make--your old job back again, and half the profits on a new cigar to be called the Francesco Villa?"

The General shook his head.

"It sounds good, all right," he said, "but this moving-picture business is better."

"I see," I said, "I hadn't understood. I thought there really was a revolution here in Mexico."

"No," said Villa, shaking his head, "been no revolution down here for years--not since Diaz. The picture companies came in and took the whole thing over; they made us a fair offer--so much a reel straight out, and a royalty, and let us divide up the territory as we liked. The first film we done was the bombardment of Vera Cruz. Say, that was a dandy; did you see it?"

"No," I said.

"They had us all in that," he continued. "I done an American Marine. Lots of people think it all real when they see it."

"Why," I said, "nearly everybody does. Even the President--"

"Oh, I guess he knows," said Villa, "but, you see, there's tons of money in it and it's good for business, and he's too decent a man to give It away. Say, I heard the boy saying there's a war in Europe. I wonder what company got that up, eh? But I don't believe it'll draw. There ain't the scenery for it that we have in Mexico."

"Alas!" murmured Raymon. "Our beautiful Mexico. To what is she fallen! Needing only water, air, light and soil to make her--"

"Come on, Raymon," I said, "let's go home."

XIV. Over the Grape Juice; or, The Peacemakers

Characters

MR. W. JENNINGS BRYAN. DR. DAVID STARR JORDAN. A PHILANTHROPIST. MR. NORMAN ANGELL. A LADY PACIFIST. A NEGRO PRESIDENT. AN EMINENT DIVINE. THE MAN ON THE STREET. THE GENERAL PUBLIC. And many others.

"War," said the Negro President of Haiti, "is a sad spectacle. It shames our polite civilisation."

As he spoke, he looked about him at the assembled company around the huge dinner table, glittering with cut glass and white linen, and brilliant with hot-house flowers.

"A sad spectacle," he repeated, rolling his big eyes in his black and yellow face that was melancholy with the broken pathos of the African race.

The occasion was a notable one. It was the banquet of the Peacemakers' Conference of 1917 and the company gathered about the board was as notable as it was numerous.

At the head of the table the genial Mr. Jennings Bryan presided as host, his broad countenance beaming with amiability, and a tall flagon of grape juice standing beside his hand. A little further down the table one saw the benevolent head and placid physiognomy of Mr. Norman Angell, bowed forward as if in deep calculation. Within earshot of Mr. Bryan, but not listening to him, one recognised without the slightest difficulty Dr. David Starr Jordan, the distinguished ichthyologist and director in chief of the World's Peace Foundation, while the bland features of a gentleman from China, and the presence of a yellow delegate from the Mosquito Coast, gave ample evidence that the company had been gathered together without reference to colour, race, religion, education, or other prejudices whatsoever.

But it would be out of the question to indicate by name the whole of the notable assemblage. Indeed, certain of the guests, while carrying in their faces and attitudes something strangely and elusively familiar, seemed in a sense to be nameless, and to represent rather types and abstractions than actual personalities. Such was the case, for instance, with a female member of the company, seated in a place of honour near the host, whose demure garb and gentle countenance seemed to indicate her as a Lady Pacifist, but denied all further identification. The mild, ecclesiastical features of a second guest, so entirely Christian in its expression as to be almost devoid of expression altogether, marked him at once as An Eminent Divine, but, while puzzlingly suggestive of an actual and well-known person, seemed to elude exact recognition. His accent, when he presently spoke, stamped him as British and his garb was that of the Established Church. Another guest appeared to answer to the general designation of Capitalist or Philanthropist, and seemed from his prehensile grasp upon his knife and fork to typify the Money Power. In front of this guest, doubtless with a view of indicating his extreme wealth and the consideration in which he stood, was placed a floral decoration representing a broken bank, with the figure of a ruined depositor entwined among the debris.

Of these nameless guests, two individuals alone, from the very significance of their appearance, from their plain dress, unsuited to the occasion, and from the puzzled expression of their faces, seemed out of harmony with the galaxy of distinction which surrounded them. They seemed to speak only to one another, and even that somewhat after the fashion of an appreciative chorus to what the rest of the company was saying; while the manner in which they rubbed their hands together and hung upon the words of the other speakers in humble expectancy seemed to imply that they were present in the hope of gathering rather than shedding light. To these two humble and obsequious guests no attention whatever was paid, though it was understood, by those who knew, that their names were The General Public and the Man on the Street.

"A sad spectacle," said the Negro President, and he sighed as he spoke. "One wonders if our civilisation, if our moral standards themselves, are slipping from us." Then half in reverie, or as if overcome by the melancholy of his own thought, he lifted a spoon from the table and slid it gently into the bosom of his faded uniform.

"Put back that spoon!" called The Lady Pacifist sharply.

"Pardon!" said the Negro President humbly, as he put it back. The humiliation of generations of servitude was in his voice.

"Come, come," exclaimed Mr. Jennings Bryan cheerfully, "try a little more of the grape juice?"

"Does it intoxicate?" asked the President.

"Never," answered Mr. Bryan. "Rest assured of that. I can guarantee it. The grape is picked in the dark. It is then carried, still in the dark, to the testing room. There every particle of alcohol is removed. Try it."

"Thank you," said the President. "I am no longer thirsty."

"Will anybody have some more of the grape juice?" asked Mr. Bryan, running his eye along the ranks of the guests.

No one spoke.

"Will anybody have some more ground peanuts?"

No one moved.

"Or does anybody want any more of the shredded tan bark? No? Or will somebody have another spoonful of sunflower seeds?"

There was still no sign of assent.

"Very well, then," said Mr. Bryan, "the banquet, as such, is over, and we now come to the more serious part of our business. I need hardly tell you that we are here for a serious purpose. We are here to do good. That I know is enough to enlist the ardent sympathy of everybody present."

There was a murmur of assent.

"Personally," said The Lady Pacifist, "I do nothing else."

"Neither do I," said the guest who has been designated The Philanthropist, "whether I am producing oil, or making steel, or building motor-cars."

"Does he build motor-cars?" whispered the humble person called The Man in the Street to his fellow, The General Public.

"All great philanthropists do things like that," answered his friend. "They do it as a social service so as to benefit humanity; any money they make is just an accident. They don't really care about it a bit. Listen to him. He's going to say so."

"Indeed, our business itself," The Philanthropist continued, while his face lighted up with unselfish enthusiasm, "our business itself--"

"Hush, hush!" said Mr. Bryan gently. "We know--"

"Our business itself," persisted The Philanthropist, "is one great piece of philanthropy."

Tears gathered in his eyes.

"Come, come," said Mr. Bryan firmly, "we must get to business. Our friend here," he continued, turning to the company at large and indicating the Negro President on his right, "has come to us in great distress. His beautiful island of Haiti is and has been for many years overwhelmed in civil war. Now he learns that not only Haiti, but also Europe is engulfed in conflict. He has heard that we are making proposals for ending the war --indeed, I may say are about to declare that the war in Europe _must stop_--I think I am right, am I not, my friends?"

There was a general chorus of assent.

"Naturally then," continued Mr. Bryan, "our friend the President of Haiti, who is overwhelmed with grief at what has been happening in his island, has come to us for help. That is correct, is it not?"

"That's it, gentlemen," said the Negro President, in a voice of some emotion, wiping the sleeve of his faded uniform across his eyes. "The situation is quite beyond my control. In fact," he added, shaking his head pathetically as he relapsed into more natural speech, "dis hyah chile, gen'l'n, is clean done beat with it. Dey ain't doin' nuffin' on the island but shootin', burnin', and killin' somethin' awful. Lawd a massy! it's just like a real civilised country, all right, now. Down in our island we coloured people is feeling just as bad as youse did when all them poor white folks was murdered on the _Lusitania!_"

But the Negro President had no sooner used the words "Murdered on the _Lusitania_," than a chorus of dissent and disapproval broke out all down the table.

"My dear sir, my dear sir," protested Mr. Bryan, "pray moderate your language a little, if you please. Murdered? Oh, dear, dear me, how can we hope to advance the cause of peace if you insist on using such terms?"

"Ain't it that? Wasn't it murder?" asked the President, perplexed.

"We are all agreed here," said The Lady Pacifist, "that it is far better to call it an incident. We speak of the '_Lusitania_ Incident,'" she added didactically, "just as one speaks of the _Arabic_ Incident, and the Cavell Incident, and other episodes of the sort. It makes it so much easier to forget."

"True, quite true," murmured The Eminent Divine, "and then one must remember that there are always two sides to everything. There are two sides to murder. We must not let ourselves forget that there is always the murderer's point of view to consider."

But by this time the Negro President was obviously confused and out of his depth. The conversation had reached a plane of civilisation which was beyond his reach.

The genial Mr. Bryan saw fit to come to his rescue.

"Never mind," said Mr. Bryan soothingly. "Our friends here, will soon settle all your difficulties for you. I'm going to ask them, one after the other, to advise you. They will tell you the various means that they are about to apply to stop the war in Europe, and you may select any that you like for your use in Haiti. We charge you nothing for it, except of course your fair share of the price of this grape juice and the shredded nuts."

The President nodded.

"I am going to ask our friend on my right"--and here Mr. Bryan indicated The Lady Pacifist--"to speak first."

There was a movement of general expectancy and the two obsequious guests at the foot of the table, of whom mention has been made, were seen to nudge one another and whisper, "Isn't this splendid?"

"You are not asking me to speak first merely because I am a woman?" asked The Lady Pacifist.

"Oh no," said Mr. Bryon, with charming tact.

"Very good," said the lady, adjusting her glasses. "As for stopping the war, I warn you, as I have warned the whole world, that it may be too late. They should have called me in sooner. That was the mistake. If they had sent for me at once and had put my picture in the papers both in England and Germany, with the inscription 'The True Woman of To-day,' I doubt if any of the men who looked at it would have felt that it was worth while to fight. But, as things are, the only advice I can give is this. Everybody is wrong (except me). The Germans are a very naughty people. But the Belgians are worse. It was very, very wicked of the Germans to bombard the houses of the Belgians. But how naughty of the Belgians to go and sit in their houses while they were bombarded. It is to that that I attribute--with my infallible sense of justice--the dreadful loss of life. So you see the only conclusion that I can reach is that everybody is very naughty and that the only remedy would be to appoint me a committee--me and a few others, though the others don't really matter--to make a proper settlement. I hope I make myself clear."

The Negro President shook his head and looked mystified.

"Us coloured folks," he said, "wouldn't quite understand that. We done got the idea that sometimes there's such a thing as a quarrel that is right and just." The President's melancholy face lit up with animation and his voice rose to the sonorous vibration of the negro preacher. "We learn that out of the Bible, we coloured folks--we learn to smite the ungodly--"

"Pray, pray," said Mr. Bryan soothingly, "don't introduce religion, let me beg of you. That would be fatal. We peacemakers are all agreed that there must be no question of religion raised."

"Exactly so," murmured The Eminent Divine, "my own feelings exactly. The name of--of--the Deity should never be brought in. It inflames people. Only a few weeks ago I was pained and grieved to the heart to hear a woman in one of our London streets raving that the German Emperor was a murderer. Her child had been killed that night by a bomb from a Zeppelin; she had its body in a cloth hugged to her breast as she talked--thank heaven, they keep these things out of the newspapers--and she was calling down God's vengeance on the Emperor. Most deplorable! Poor creature, unable, I suppose, to realise the Emperor's exalted situation, his splendid lineage, the wonderful talent with which he can draw pictures of the apostles with one hand while he writes an appeal to his Mohammedan comrades with the other. I dined with him once," he added, in modest afterthought.

"I dined with him, too," said Dr. Jordan. "I shall never forget the impression he made. As he entered the room accompanied by his staff, the Emperor looked straight at me and said to one of his aides, 'Who is this?' 'This is Dr. Jordan,' said the officer. The Emperor put out his hand. 'So this is Dr. Jordan,' he said. I never witnessed such an exhibition of brain power in my life. He had seized my name in a moment and held it for three seconds with all the tenaciousness of a Hohenzollern.

"But may I," continued the Director of the World's Peace, "add a word to what has been said to make it still clearer to our friend? I will try to make it as simple as one of my lectures in Ichthyology. I know of nothing simpler than that."

Everybody murmured assent. The Negro President put his hand to his ear.

"Theology?" he said.

"Ichthyology," said Dr. Jordan. "It is better. But just listen to this. War is waste. It destroys the tissues. It is exhausting and fatiguing and may in extreme cases lead to death."

The learned gentleman sat back in his seat and took a refreshing drink of rain water from a glass beside him, while a murmur of applause ran round the table. It was known and recognised that the speaker had done more than any living man to establish the fact that war is dangerous, that gunpowder, if heated, explodes, that fire burns, that fish swim, and other great truths without which the work of the peace endowment would appear futile.

"And now," said Mr. Bryan, looking about him with the air of a successful toastmaster, "I am going to ask our friend here to give us his views."

Renewed applause bore witness to the popularity of The Philanthropist, whom Mr. Bryan had indicated with a wave of his hand.

The Philanthropist cleared his throat.

"In our business--" he began.

Mr. Bryan plucked him gently by the sleeve.

"Never mind your business just now," he whispered.

The Philanthropist bowed in assent and continued:

"I will come at once to the subject. My own feeling is that the true way to end war is to try to spread abroad in all directions goodwill and brotherly love."

"Hear, hear!" cried the assembled company.

"And the great way to inspire brotherly love all round is to keep on getting richer and richer till you have so much money that every one loves you. Money, gentlemen, is a glorious thing."

At this point, Mr. Norman Angell, who had remained silent hitherto, raised his head from his chest and murmured drowsily:

"Money, money, there isn't anything but money. Money is the only thing there is. Money and property, property and money. If you destroy it, it is gone; if you smash it, it isn't there. All the rest is a great illus--"

And with this he dozed off again into silence.

"Our poor Angell is asleep again," said The Lady Pacifist.

Mr. Bryan shook his head.

"He's been that way ever since the war began--sleeps all the time, and keeps muttering that there isn't any war, that people only imagine it, in fact that it is all an illusion. But I fear we are interrupting you," he added, turning to The Philanthropist.

"I was just saying," continued that gentleman, "that you can do anything with money. You can stop a war with it if you have enough of it, in ten minutes. I don't care what kind of war it is, or what the people are fighting for, whether they are fighting for conquest or fighting for their homes and their children. I can stop it, stop it absolutely by my grip on money, without firing a shot or incurring the slightest personal danger."

The Philanthropist spoke with the greatest emphasis, reaching out his hand and clutching his fingers in the air.

"Yes, gentlemen," he went on, "I am speaking here not of theories but of facts. This is what I am doing and what I mean to do. You've no idea how amenable people are, especially poor people, struggling people, those with ties and responsibilities, to the grip of money. I went the other day to a man I know, the head of a bank, where I keep a little money--just a fraction of what I make, gentlemen, a mere nothing to me but everything to this man because he is still not rich and is only fighting his way up. 'Now,' I said to him, 'you are English, are you not?' 'Yes, sir,' he answered. 'And I understand you mean to help along the loan to England with all the power of your bank.' 'Yes,' he said, 'I mean it and I'll do it.' 'Then I'll tell you what,' I said, 'you lend one penny, or help to lend one penny, to the people of England or the people of France, and I'll break you, I'll grind you into poverty--you and your wife and children and all that belongs to you.'"

The Philanthropist had spoken with so great an intensity that there was a deep stillness over the assembled company. The Negro President had straightened up in his seat, and as he looked at the speaker there was something in his erect back and his stern face and the set of his faded uniform that somehow turned him, African though he was, into a soldier.

"Sir," he said, with his eye riveted on the speaker's face, "what happened to that banker man?"

"The fool!" said The Philanthropist. "He wouldn't hear --he defied me--he said that there wasn't money enough in all my business to buy the soul of a single Englishman. I had his directors turn him from his bank that day, and he's enlisted, the scoundrel, and is gone to the war. But his wife and family are left behind; they shall learn what the grip of the money power is--learn it in misery and poverty."

"My good sir," said the Negro President slowly and impressively, "do you know why your plan of stopping war wouldn't work in Haiti?"

"No," said The Philanthropist.

"Because our black people there would kill you. Whichever side they were on, whatever they thought of the war, they would take a man like you and lead you out into the town square, and stand you up against the side of an adobe house, and they'd shoot you. Come down to Haiti, if you doubt my words, and try it."

"Thank you," said The Philanthropist, resuming his customary manner of undisturbed gentleness, "I don't think I will. I don't think somehow that I could do business in Haiti."

The passage at arms between the Negro President and The Philanthropist had thrown a certain confusion into the hitherto agreeable gathering. Even The Eminent Divine was seen to be slowly shaking his head from side to side, an extreme mark of excitement which he never permitted himself except under stress of passion. The two humble guests at the foot of the table were visibly perturbed. "Say, I don't like that about the banker," squeaked one of them. "That ain't right, eh what? I don't like it."

Mr. Bryan was aware that the meeting was in danger of serious disorder. He rapped loudly on the table for attention. When he had at last obtained silence, he spoke.

"I have kept my own views to the last," he said, "because I cannot but feel that they possess a peculiar importance. There is, my dear friends, every prospect that within a measurable distance of time I shall be able to put them into practice. I am glad to be able to announce to you the practical certainty that four years from now I shall be President of the United States."

At this announcement the entire company broke into spontaneous and heartfelt applause. It had long been felt by all present that Mr. Bryan was certain to be President of the United States if only he ran for the office often enough, but that the glad moment had actually arrived seemed almost too good for belief.

"Yes, my friends," continued the genial host, "I have just had a communication from my dear friend Wilson, in which he tells me that he, himself, will never contest the office again. The Presidency, he says, interfered too much with his private life. In fact, I am authorised to state in confidence that his wife forbids him to run."

"But, my dear Jennings," interposed Dr. Jordan thoughtfully, "what about Mr. Hughes and Colonel Roosevelt?"

"In that quarter my certainty in the matter is absolute. I have calculated it out mathematically that I am bound to obtain, in view of my known principles, the entire German vote--which carries with it all the great breweries of the country--the whole Austrian vote, all the Hungarians of the sugar refineries, the Turks; in fact, my friends, I am positive that Roosevelt, if he dares to run, will carry nothing but the American vote!"

Loud applause greeted this announcement.

"And now let me explain my plan, which I believe is shared by a great number of sane, and other, pacifists in the country. All the great nations of the world will be invited to form a single international force consisting of a fleet so powerful and so well equipped that no single nation will dare to bid it defiance."

Mr. Bryan looked about him with a glance of something like triumph. The whole company, and especially the Negro President, were now evidently interested. "Say," whispered The General Public to his companion, "this sounds like the real thing? Eh, what? Isn't he a peach of a thinker?"

"What flag will your fleet fly?" asked the Negro President.

"The flags of all nations," said Mr. Bryan.

"Where will you get your sailors?"

"From all the nations," said Mr. Bryan, "but the uniform will be all the same, a plain white blouse with blue insertions, and white duck trousers with the word PEACE stamped across the back of them in big letters. This will help to impress the sailors with the almost sacred character of their functions."

"But what will the fleet's functions be?" asked the President.

"Whenever a quarrel arises," explained Mr. Bryan, "it will be submitted to a Board. Who will be on this Board, in addition to myself, I cannot as yet say. But it's of no consequence. Whenever a case is submitted to the Board it will think it over for three years. It will then announce its decision--if any. After that, if any one nation refuses to submit, its ports will be bombarded by the Peace Fleet."

Rapturous expressions of approval greeted Mr. Bryan's explanation.

"But I don't understand," said the Negro President, turning his puzzled face to Mr. Bryan. "Would some of these ships be British ships?"

"Oh, certainly. In view of the dominant size of the British Navy about one-quarter of all the ships would be British ships."

"And the sailors British sailors?"

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Bryan, "except that they would be wearing international breeches--a most important point."

"And if the Board, made up of all sorts of people, were to give a decision against England, then these ships--British ships with British sailors--would be sent to bombard England itself."

"Exactly," said Mr. Bryan. "Isn't it beautifully simple? And to guarantee its working properly," he continued, "just in case we have to use the fleet against England, we're going to ask Admiral Jellicoe himself to take command."

The Negro President slowly shook his head.

"Marse Bryan," he said, "you notice what I say. I know Marse Jellicoe. I done seen him lots of times when he was just a lieutenant, down in the harbour of Port au Prince. If youse folks put up this proposition to Marse Jellicoe, he'll just tell the whole lot of you to go plumb to--"

But the close of the sentence was lost by a sudden interruption. A servant entered with a folded telegram in his hand.

"For me?" said Mr. Bryan, with a winning smile.

"For the President of Haiti, sir," said the man.

The President took the telegram and opened it clumsily with his finger and thumb amid a general silence. Then he took from his pocket and adjusted a huge pair of spectacles with a horn rim and began to read.

"Well, I 'clare to goodness!" he said.

"Who is it from ?" said Mr. Bryan. "Is it anything about me?"

The Negro President shook his head.

"It's from Haiti," he said, "from my military secretary."

"Read it, read it," cried the company.

"_Come back home right away,_" read out the Negro President, word by word. "_Everything is all right again. Joint British and American Naval Squadron came into harbour yesterday, landed fifty bluejackets and one midshipman. Perfect order. Banks open. Bars open. Mule cars all running again. Things fine. Going to have big dance at your palace. Come right back._"

The Negro President paused.

"Gentlemen," he said, in a voice of great and deep relief, "this lets me out. I guess I won't stay for the rest of the discussion. I'll start for Haiti. I reckon there's something in this Armed Force business after all."

XV. The White House from Without In

Being Extracts from the Diary of a President of the United States.

MONDAY. Rose early. Swept out the White House. Cooked breakfast. Prayers. Sat in the garden reading my book on Congressional Government. What a wonderful thing it is! Why doesn't Congress live up to it? Certainly a lovely morning. Sat for some time thinking how beautiful the world is. I defy anyone to make a better. Afterwards determined to utter this defiance publicly and fearlessly. Shall put in list of fearless defiances for July speeches. Shall probably use it in Oklahoma.

9.30 a.m. Bad news. British ship _Torpid_ torpedoed by a torpedo. Tense atmosphere all over Washington. Retreated instantly to the pigeon-house and shut the door. I must _think_. At all costs. And no one shall hurry me.

10 a.m. Have thought. Came out of pigeon-house. It is all right. I wonder I didn't think of it sooner. The point is perfectly simple. If Admiral Tirpitz torpedoed the _Torpid_ with a torpedo, where's the torpedo Admiral Tirpitz torped? In other words, how do they know it's a torpedo? The idea seems absolutely overwhelming. Wrote notes at once to England and to Germany.

11 a.m. Gave out my idea to the Ass Press. Tense feeling at Washington vanished instantly and utterly. Feeling now loose. In fact everything splendid. Money became easy at once. Marks rose. Exports jumped. Gold reserve swelled.

3 p.m. Slightly bad news. Appears there is trouble in the Island of Piccolo Domingo. Looked it up on map. Is one of the smaller West Indies. We don't own it. I imagine Roosevelt must have overlooked it. An American has been in trouble there: was refused a drink after closing time and burnt down saloon. Is now in jail. Shall send at once our latest battleship--the _Woodrow_--new design, both ends alike, escorted by double-ended coal barges the _Wilson_, the _President_, the _Professor_ and the _Thinker_. Shall take firm stand on American rights. Piccolo Domingo must either surrender the American alive, or give him to us dead.

TUESDAY. A lovely day. Rose early. Put flowers in all the vases. Laid a wreath of early japonica beside my egg-cup on the breakfast table. Cabinet to morning prayers and breakfast. Prayed for better guidance.

9 a.m. Trouble, bad trouble. First of all Roosevelt has an interview in the morning papers in which he asks why I don't treat Germany as I treat Piccolo Domingo. Now, what a fool question! Can't he _see_ why? Roosevelt never could see reason. Bryan also has an interview: wants to know why I don't treat Piccolo Domingo as I treat Germany? Doesn't he _know_ why?

Result: strained feeling in Washington. Morning mail bad.

10 a.m. British Admiralty communication. To the pigeon-house at once. They offer to send piece of torpedo, fragment of ship and selected portions of dead American citizens.

Have come out of pigeon-house. Have cabled back: How do they know it is a torpedo, how do they know it is a fragment, how do they know he was an American who said he was dead?

My answer has helped. Feeling in Washington easier at once. General buoyancy. Loans and discounts doubled.

As I expected--a note from Germany. Chancellor very explicit. Says not only did they not torpedo the _Torpid_, but that on the day (whenever it was) that the steamer was torpedoed they had no submarines at sea, no torpedoes in their submarines, and nothing really explosive in their torpedoes. Offers, very kindly, to fill in the date of sworn statement as soon as we furnish accurate date of incident. Adds that his own theory is that the _Torpid_ was sunk by somebody throwing rocks at it from the shore. Wish, somehow, that he had not added this argument.

More bad news: Further trouble in Mexico. Appears General Villa is not dead. He has again crossed the border, shot up a saloon and retreated to the mountains of Huahuapaxtapetl. Have issued instructions to have the place looked up on the map and send the whole army to it, but without in any way violating the neutrality of Mexico.

Late cables from England. Two more ships torpedoed. American passenger lost. Name of Roosevelt. Christian name not Theodore but William. Cabled expression of regret.

WEDNESDAY. Rose sad at heart. Did not work in garden. Tried to weed a little grass along the paths but simply couldn't. This is a cruel job. How was it that Roosevelt grew stout on it? His nature must be different from mine. What a miserable nature he must have.

Received delegations. From Kansas, on the prospect of the corn crop: they said the number of hogs in Kansas will double. Congratulated them. From Idaho, on the blight on the root crop: they say there will soon not be a hog left in Idaho. Expressed my sorrow. From Michigan, beet sugar growers urging a higher percentage of sugar in beets. Took firm stand: said I stand where I stood and I stood where I stand. They went away dazzled, delighted.

Mail and telegrams. British Admiralty. _Torpid_ Incident. Send further samples. Fragment of valise, parts of cow-hide trunk (dead passenger's luggage) which, they say, could not have been made except in Nevada.

Cabled that the incident is closed and that I stand where I stood and that I am what I am. Situation in Washington relieved at once. General feeling that I shall not make war.

Second Cable from England. The Two New Cases. Claim both ships torpedoed. Offer proofs. Situation very grave. Feeling in Washington very tense. Roosevelt out with a signed statement, _What will the President Do?_ Surely he knows what I will do.

Cables from Germany. Chancellor now positive as to _Torpid_. Sworn evidence that she was sunk by some one throwing a rock. Sample of rock to follow. Communication also from Germany regarding the New Cases. Draws attention to fact that all of the crews who were not drowned were saved. An important point. Assures this government that everything ascertainable will be ascertained, but that pending juridical verification any imperial exemplification must be held categorically allegorical. How well these Germans write!

THURSDAY. A dull morning. Up early and read Congressional Government. Breakfast. Prayers. We prayed for the United States, for the citizens, for the Congress (both houses, especially the Senate), and for the Cabinet. Is there any one else?

Trouble. Accident to naval flotilla _en route_ to Piccolo Domingo. The new battleship the _Woodrow_ has broken down. Fault in structure. Tried to go with both ends first. Appeared impossible. Went sideways a little and is sinking. Wireless from the barges the _Wilson_, the _Thinker_ and others. They are standing by. They wire that they will continue to stand by. Why on earth do they do that? Shall cable them to act.

Feeling in Washington gloomy.

FRIDAY. Rose early and tried to sweep out the White House. Had little heart for it. The dust gathers in the corners. How did Roosevelt manage to keep it so clean? An idea! I must get a vacuum cleaner! But where can I get a vacuum? Took my head in my hands and thought: problem solved. Can get the vacuum all right.

Good news. Villa dead again. Feeling in Washington relieved.

Trouble. Ship torpedoed. News just came from the French Government. Full-rigged ship, the _Ping-Yan_, sailing out of Ping Pong, French Cochin China, and cleared for Hoo-Ra, Indo-Arabia. No American citizens on board, but one American citizen with ticket left behind on wharf at Ping Pong. Claims damages. Complicated case. Feeling in Washington much disturbed. Sterling exchange fell and wouldn't get up. French Admiralty urge treaty of 1778. German Chancellor admits torpedoing ship but denies that it was full-rigged. Captain of submarine drew picture of ship as it sank. His picture unlike any known ship of French navy.

SATURDAY. A day of trouble. Villa came to life and crossed the border. Our army looking for him in Mexico: inquiry by wire, are they authorised to come back? General Carranza asks leave to invade Canada. Piccolo Domingo expedition has failed. The _Woodrow_ is still sinking. The President and the _Thinker_ cable that they are still standing by and will continue to stand where they have stood. British Admiralty sending shipload of fragments. German Admiralty sending shipload of affidavits. Feeling in Washington depressed to the lowest depths. Sterling sinking. Marks falling. Exports dwindling.

An idea: Is this job worth while? I wonder if Billy Sunday would take it?

Spent the evening watering the crocuses. Whoever is here a year from now is welcome to them. They tell me that Hughes hates crocuses. Watered them very carefully.

SUNDAY. Good news! Just heard from Princeton University. I am to come back, and everything will be forgiven and forgotten.

Timid Thoughts on Timely Topics

XVI. Are the Rich Happy?

Let me admit at the outset that I write this essay without adequate material. I have never known, I have never seen, any rich people. Very often I have thought that I had found them. But it turned out that it was not so. They were not rich at all. They were quite poor. They were hard up. They were pushed for money. They didn't know where to turn for ten thousand dollars.

In all the cases that I have examined this same error has crept in. I had often imagined, from the fact of people keeping fifteen servants, that they were rich. I had supposed that because a woman rode down town in a limousine to buy a fifty-dollar hat, she must be well to do. Not at all. All these people turn out on examination to be not rich. They are cramped. They say it themselves. Pinched, I think, is the word they use. When I see a glittering group of eight people in a stage box at the opera, I know that they are all pinched. The fact that they ride home in a limousine has nothing to do with it.

A friend of mine who has ten thousand dollars a year told me the other day with a sigh that he found it quite impossible to keep up with the rich. On his income he couldn't do it. A family that I know who have twenty thousand a year have told me the same thing. They can't keep up with the rich. There is no use trying. A man that I respect very much who has an income of fifty thousand dollars a year from his law practice has told me with the greatest frankness that he finds it absolutely impossible to keep up with the rich. He says it is better to face the brutal fact of being poor. He says he can only give me a plain meal, what he calls a home dinner --it takes three men and two women to serve it--and he begs me to put up with it.

As far as I remember, I have never met Mr. Carnegie. But I know that if I did he would tell me that he found it quite impossible to keep up with Mr. Rockefeller. No doubt Mr. Rockefeller has the same feeling.

On the other hand there are, and there must be rich people, somewhere. I run across traces of them all the time. The janitor in the building where I work has told me that he has a rich cousin in England who is in the South-Western Railway and gets ten pounds a week. He says the railway wouldn't know what to do without him. In the same way the lady who washes at my house has a rich uncle. He lives in Winnipeg and owns his own house, clear, and has two girls at the high school.

But these are only reported cases of richness. I cannot vouch for them myself.

When I speak therefore of rich people and discuss whether they are happy, it is understood that I am merely drawing my conclusions from the people whom I see and know.

My judgment is that the rich undergo cruel trials and bitter tragedies of which the poor know nothing.

In the first place I find that the rich suffer perpetually from money troubles. The poor sit snugly at home while sterling exchange falls ten points in a day. Do they care? Not a bit. An adverse balance of trade washes over the nation like a flood. Who have to mop it up? The rich. Call money rushes up to a hundred per cent, and the poor can still sit and laugh at a ten cent moving picture show and forget it.

But the rich are troubled by money all the time.

I know a man, for example--his name is Spugg--whose private bank account was overdrawn last month twenty thousand dollars. He told me so at dinner at his club, with apologies for feeling out of sorts. He said it was bothering him. He said he thought it rather unfair of his bank to have called his attention to it. I could sympathise, in a sort of way, with his feelings. My own account was overdrawn twenty cents at the time. I knew that if the bank began calling in overdrafts it might be my turn next. Spugg said he supposed he'd have to telephone his secretary in the morning to sell some bonds and cover it. It seemed an awful thing to have to do. Poor people are never driven to this sort of thing. I have known cases of their having to sell a little furniture, perhaps, but imagine having to sell the very bonds out of one's desk. There's a bitterness about it that the poor man can never know.

With this same man, Mr. Spugg, I have often talked of the problem of wealth. He is a self-made man and he has told me again and again that the wealth he has accumulated is a mere burden to him. He says that he was much happier when he had only the plain, simple things of life. Often as I sit at dinner with him over a meal of nine courses, he tells me how much he would prefer a plain bit of boiled pork with a little mashed turnip. He says that if he had his way he would make his dinner out of a couple of sausages, fried with a bit of bread. I forgot what it is that stands in his way. I have seen Spugg put aside his glass of champagne--or his glass after he had drunk his champagne--with an expression of something like contempt. He says that he remembers a running creek at the back of his father's farm where he used to lie at full length upon the grass and drink his fill. Champagne, he says, never tasted like that. I have suggested that he should lie on his stomach on the floor of the club and drink a saucerful of soda water. But he won't.

I know well that my friend Spugg would be glad to be rid of his wealth altogether, if such a thing were possible. Till I understood about these things, I always imagined that wealth could be given away. It appears that it cannot. It is a burden that one must carry. Wealth, if one has enough of it, becomes a form of social service. One regards it as a means of doing good to the world, of helping to brighten the lives of others--in a word, a solemn trust. Spugg has often talked with me so long and so late on this topic--the duty of brightening the lives of others--that the waiter who held blue flames for his cigarettes fell asleep against a door post, and the chauffeur outside froze to the seat of his motor.