god-given right to collect more taxes.
9
Thirty francs, no matter how you get them, don’t last very long. Money always goes sooner than you expect it will. The same with really fine people.
Hanging around the docks one day, I saw two guys walking along and caught a few words of their conversation. There is something queer about languages. The English say that we can’t speak English, while we say that what the English talk is a sort of ancient Scotch, because no serious-minded person can ever guess what they mean when they start talking about races or movies or, worse, politics. That’s why the first English settlers couldn’t get along as well with the Indians as we can, because the Indians are hundred-per-centers, and the English are not.
But whatever language the limeys talk, I am not crazy about them. They don’t like us, either, and never did. It’s been going on now for more than a hundred and fifty years — ever since the tea-party that had no bridge-partners. The war made things worse.
You come into a port where the limeys are thick, and they shout as though they owned the world. Maybe in Australia, or in China, or along the coast of the Indian Sea. You step into a tavern like a good and decent sailor who is ashore for a couple of hours and wants to wash down the salt from his throat.
You don’t have to say who you are. You just step across to the bar and you say: “Hello, pal, gimme a shot. No, straight. Make it two.”
That’s all you need to say, and hell is let loose.
“Hey you, Yank. Who won the war?”
Now, as a decent sailor, what can you say to that? What has that to do with me? I didn’t win the war. Of that I am sure. Those who say they won it would rather that nobody reminded them of it, true or not true.
Again: “Hey, Yank, you’re a smart sailor. Tell the world who won the war!”
What do I care? I am drinking my hard washer, and ask for another, straight. Mother told me long ago not to meddle with boys who are not honest and who seek only trouble.
Now there are about two dozen of the limeys. Grinning and laughing. I am alone. I don’t know where the other fellows from my can are right now. Not very likely to drop in here, anyhow.
“Make this one a doubler. Mother’s son is thirsty.”
“Hey, submarine admiral, Nancy of the gobs. Tell us real sailors who won the war.”
I do not even look at the drunks. I punish them with my profound disrespect. But they cannot leave a guy in peace, especially since I am all alone. I don’t even know if the barman will keep neutral. I guess I shall have to say something. The honor of my country is at stake. No matter what it may cost me.
Now what can I say? If I say: “We,” there will be roaring laughter and a big fight. If I say: “The Frenchies,” there will be a fight. If I say: “I won it,” there will be a fight, and most likely the jail afterwards and then the hospital. If I say: “The Canadians, the Australians, the Africans, and the New Zealanders,” there will be a fight. If I stay on saying nothing, it will be taken to mean: “We Americans won it,” which, I know, will surely result in the biggest fight. I could say: “You English, you won the war.” This would be a lie, and that reminds me again of my mother, who told me a thousand times never to tell a lie, and always to think of the cherry-tree that was responsible for a president. So what else can be done about it? There is a fight on. That’s the way they treat the fine guys whom they called, when they needed them badly, “our cousins across the sea.” Not my cousins; no, siree.
So that’s why I am not so crazy about the limeys. But whether I liked them or despised them made no difference now. I had to be friendly, for they were all I had to rely on.
“What bucket are you from, chaps?”
“Hello, Yankey, what’re you doing here?”
“I was mixed up with a jane who had a sick mother. Had to take her to the hospital myself. So I was skipped,
9
Thirty francs, no matter how you get them, don’t last very long. Money always goes sooner than you expect it will. The same with really fine people.
Hanging around the docks one day, I saw two guys walking along and caught a few words of their conversation. There is something queer about languages. The English say that we can’t speak English, while we say that what the English talk is a sort of ancient Scotch, because no serious-minded person can ever guess what they mean when they start talking about races or movies or, worse, politics. That’s why the first English settlers couldn’t get along as well with the Indians as we can, because the Indians are hundred-per-centers, and the English are not.
But whatever language the limeys talk, I am not crazy about them. They don’t like us, either, and never did. It’s been going on now for more than a hundred and fifty years — ever since the tea-party that had no bridge-partners. The war made things worse.
You come into a port where the limeys are thick, and they shout as though they owned the world. Maybe in Australia, or in China, or along the coast of the Indian Sea. You step into a tavern like a good and decent sailor who is ashore for a couple of hours and wants to wash down the salt from his throat.
You don’t have to say who you are. You just step across to the bar and you say: “Hello, pal, gimme a shot. No, straight. Make it two.”
That’s all you need to say, and hell is let loose.
“Hey you, Yank. Who won the war?”
Now, as a decent sailor, what can you say to that? What has that to do with me? I didn’t win the war. Of that I am sure. Those who say they won it would rather that nobody reminded them of it, true or not true.
Again: “Hey, Yank, you’re a smart sailor. Tell the world who won the war!”
What do I care? I am drinking my hard washer, and ask for another, straight. Mother told me long ago not to meddle with boys who are not honest and who seek only trouble.
Now there are about two dozen of the limeys. Grinning and laughing. I am alone. I don’t know where the other fellows from my can are right now. Not very likely to drop in here, anyhow.
“Make this one a doubler. Mother’s son is thirsty.”
“Hey, submarine admiral, Nancy of the gobs. Tell us real sailors who won the war.”
I do not even look at the drunks. I punish them with my profound disrespect. But they cannot leave a guy in peace, especially since I am all alone. I don’t even know if the barman will keep neutral. I guess I shall have to say something. The honor of my country is at stake. No matter what it may cost me.
Now what can I say? If I say: “We,” there will be roaring laughter and a big fight. If I say: “The Frenchies,” there will be a fight. If I say: “I won it,” there will be a fight, and most likely the jail afterwards and then the hospital. If I say: “The Canadians, the Australians, the Africans, and the New Zealanders,” there will be a fight. If I stay on saying nothing, it will be taken to mean: “We Americans won it,” which, I know, will surely result in the biggest fight. I could say: “You English, you won the war.” This would be a lie, and that reminds me again of my mother, who told me a thousand times never to tell a lie, and always to think of the cherry-tree that was responsible for a president. So what else can be done about it? There is a fight on. That’s the way they treat the fine guys whom they called, when they needed them badly, “our cousins across the sea.” Not my cousins; no, siree.
So that’s why I am not so crazy about the limeys. But whether I liked them or despised them made no difference now. I had to be friendly, for they were all I had to rely on.
“What bucket are you from, chaps?”
“Hello, Yankey, what’re you doing here?”
“I was mixed up with a jane who had a sick mother. Had to take her to the hospital myself. So I was skipped,
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